You know those pieces of shit that sell research chemicals like 25i-NBOMe as LSD? The douchebags that put people’s lives in jeopardy simply to make some extra profit? Once upon a time, I was one of those people. It’s a period of my life that I look back on with a potent mixture of nostalgia and regret. I fucked over a lot of people. I made a lot of money and flimsy excuses to justify fucking over people. I’m not writing this story to brag or glamorize the shitty things I did during that time of my life; I just think the story makes for an interesting read. I hope you guys do too.
My first experience with 25i came when I, much like my future customers, bought some under the impression that it was LSD. My best friend Jack and I were unaware of the old saying: “If it’s bitter, it’s a spitter.” And assumed that the tongue-numbingly bitter taste of our tabs was a sign that they were super potent and soaked with LSD. Our trip never went south or became uncomfortable, but both of us noted how it felt different, almost “dirtier” than previous trips we’d had on legitimate LSD. The experience had me curious, and after a bit of research, I realized we had both been duped and that what we had taken wasn’t acid at all. I stopped picking up from the dealer that sold it to us and didn’t think much of it for a few months.
At this point in my life I was in my early 20’s, had dropped out of college, and was starting to get really into MDMA and psychedelics. Drugs were becoming an obsession, and I was always reading trip reports and people’s experiences with different substances I’d yet to try. Eventually all my “research” led me to checking out the darknet, out of morbid curiosity. While checking out the psychedelic listings on a particular market (that’s since been busted), I noticed one vendor with 25i-NBOMe blotters for sale. It piqued my interest, since he had hundreds of satisfied customers in his feedback section that were buying hundreds, sometimes even thousands, of hits from him at a time. “Why the fuck would you bother with buying 25i from the darknet when you could get some of the cleanest LSD in the world from the exact same place?” I thought to myself.
I started converting the vendor’s prices in bitcoin to actual US dollars and couldn’t believe my eyes. This dude was selling sheets (or 100 hits) of 25i for $40 a pop! I suddenly found myself faced with an opportunity to make some very easy money. I wish I could say that I spent days on end debating the morality of what I was about to do, but that would be lying. I decided I’d order a sheet and put it out there to my circle of “drug friends” and see if they liked it, and more importantly, if they were informed enough to know it wasn’t the real deal.
Five business days later my envelope full of fake acid arrived without a hitch. I was admittedly nervous about my first darknet drug order, but the beauty of 25i (or any drug dosed on blotters for that matter) was that it came on paper and could be easily concealed in an envelope. In my area, acid typically went for $10 a single hit, five for $40, and ten for $80. I only needed to sell five hits to make my initial investment back, the other 95 would be pure profit. I went into work and quickly informed all of my druggie co-workers that I had some fire tabs on deck. Lucky for me it was also payday, and by the end of my shift that night I had sold four “strips” (ten hits) of nBOME and made $280 without even moving half of my supply. I had made more than half of a week’s paycheck by doing next to nothing. “I could get used to this…”
That following weekend I got a lot of phone calls. The reviews were in, and people were loving this shit. I moved the rest of the sheet in that same weekend, and still had people calling me for more. In just a few days I had turned $40 into over $800, and not a single person was dissatisfied with the product. Naturally, I ordered another sheet, but ran into a somewhat unexpected problem: I had saturated the market, so to speak.
Psychedelics aren’t something you can do every day, since tolerance to them builds so quickly. When I ordered my second sheet, I was able to sell half of it before business became stagnant. Everyone had sampled the product, tripped their balls off, and was satisfied. I was desperate to keep the party going, and wracked my brain for possible solutions. I scrolled through my phone contacts, hoping there was one name I’d missed that would want to take the rest of my product off my hands. Sure enough, there was one name I’d overlooked. It was Anthony, the kid that had sold me my very first dose of 25i as LSD a few months prior. I hit him up, telling him I had some tabs and would sell him my remaining 50 hits for $250. Thus began my career as a wholesale distributor of 25i…
When I sold off the rest of my shit to Anthony I was a bit worried that he was playing the exact same game I was and would call me on my bullshit when he tasted the tabs for himself. Lucky for me, he wasn’t. Anthony was still under the impression that the bitterness of the tabs were a sign of high potency, and was highly satisfied with the product. I brought in another two sheets, one to sell wholesale (for $400), and another to sell in smaller quantities. Anthony bought a sheet from me as soon as it landed in my mailbox. I knew that eventually Anthony would run into the same problem I did and run out of people to sell the shit too, and I’d be right back at square one. I was desperate to find someone who could get rid of the stuff consistently, and eventually, I found just the guy.
One Saturday night I got a call from Pat, one of my co-workers, looking to grab a half strip. Pat was a heroin addict but a surprisingly functional one, the only times I ever saw him use were to stay well, and any time I sold to him he always came correct. He had a few side-hustles to afford his habit, though, one of which was letting people stay at his place in exchange for cash or drugs. “Welcome to the heroin holiday inn.” He said, jokingly, when I arrived at his house. He led me into the living room, and I had a seat on the couch. The place looked like a trap house, with drug paraphernalia, cigarette butts, and empty beer and liquor bottles strewn all over the place. Sitting on the couch across from me weighing out a gram of MDMA crystals was a skinny, strung-out looking kid. “This is my new roommate Max.” Pat said as we made our deal. I watched Max put a gram of MDMA into a piece of toilet paper, fold it up, and swallow it casually. “What’s good, dude?” He asked, extending his hand. I dapped him up, trying not to stare after watching him take such a heroic dose of Molly. Pat unwrapped his strip and put two hits on his tongue. “Yo, this is the kid with the acid, by the way.” He said to Max as he cringed from the bitter taste. “No shit?! You’re the one with the fire doses?” Max asked, excitedly. “Yup, that’s me!” I replied with a shit-eating grin. We quickly began to talk business.
Working with Max was an exercise in frustration. It wasn’t long before I realized that his brain had been severely fried from years of drug use. Max was a career criminal, and I don’t think he’d ever held a real job in his life. He wasn’t shy at all about his incredibly lengthy rap sheet or his open case where he faced seven years for being caught in an undercover sting operation with mushrooms, vials of LSD, suboxone, and MDMA. Within just a few meetings with him I knew all about his criminal history, and I attributed his openness with his daily MDMA use. To this day, Max is the only person I’ve ever met who rolled on a daily basis, consuming grams of the stuff at a time, I even saw him inject it on more than one occasion. Despite the fact that he was a complete spunion and future jailbird, he was incredibly well-connected and bought sheets of 25i from me at a time. Unfortunately he’d end up eating a lot of it himself, and was always coming up short with cash or trying to give me MDMA and cash as payment rather than cash up front. I’d always end up getting my money eventually, but you can see how working with him would get seriously annoying after a while. I had no choice but to put up with his bullshit if I wanted the money to keep coming in, though.
As Max’s court date grew closer and closer I tried my hardest to get him to set me up with some new clientele. He knew damn well he was going to jail, and I figured he’d hook me up with some numbers if I gave him some cash for his family to put on his books when he went inside. Something wasn’t right, though, and Max was reluctant to set me up with anybody. One night, just a few days before he was set to go to court, I got a call from him. He sounded even more fucked up than usual, and called me from a new number. He told me he had fled to a neighboring state, a state known for its massive rave scene, where he could get rid of even more product than before. He said he was sending someone back home soon, and wanted to grab ten sheets from me. I told him ten sheets would run him four grand, and that I could have them for him within five days. He eagerly accepted the price and said he’d have the money for me up front, no bullshit, and to let him know as soon as I got my hands on them. I agreed and hung up the phone, barely able to contain my excitement.
The next day I was smoking a blunt with my friend Jack when I told him the news of my next deal. “Dude, it’s not even fair, how the fuck are you getting away with this?” He asked me, laughing. I had no idea. I had entered the drug game using cheat codes, and somehow had yet to be caught. But as the blunt grew shorter and shorter I began to get paranoid. I analyzed the deal, the situation, the call from Max, and I realized something didn’t quite add up. My ten-sheet order was already on the way, but suddenly, I felt uneasy about the entire thing. Max, a full time drug dealer, could hardly scratch together $400 to buy a single sheet from me, but now he suddenly has the cash to buy ten sheets up front? Just as he’s gone on the run from a seven year bid?
“Is this kid trying to set me up?!”
To be continued….
I told Jack my suspicions, and he begged me to cut ties with Max for good. He seemed just as convinced as I was that I was walking into a trap. My ten sheets came in but I didn’t respond to Max’s constant phone calls and text messages, which grew more frequent and frantic with each passing day. As time went by and I reflected on the situation while sober, I began to second-guess myself. “You were just high and paranoid. You’re turning down four fucking grand, who else is gonna buy those ten sheets from you? You’re being a fucking idiot.” I never gave in, though, and after a few days, the calls and texts from Max stopped completely. I was happy to be out of jail, but was faced with the reality that my time as an NBOMe distributor had come to an abrupt end.
Out of the blue, a few days later, I got a call from Dylan, a friend of Pat’s that I’d met a few times while selling and partying at his place. Dylan apparently had a friend that was looking for two sheets. “This kid is gonna keep coming back, trust me, and he can get you just about anything you could ever want.” Dylan promised me. “You throw me a little finder’s fee and I can set the deal up tonight.” I was already making an absurd amount of profit, so I was happy to throw Dylan $50 for setting me up with some desperately needed clientele. Dylan picked me up from work that night and we headed to the kid’s house.
Mark, my newest customer, was a few years older than me. We started shooting the shit with one another when he suddenly got a call on his phone. “What’s good? Yeah, I got you. Where you at? Alright, come through. Max’ll be here in ten minutes, tops.” He said as he hung up his burner phone. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Max?! Max (insert last name here)?!” I asked in disbelief. Mark nodded. “Is that a problem?” He asked, puzzled. “Yeah it’s a problem. I’m not dealing with that kid at all, period. I don’t wanna see him, I don’t want him to know this shit’s coming from me, I fuckin’ hate that kid.” Mark shrugged and nodded in agreement. “I feel you man, I feel you. Kid does bad business. I’ll have him meet me down the street, you can wait in Dylan’s car if you want, you guys won’t see each other, I don’t wanna get mixed up in whatever shit you guys got going on.” I was glad that we were both on the same page with Max, and I patiently waited in Dylan’s car while Mark went to meet him, made the deal, and returned with my money. “Here’s your money, just so you know, I don’t work like Max. At all. I worked with him for a while getting him Molly and shit, and I know how much of a pain in the ass he can be with money. What I did tonight was really just a favor. He says your shit’s fire, though, and I’m definitely gonna be hitting you up for another couple sheets in the next few days, if you can get ‘em.” I nodded and dapped him up. “I got you, man.” I said as Dylan started the car.
“You’re gonna love working with Mark, dude, he’s like a fuckin’ one stop shop. Coke, Molly, bud, he’s got all the shit you’re into. He doesn’t fuck around like Max, either.” Dylan said to me as we drove back to my place. I nodded. “He does trades, too, you know.” That piqued my interest. “What do you mean?” “Like, say you wanted to pick up some Molly off him, you could just trade him a couple sheets and he’d give you an ounce or whatever. Could make things cheaper for you, you know? I dunno what you’re paying for sheets, just throwing it out there.” I could barely keep my eyes in my skull and my jaw off the floor as the possibilities to expand my business swirled around my head. “Hm. That’s good to know. I’d have to see if it’d be worth it on my end, but it’s good to know.”
A few days later I went to a music festival with two of my friends that became a bender of epic proportions. While I was away, a local drug task force raided Mark’s house, finding Molly, coke, weed, and some miscellaneous pills. He was released on his own recognizance, but was evicted from his home and living out of hotels. Mark was Max’s Molly connection, and wouldn’t you know, Max had coincidentally dropped off the face of the earth. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots from there. I had dodged a bullet, but I felt bad that the shit had come down on Mark the way it did. Well, that’s not completely true. I really felt bad because my new connection was out of business before I got to see my plans through. I decided to front him a couple of sheets to help him get back on his feet, as a gesture of good faith. I was a bit worried that he’d just fuck me over, take the sheets, and sever ties with me completely. But if that did happen, I’d only be out $80, and let’s be real… I kinda had it coming at that point.
Mark stayed true to his word, though, and had my $800 for me within a few days. It wasn’t long before he established a line of credit with me and started flipping sheets for me consistently. Within a few weeks he had a new place to live and was hustling just as much as before. When I heard that he once again had Molly, I decided to take him up on one of his “trades” Dylan told me about. I was going to a show at a local club that weekend, a club that had notoriously lax security. Naturally I wanted to roll at the show, and hopefully make some money while I was at it. I hit Mark up and crossed my fingers.
“Hey man, I’m looking for a quarter ounce of Molly if you got it.”
“Yup, I got you.”
“Cool. I was wondering though, if you’d wanna do a trade for it. How many tabs would you want for that?”
“I’d be down with that. I could do that for like a quarter sheet.”
I eagerly accepted Mark’s offer and was beaming with joy as I did the math out. A quarter sheet would cost me about $10, which I would trade for seven grams of MDMA, which I could then sell for $80 a pop. I planned to keep a gram for myself and my friend, but I could still get $480 for the remaining six if I sold them all. Not bad for a ten dollar investment. Not bad at all.
I had been to the club once before and had a general feel for how security worked, but I was still pretty nervous as I waited in line to get in. A bag of pre-weighed grams and half grams of MDMA was stuffed firmly against my crotch just in case they were doing pat-downs that night. Thankfully they weren’t, and simply checked my ID before letting Jack and I inside. The place was fucking beautiful. It was a massive outdoor club right on the water with a beach theme, where you could get away with just about anything you wanted. There were cabanas and tables all over the place where one could sit down and make potential drug deals. People smoked blunts in plain view of security, and everyone seemed to be rolling their absolute balls off. Jack and I quickly joined them and I began to scope out potential customers.
Even though the bouncers seemed incredibly apathetic and I was rolling pretty hard, I was still intimidated by the concept of walking up to strangers and selling to them. Jack picked up on this and offered to help. It seemed that he was sick of seeing me rake in all this cash, and wanted to get in on my little operation. “Let me keep half of whatever we make tonight, and I’ll help you get rid of this shit.” He said to me with pupils the size of silver dollars. I sipped a drink and thought it over. “Alright man, you’re in.” I stealthily handed him the bag of Molly and watched him work his magic.
It turns out that Jack was quite the salesman. He moved all the Molly for me, and even helped fill my burner phone with a few new customers. As we walked back to the car it was agreed that we’d be back at the club the following weekend. Jack mentioned to me that his only problem with selling the Molly was doing it by the gram and half gram. He said that people were more likely to buy it if it was in $20 capsules. I took his advice and got myself some empty gel caps from a health store. Once again I hit up Mark to do another trade, this time asking for a full ounce of Molly. He was happy to help, offering to do it for three sheets, or $120. I started referring to the sheets as “drug coupons” when I was with Jack or any of my other friends that were in on my little scheme. I remember going back to Jack’s place with the ounce to start breaking it down. I had never seen that much Molly before. It came in giant sized rocks that looked absolutely delicious, I almost didn’t want to break them down to put inside the capsules. We spent the day weighing out 200-milligram doses of Molly and putting them into capsules before hitting the club that night.
From then on, every Friday and Saturday night, we were permanent fixtures at the club. My clientele increased dramatically, and we’d sometimes move a full ounce in two days if a really big DJ was in town that night. I kept trading sheets for Molly, and Mark somehow kept getting rid of them. The club took notice of all the illegal activity going on there and eventually had a couple of cops stationed in different corners of the club every night. The place was way too big for them to patrol all that efficiently, though, and they seemed just as complacent as the bouncers were. To this day I wonder if them and the bouncers were getting bribed by someone else. I imagine that if they were, though, whoever that was bribing them would’ve dragged Jack and I out of the club and beaten the fuck out of us for stepping on their toes early on. We were incredibly lucky to have never gotten caught during our time there, especially given how fucked up and careless we got every night…
Before my career as a drug dealer/scam artist took off I had used MDMA pretty frequently. I still consider it among my all-time favorite drugs, though now I have a much better sense of respect for it than I did back then. Since I was getting the Molly for so unbelievably cheap, I never really had to worry about “getting high on my own supply” and cutting into my own profits. This led to me rolling my goddamn face off every. Single. Weekend. Jack was smarter about it and stuck to drinking whenever we were at the club for the most part, realizing the inherent danger in rolling two, sometimes three, nights a week. I tried to do the same thing, but I would always cave in when I saw everybody at the club with their massive pupils having the time of their lives. Oddly enough, I never reached the point many heavy users do where they “lose the magic” and the horrific side effects finally outweigh the appeal of the roll. Still, my use was taking a major toll on my health, and it was getting difficult to ignore.
The summer wore on and my tolerance skyrocketed. I vividly remember one of the last weekends I dealt at the club where I was pretty sure I was going to die. I had taken 400 milligrams of Molly right off the bat to get the night started, then started drinking my crown and coke. The come up felt more swift than usual and I didn’t like how quickly my heart was beating. I chugged my drink and ordered two shots of crown at the bar. This calmed me down a bit, but now I was pretty drunk, too drunk to really feel my roll anymore. So what did I do? I took another cap, of course! I was feeling my roll again, but obviously I was really fucking sped up, and became paranoid and anxious that I’d overdosed. I ran back to the bar and got more whiskey to calm down with. I repeated this cycle of unprecedented stupidity until I had consumed 1.2 grams of Molly in just a few hours, on top of tons of whiskey. I woke up the next morning with severe chest pains and could barely get out of bed and make it to the bathroom to get the water I desperately needed. I spent many a morning crawling and panting to the bathroom, gulping down water and puking it back up, fading in and out of consciousness, and seriously wondering if I was gonna die right there on the floor. Served me right, I guess.
You’d think my close calls with death would get me to slow my roll (LOL), but I still kept at it. I was in heavy denial about my use and severe depression since I was “living the good life!” and the money kept pouring in. The summer was coming to a close, though, and soon all the college kids that packed out the club would be heading back into the city to go to school. The club only had a few more weekends left in it anyway as the weather would inevitably change, so I figured I’d slow down then. At least, that’s what I told myself.
Unfortunately, the club was forced to shut its doors prematurely and permanently. A string of overdose deaths at “EDM shows” and a rash of bad press tore through the local rave scene, and the most notorious local clubs were the first to suffer for it. The clubs and venues that did stay open beefed up security big time, or stopped booking DJ’s altogether. I still had tons of contacts I made at the club that I could sell to, but it seemed that in a way, the party was once again over. To top it all off, I got a phone call from Mark that made my blood run cold.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
“Listen, I had your shit tested, I know it’s not LSD.”
Dun dun dun…
I tried to keep from sounding nervous as I held the phone to my ear. “The fuck are you talking about? What is it then?” I asked, trying to play dumb. I knew this conversation would happen eventually, but I was still nervous as fuck. Was I finally gonna get the ass-kicking I deserved?
Apparently one of Mark’s customers had gotten caught with a couple of sheets on him. Obviously the cops had to have the shit tested before they could formally charge him with possession of LSD. Mark told me that they ran the tests and concluded it wasn’t LSD, but a research chemical that was unscheduled in my area. The cops couldn’t charge him and were forced to let the kid go, and even returned the sheets to him. Keep in mind that all this shit happened years ago, when 25i was still fairly “new”, at least in my area anyway. It had always been illegal under the analogue act, but laws regarding its legal status varied wildly between states. It’s been formally banned in my state for years now, but back then, it fell into a legal gray area I had no idea I was exploiting. As Mark told me all of this I noticed he didn’t sound all that pissed. “I don’t know if you knew or what, but I figured I’d give you the heads up.” He told me. I continued to play dumb. “I don’t get it, though… If it’s not LSD, what is it?” I wondered just how much he knew at that point, and if the jig was truly up for me. “I asked the kid, and he said he didn’t remember. He was so pumped to get out of jail he didn’t pay attention to what the cops said.” I paused for a moment before I made my next move. “Well, fuck. I don’t know, I guess my connect has some fuckin’ explaining to do. Thanks for the heads up, just wish I knew before I re-upped, I don’t know what to do with this shit now, you know?” “We can keep doing business if you want. I got a fuckin’ open case, and now that I know the shit’s legal, it’s almost better than selling the real thing. People like it, I’ve had no complaints so far, I just wanted to call you and let you know what’s good.” My sphincter finally returned to its natural relaxed state as I wiped the sweat off my face. “Alright man, I’ll talk to my boy anyway and see what he knows, I’m curious about this shit. Thanks again.”
I was pretty psyched to learn of the arguable legality of what I was doing, but it also made me even more nervous and paranoid. I couldn’t imagine the cops being very happy about catching a guy with a felony-level quantity of a new synthetic drug and being forced to let them go. I assumed that 25i was officially on their radar, but it still wasn’t enough for me to stop. After all the dumb luck and dodged bullets, I still didn’t have the common sense to say enough was enough and get out of the game. I tried to move my MDMA business into the city at different clubs, but they were not having it. The game was changing, and the entire scene suffered for it. As someone who was a part of it before I became an RC-slinging sack of dog shit, I began to feel responsible. Slowly but surely, remorse and reality began to seep through the thick layers of denial in my head…
On one of the last weekends of that summer Jack and I went to see one of our favorite bands. We got a few beers in us and decided to try our luck at finding some acid. “Let’s hope I don’t get a taste of my own medicine.” I joked to him as we walked around approaching groups of likely candidates. Surprisingly, we were able to find a guy within minutes and bought a ten strip. When I saw the un-perforated, plain white paper with thin pencil lines dividing the doses, I was reassured that they weren’t mine and likely the real thing. We both were feeling adventurous and pretty buzzed at that point, so we decided to drop three tabs each. I was relieved as I placed them on my tongue and didn’t taste a thing.
Prior to that night I had never had a bad or difficult experience with psychedelics. I had taken similar doses of true LSD in the past and handled it just fine, same with mushrooms and a few other RC’s. Much of what happened that night had to be told to me second hand by Jack, as I blacked out for most of it. Apparently I was fine for the whole show, and was smiling and enjoying myself without looking weird or doing anything stupid. When we headed back to the subway, though, shit started getting weird. Jack was tripping sack as well, but he handled it much better than I did, apparently. He was a block away from the venue when he realized I wasn’t following him, and he kept having to go back and remind me to keep following him. I wasn’t crying, or angry, or showing any real signs of having a “bad time”, it was more like I had just checked out mentally. Out of frustration Jack decided we’d take a cab the rest of the way to the train. We got inside and, apparently, I was having a conversation with someone that wasn’t there. I was saying shit like, “Wow, maybe, I’m really not sure…” Jack was really starting to get sketched out at this point, for obvious reasons. He helped me get to the train and we had a quiet ride back where I just kind of zoned out and didn’t really say anything.
I appeared calm and relatively normal on the train ride back, but inside my head things were much different. It was like I was watching a movie of my future play out inside my head. I was sitting in a dingy apartment, alone, bagging up coke while sampling the product myself and drinking straight from a bottle of cheap whiskey. I felt a sense of dread, loneliness, and regret as I watched it play out before me. Right as I shoveled another fat rail into my face, the door to my apartment blew open, and a drug task force stormed in. I got cuffed before the film abruptly ended. Just when I thought it was over, I found out I was in for a double feature. I saw myself at a train station, dirty and emaciated, with a backpack on and pulling another bag of luggage behind me. I was with someone else, I didn’t recognize them, but they seemed to know me very well. We were rushing to catch a train, to where I don’t know, when the wheels on my bag broke off. “FUCK!” I screamed as I heard a train approaching, presumably our train. I tried to keep dragging the suitcase but it was so heavy, and we missed our train. “Shit! What are we gonna do!? What are we gonna do!?” My unknown companion kept screaming over and over. I looked down at my arms, which I noticed were covered in track marks. Then, once again, my “vision” abruptly ended. I’ve never experienced anything like that on any psychedelic before, even after tripping several times since that night. By the time we reached our destination I was still tripping sack but had passed my peak and was once again able to form coherent thoughts and sentences. Jack filled me in on how much of a retard I was being on our way to the train, and I thanked him for making sure I didn’t get mugged or arrested. I wanted to chalk up the two “movies” I’d seen as the consequences of a heavy dose of acid and a very active imagination, but I really felt like there was something more to it. I interpreted both scenarios as two of the four ways my life could play out if I kept this shit up, the other two being death and incarceration.
It was getting a lot harder to block the voice of reason out of my head as time wore on. I was still making Molly plays but they obviously became much less frequent, and my paranoia was at an all-time high. I continued to roll every weekend, even if I wasn’t going out and partying, and drinking a lot in a desperate attempt to convince myself that everything was fine. I was losing weight, always depressed and anxious, and was eating 5-HTP pills like they were fucking M&M’s during the week. I had a seemingly permanent cold from using so much MDMA, where my chest and nose were always congested and I was constantly blowing my nose and clearing my throat. It was bizarre to me since I never snorted the stuff, only ate it, but it was abundantly clear that I needed to stop. Jack and I had a lot of tense conversations about it. Somehow I never lost the magic, though, and always went running back.
Some of you might be wondering if I managed to keep that dead end job I mentioned in part one throughout all of this chaos. The answer is yes, but barely. My work ethic was pretty much non-existent before I started dealing, so you can imagine how badly things started slipping once the easy money started coming in. It’s kind of difficult to justify working for $8 an hour when you’re used to making $800 in ten minutes. I was calling in sick a lot, and obviously not working with a clear head, but somehow I managed to keep up appearances just enough not to get fired. It was the kind of workplace where most people were on drugs anyway, so I was able to get away with a lot more than I would in a more professional environment.
They say in AA and NA that when you give up one addiction you should replace it with another. At least I think that’s what they say. I decided to take a page out of the big book and started using cocaine instead of MDMA on the weekends. I had fucked with coke a few times while clubbing when people would offer it to me, but I was always rolling face and thus didn’t feel it as much. When I got to try it by itself I really started to like it, and since Mark got good shit, I was able to trade a couple strips of nBOME for coke and get 8-balls for remarkably cheap. I debated selling the stuff for a while but ultimately realized that I’d end up sniffing it all and probably wouldn’t even break even.
I made one final trade with Mark before he got sentenced, picking up an ounce and a half of Molly before he was locked up for two years. My Molly business had come to a near complete stop and I knew I’d be sitting on the shit for a while. I didn’t know anybody that would buy 25i off me, and all I really had left were petty weed sales to keep money coming in. It wasn’t a huge deal since I had so much money saved and knew I’d move the Molly eventually, but I found myself at a cross roads. If I wanted to keep doing coke I would now have to pay for it with actual money. I thought about using the cash I saved up to start going slightly more legit, maybe invest in some actual LSD and accept the decrease in profits just to keep the money coming in. But I was known as “acid guy” at that point, and asking around my circle for tabs would only blow my cover, if I even had any left…
Desperate, I put the word out that I was slashing prices. I talked to people at work, advertising a new special, two sheets for $500. I’d casually mention shit to them like, “You flip that strip by strip, you’re making eleven hundred in profit. You’ve tried the shit before, you know it’s good, just throwing it out there.” I got a couple of people to bite, and a few “friends of friends” that eventually became clientele. I had an idea that some people were beginning to suspect the legitimacy of the product, but the prices were so low and I was making them so much money that they never brought it up to me. For a few months, business really started to pick up again.
I kept doing coke every weekend throughout all this, since I could afford it. You’d think I’d spend some of my ill-gotten gains on a nice car, fancier clothes, or a really ignorant gold chain, but I really never flaunted my wealth much at all. I got myself a few nice shirts and upgraded my wardrobe a bit, but other than that, I really wasn’t flashy about the money I was making. As long as I could afford drugs and concert tickets I was content. All I needed in life was enough cocaine, whiskey, and smokes to convince myself that I wouldn’t end up like the people around me and that I was smarter than everyone else. But I wasn’t. And I realized that quickly.
When you’re pumping the streets with such large quantities of research chemicals, it’s mathematically guaranteed that someone’s gonna have a bad time at some point. I’m incredibly lucky that my selfishness and greed never led to anyone’s injury or death, otherwise I’d probably be relaying my story to some journalist through glass right now. But that doesn’t mean that everyone who tried my product came away as a satisfied customer. Complaints about the tabs slowly rose up the chain of command, and I inevitably found myself with some serious explaining to do. “People are saying this shit isn’t real, man. The fuck is going on?” One client asked me. I played dumb with him just as I did Mark, and we ended our business relationship amicably. Needless to say, I got off cheap.
Down to one major customer, I was beginning to realize that my reputation was essentially burned in the drug game. People were wising up, using the same phone they used to call me to google why their “LSD” tasted so fucking bad and gave such an intense and dirty trip. I was like Tony Montana, stuffing my face with coke, refusing to surrender as reality descended upon my mansion built on toothpicks. My back was against the wall, and somehow, I think my last client picked up on it. He was consistent enough where I would front him sheets at a time, and I trusted him to bring my money back. One day he grabbed 8 of them off me, promising me he had a big play “out of state”, and then stopped answering my calls altogether. I never heard from him again.
Things only got worse from there. I read an article in the local paper about a “new drug” called “n-bomb” and took it as the final nail in the coffin. I was sitting on two sheets when the article came to print, and I knew it was only a matter of time before a formal ban was finally enacted on the stuff. I had made a new weed connect that I didn’t really care about burning and unloaded my last two sheets to him. Less than a month later, 25i was banned, and the party really was over this time.
I coasted off Molly and weed plays for a little while, but my cocaine use slowly began to chip away at my savings. Most of my Molly clientele was comprised of college kids, who stopped hitting me up altogether once they’d graduated. All my friends graduated too and stopped partying, and reality hit me like a freight train. I had pissed away two years of my life fucking around and doing drugs, while barely maintaining at a job that would take me nowhere. This realization, combined with all my MDMA and coke use, left me severely depressed. I was in my mid-20’s and found myself an old man, reminiscing on the past like fucking Al Bundy. My friends had careers and their whole lives ahead of them, and there I was, a coke addicted burnout who couldn’t handle the fact that the party had been over for months now. Served me right, I guess.
The thing that makes me laugh about this era of my life is how determined I was not to live the drug dealer cliché and still ended up living it to a tee. “You’re gonna make your money, do what you gotta do, and get out. You’re not gonna get caught up in that shit, you’re smarter than that, you’re better than that.” LOL. Rather than using all the cash I had saved up on something constructive that could help me in the future, I blew it all on festival tickets, concerts, and of course, drugs. I was making decent money selling weed since I never smoked my stash, but it was not nearly enough to satiate the lifestyle I’d grown used to. I was used to having one door close and another open at that point, but as time wore on, I began to realize I was finally out of second chances…
When I finally ran out of money and was right back to square one I was devastated. I felt like I had just woken up from a long, incredibly vivid, dream, and couldn’t come to grips with the fact that it was truly over. I no longer had stacks of cash to throw at my problems, and had to face them head-on. I had lived in the fast lane for years while simultaneously going nowhere. I was right back to where I was a few years before, except now I had a pretty serious drug habit. I started fucking with even harder shit to ease the pain, which obviously didn’t make things much better. Karma’s a bitch, I guess.
I still work at that same dead-end job. I make a bit of cash here and there doing freelance writing gigs, but I’m still barely scraping by. I take this as penance from all the pain and douchebaggery I inflicted on people, but I really do want to hone my craft as a writer and hopefully get paid for it one day. I appreciate you all reading my stories and offering feedback, whether it’s positive or negative.
Thank you for reading.