Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 77663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
By the time I started doing my own shit, I no longer needed my dealer, which he was not too pleased about, but I convinced him that I almost got caught and was scared, so he didn’t make too much fuss after that.
My folks thought I was doing woodwork back there in the little shed I’d bought and erected on the edge of the property, and since they were never in my shit, that worked out well. No one knew, no one. Not even my closest friends who all thought it was a hoot that I was spending every free moment delivering pizzas.
I claimed I was doing it to prepare for college; you need money for that shit. In two years, I don’t want to mention how much money I made, but it was enough to buy my parents a decent place in town. If I was so inclined, I was not.
The day after graduation, I headed out and never looked back. I went to college alright, but not for the reasons you might think. Back then, the internet wasn’t what it is today, but things were happening.
If you think businessmen smoke weed, then you haven’t met college kids fresh off the farm with daddy’s money burning a hole in their pocket. That shit was selling itself. I still went to class, though, just in case my luck ran out.
I’d never had any issues with the law or rival dealers because I kept my shit low level. The off-campus house I rented wasn’t anything to look at, but it suited my purposes. It was a little two-bedroom starter home with woods and shit in the back, and most importantly, it wasn’t close to the other homes on that street.
I never had company over because I wasn’t there to make friends. I wanted money. I wanted as far away from the poverty I’d grown up in as I could get, and to do that, I couldn’t be stupid. I never shit where I eat either, so I never partied with my buyers and never shared anything about myself.
Everyone thought I had a dealer and was just a low man on the totem pole. No one knew that I was growing, harvesting, and dealing all on my own. I didn’t get greedy and try to do too much; I was biding my time. For what? I have no clue, but I kept myself out of shit and kept my nose clean.
A few years after college, they made that shit legal in the Pacific Northwest and Colorado; I had to choose which one of those I wanted to live in, and Colorado won. I hate too much rain, but I love the fuck outta snow. There wasn’t much of that in the southeastern town I’d grown up in, so that’s where I headed.
I had a shit ton of money since I never really spent my money on anything more than clothes and food, so I had a good chunk of change to sink into my new operation. That shit took off in ways I couldn’t have predicted. Instead of making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, I was making millions; it almost seemed too good to be true.
I got into the biker scene out there as well. I obviously couldn’t handle that level of business on my own, so I needed reputable men and women to work for me, and once I found my tribe, most of them runaways that had never gone back to the fucked-up homes they'd fled, it just sort of happened.
Up until that point, I knew that home life could be hard since I’d endured it myself, but my life was a damn day at the carnival compared to some of the stories they told. The shit these people endured on the streets was damn near inhumane.
I fielded them out in the first year or so and played to their strengths. I had bunkhouses built where the nurseries were, so they had a place to live and space to move around when they weren’t working.
Since we were in the mountains, bikes were easier to navigate than cars and trucks, so that’s pretty much how we got into that shit, and then it became a thing. The next thing I knew, we were rescuing kids and getting involved in shit that didn’t concern me. But our reputation was solid, and that’s how we became the crew that people reached out to for help.
The way I found out I had a sister, though, was through one of my friends from back home. He’s about one of the only people I kept in contact with from back then, and by this point, it had been sixteen years since I’d been back. Our calls were down to holidays and birthdays, but I knew he was there and vice versa.