JENKFELLAS (1)

JENKFELLAS

	It all started with a phone call.

	“Yeah? What is it, man? I got three fuckin’ deals goin’ down right now, do you have any fuckin’ idea how busy I am, you fuck?” I yelled into the receiver “This better be some good fuckin’ news, Samir, or I’m cuttin’ your fuckin’ balls off!”

	I tightened the grip on my revolver. This motherfucker better have something for me.

	“Relax, my friend.” Samir replied, disregarding my anger. He knew the score. “When you smell the shit I’ve got, you’ll be kissing my ass for sure! Probably wiping it too!”

	I laughed.

	Samir could get some good shit, I’ll give him that. Guy had serious balls, and serious fuckin’ connections. The six kilos of Afghani AssBlaster I was unloading were thanks to this fuck. Shit damn near blew my head off. One thing about these fuckin’ Iraqis, though: You really had to watch your nuts around them. They’ll cut your throat just as soon as pass you the balloon.

	I guess I should explain what this is all about.

	I’m a jenkem dealer.

	You know the deal. Shit. Tootsie. Blast. Mudpop. Winnie Mandela. Scooby-Doo. Stankfruit. Gushers. All names of this literal shit I run, from one side of the country to the other. I wasn’t always this major. It’s a long way to the top.

* * *

	I wasn’t always this fucked up, either.

	Growing up in the kind of neighborhood I grew up in, you could sink like a turd or float like a corn kernel. All the guys in my neighborhood worth looking up to had three things every kid dreamed of. Money; Power; Respect. Nothing against my old man, but he knew he’d never have any of the three. He wasn’t surprised when I started falling in with a rougher crowd.