The Long Road Home

3000 hits of E. An unregistered car with dead tags. Twenty pounds of mid-grade pot in a fishing cooler in the back seat. The driver's mirror is swinging from the cable, removing the paint from the driver's door in a half moon pattern as it swings. My partner and I had to drive to a large college town in Maryland to pick up some of the E that we'd recently had smuggled into the US from Amsterdam. This load, pure MDMA, pressed with the distinct Rx looking pill stamp arrived in two shipments. We'll get into how it fell into our laps later. Right now, we have to get up to this Maryland college town to pick them up, along with other assorted quantities of controlled substances. Wanting the check the purity of the shipment, my partner felt it necessary to eat one immediately- quite the business professional. We hung out at the pickup for awhile, having drinks and smoking some hydroponic weed. We settled up 60% of the value of the load with the import/export guy and figured it was time to hit the road. On second thought, maybe I ate one too.

Driving down New York Ave., jaws clenched and eyelids fluttering, I realized that, yeah, I ate one too. oops. Approaching Florida Ave., I looked into the rear view mirror and saw two squad cars behind us. Looking down, I realized that I was using two freezer bags loaded with pills as arm rests. Now, I'm not an idiot- the reason they were there is that they would be at hand to throw from the car if things got hot. It eliminated the step of fumbling around for them as the heat closed in. We're not stupid, we took all of the regular precautions like not speeding or rolling through stopsigns. I didn't take the time, however to check the plates on the car. This was because my partner, who had brought me into this game of high-speed, low-drag dealing, had secured our vehicle and I was comfortable he had made sure everything was good to go.

When I mentioned that there were two cop cars following us, and the fact that I could scarcely see a block ahead of us in my "altered" state, he stared freaking out. Not a good sign. When I politely asked him to calm the fuck down, he proceeded to mention that the tags on the vehicle were dead and that the car was not only not registered to him, but not registered to anyone at all. Excellent. The slow crawl from Florida Ave. to 9th St. was a three mile sweat-a-thon. This might have been from the E, or from the fact that in D.C., all time is Federal time- no parole, no good behavior, no way of outrunning the cops in a 1984 Chevy Celebrity.

Remember, not only did we have the Ecstacy, but also a cooler in the back seat with 20 lbs. of mid grade marijuana, which was as good as sold as soon as we got home, but that was rapidly becoming irrelevant. Along with this was another random assortment of junk that my partner undoubtedly had in his pocket. Finally, seemingly hours later, we make it to the left hand turn into the 9th street tunnel, leading us to I-395S and salvation, or so I thought. The first cop headed straight, while the second cop followed us into the tunnel. This is strange considering DC cops dont generally go onto interstates. We pretty much knew we were fucked.

Heading through the tunnel, gradually picking up speed, sweating like whores in church, we see the light at the end of the tunnel- the quick jaunt down the interstate to the Commonwealth of Virginia. There was still another exit in the tunnel onto a DC back street and our friend in Law Enforcement was good enough to take that one and remain inside his jurisdiction. Home free after that, considering that its still really tough to drive with a head full of, well, you know. . .

Stay tuned for part two of The Long Road Home: Operation Smartee!

Welcome Home, Bitches

Hi. What's up. I'm Big White (not my real name). Big because I'm big. White because, well, you know. Nothing I can do about it. Its what I am. Deuce of Clubs because its the worst card in the deck and it was the card I was dealt. Here's where you can read the true stories, the wins and the losses growing up as a white kid in the ghettos of DC. I've made it out, but you know what they say- you can take a man out of the ghetto but you can't take- well, you know. Follow along, you just might learn something. From my days as a US Marine to becoming an international drug dealer, to my successful venture into the fast moving finance industry, and all the ups and downs in between, we'll cover it all. Just sit back and watch it happen.

Yours,
BW