Important to note (a disclaimer of some sort): this story contains heavy drug use. If you're a very delicate flower who cannot handle something that takes place the world over, but you don't want to know or don't want to see it because you're an introverted shut-in, I cannot help you any further but advise you not to read this story.
Danzig, June 2012
A very fancy appartment it was. Was, I must say, if you ignored the drug paraphernalia everywhere in the living room. One of the men, a gangmember, was lying on the couch watching a porno, First Time Brutal Anal 9 if I remember correctly. His girlfriend was lying next to him, groping his crotch while he was completely zoned out from a blotter of acid both took two hours ago. They were probably completely surrounded by a kaleidoscope of intense color and shapeless matter, both were staring at the ceiling. Another guy, the chemist, was experimenting with some cocain in the kitchen. He wore a mask to cover his nose and mouth, the precise work he was doing required not to be high; he was the only member of the gang not to indulge in drug orgies every other week, and usually went home around 10 pm. The other folks were in one of the other rooms, cutting up bricks of coke to sell to bankers or lawyers. Most of our customers were of the highest sort; we weren’t your average streetdealers looking for a few bucks only to buy a quick fix thereafter. No, we were solely interesting in customers with a solid record of creditworthiness. In other words, the people who could afford to buy us protection against annoying police officers. We did receive plenty of protection, oh yes, let there be no mistake about that. And protection came in many forms – alibi, a good word, a reference, a phonecall… It’s the smallest things that often make the biggest difference. We were also honest dealers. Honest in a way we wouldn’t cut up our blow with junk, sell worthless bags of H or settle for a watery patch of acid. We processed our drugs, received from the most reliable sources and wouldn’t cut corners or reduce quality.
Our business model is fairly simple so to say, and we are ran the same way like any other business: the chief of the operation is me. Permit me to introduce myself, I’m Chevy LeBaron, been into this since childhood when I dropped out of high school to sell pot to senior year students, college students or just about everybody interested. It was also when I got into my first brush with the law, spent some time in the big house, got out and restarted my enterprise, with a load of knowledge under my belt you can only get in prison. I took up my old profession, already left home long ago – an unemployed drunk father and no mother aren’t the role models a young man really needs, don’t wanna talk about it – and found some friends willing to cooperate. One of them was Barnard “Buntie” Weisweller, a lifelong friend and someone I can trust unconditionally. His undoing will be his heavy heroin habit and occasionally he loathes his existence, stays away from drugs for two months but then comes back for some more. That’s been the pattern of his life for the past twenty years or so. Then there’s Herrmann “Harry” Goedsche, and his girlfriend whos name I forgot. Both love to take a few lines, do bondage and really weird sex and after watching porn for hours. He does most of the heavy labor, driving, moving our merchandise from A to B and back. He was the last person to join gang and I must say, he’s lived up to his name of being a hard worker and honest man. My wife isn’t involved in this but she knows what I do for a living. She doesn’t mind, a diamond ring a year keeps her off my back. She works in a hospital so there’s never a shortage of clean needles and syringes and other crucial medical supplies. She’s the silent partner of the gang and given her important work, I’d like to keep it that way. I almost forget about our home chemist, Dr Eric Keppler. Graduated from the prestigious University of Danzig’s Medical Faculty of Experimental Medicine and Research, summa cum laude, on a thesis I don’t recall. Apparently it was very special and his writing style and thorough research was met with universal praise by his professors. I can understand why; when he wrote his thesis I supplied him with all the acid he could afford. No longer burdened by the annoyances of human logic but clear as night and on the far reaches of our solar system, he finished what was to become a major medical success story. Offered many a job abroad in the pharmaceutical industry, what made him do it I will never discover, but he decided to join us shortly thereafter. He runs an independent research firm and does some vague work on theoretical medicine and surgical procedures. He makes plenty of money that way so I guess he needs the excitement doing what we do for a living. A very tidy living. So there’s that: me and my wife, Buntie, Harry and his girl and Eric.
We go back to our appartment. Television’s on. Loud moans, clapping human flesh, screams, pulling hair, mixed with 1960s psychedelic rock blasting from the radio and the sounds of boiling water and intricate medical equipment in the kitchen, creating an atmosphere of clandestine industrial activity and the electrical charges of powerful forces of rock and molten metal in the earth’s inner crust. I must say I felt great, a wonderful feeling of power, I could lift up the entire planet, a crowd of at least ten million was cheering, chanting my name while Herb was still busy in the kitchen. It was about 7 pm, Buntie was out there in town somewhere selling coke to bankers ready to party tonight. The finances were done, payrolling could wait till tomorrow. Now I’m just too good to do something stupid like managing finances. I grabbed another bag from the table, half a gram, cleaned my little mirror with a piece of cloth, cut a line and rolled up a $100 note. Left index finger pressed against my left nostril, and snorted. Second line same thing, right nostril.
I saw Harry got up from the couch and started to make a little dance, uttering incomprehensible poetry, singing some weird songs and repeating himself again and again. He looked at me, smiled and laughed.
“Chevy, man, did you know purple lightning’s comin’ out of your ears. Everything’s purple and water. You have some weed man…” I rolled a fat blunt, gave it to him and he lighted it, passed it to his girlfriend. Today was like any other day, not doing anything, making loads of money, getting high and tonight we’d hit the club. The Bloom Boom Room on the other side of town is the latest, hottest destination for young bankers and financial wizzkids looking to get laid or a quick suck off in the bathroom. Our perfect clientele, loaded with cash and ready to spend. Nothing was wrong, the world was perfect. In the kitchen, the phone rang. Eric picked it up, I heard him saying something; phonecalls were pretty unusual. Normally people would wait for us to show up. Eric came out of the kitchen, he looked at us, me specifically, and asked me if I know someone named Izzy Edelstein.
“Do I know him?”, I replied. “Well… I think I do. Yeah, he’s that treasury manager at Mendelsohn’s. Or something. I dunno.”
“Yeah he wants to meet us. Says it’s pretty damn important.”
“It better be. I don’t like mingling with customers.”
“He’s a good client Chevy. Buys loads every other month for drug fuelled sex parties at his lavish penthouse in High Towne. The same Izzy who buys $1000 worth of cigars
and cognac and shit. I’d say you talk to him.”
“Right now, on the phone, talk business and drugs? No fuckin’ way.”
“He’s cool and clean.”
“I know that. I just don’t feel ok with talking coke over the phone.”
“It’s not about drugs. He wants us to keep something in storage for a short while. He needs to go abroad and something went wrong… You’ll have to ask him.”
“Ok I will.” I got up and walked to the kitchen. Rather than an ordinary kitchen, it was a drug laboratory which occassionaly served as a kitchen. Usually we’d just eat out or order food, kebabs or the like. Eric gave me the telephone, which was on hold.
“Hello there, this is Chevy. Mr Edelstein?”
“Pleased to talk to you Mr LeBaron, I have a small problem and I need your help...”
“Do talk about it. But you know where this conversation won’t be going.”
“I am awareof that. I have brought myself up-to-date about your nightly plans, I think we need to speak to each other in the Bloom Boom Room, tonight if that’s possible.”
“I think that’s possible Mr Edelstein. Could lift some part of the veil, I am curious.”
“All right. It’s about business. That’s all I can say right now. I will see you tonight, around 12 in the Velvet Lounge? I have already made a reservation at the Bloom Boom.”
“Yeah man that’s ok, see you then…” Before I finished, he already hung up the phone. If I knew what was going to happen, I would’ve brought a gun instead of drugs.
Danzig, June 2012
A very fancy appartment it was. Was, I must say, if you ignored the drug paraphernalia everywhere in the living room. One of the men, a gangmember, was lying on the couch watching a porno, First Time Brutal Anal 9 if I remember correctly. His girlfriend was lying next to him, groping his crotch while he was completely zoned out from a blotter of acid both took two hours ago. They were probably completely surrounded by a kaleidoscope of intense color and shapeless matter, both were staring at the ceiling. Another guy, the chemist, was experimenting with some cocain in the kitchen. He wore a mask to cover his nose and mouth, the precise work he was doing required not to be high; he was the only member of the gang not to indulge in drug orgies every other week, and usually went home around 10 pm. The other folks were in one of the other rooms, cutting up bricks of coke to sell to bankers or lawyers. Most of our customers were of the highest sort; we weren’t your average streetdealers looking for a few bucks only to buy a quick fix thereafter. No, we were solely interesting in customers with a solid record of creditworthiness. In other words, the people who could afford to buy us protection against annoying police officers. We did receive plenty of protection, oh yes, let there be no mistake about that. And protection came in many forms – alibi, a good word, a reference, a phonecall… It’s the smallest things that often make the biggest difference. We were also honest dealers. Honest in a way we wouldn’t cut up our blow with junk, sell worthless bags of H or settle for a watery patch of acid. We processed our drugs, received from the most reliable sources and wouldn’t cut corners or reduce quality.
Our business model is fairly simple so to say, and we are ran the same way like any other business: the chief of the operation is me. Permit me to introduce myself, I’m Chevy LeBaron, been into this since childhood when I dropped out of high school to sell pot to senior year students, college students or just about everybody interested. It was also when I got into my first brush with the law, spent some time in the big house, got out and restarted my enterprise, with a load of knowledge under my belt you can only get in prison. I took up my old profession, already left home long ago – an unemployed drunk father and no mother aren’t the role models a young man really needs, don’t wanna talk about it – and found some friends willing to cooperate. One of them was Barnard “Buntie” Weisweller, a lifelong friend and someone I can trust unconditionally. His undoing will be his heavy heroin habit and occasionally he loathes his existence, stays away from drugs for two months but then comes back for some more. That’s been the pattern of his life for the past twenty years or so. Then there’s Herrmann “Harry” Goedsche, and his girlfriend whos name I forgot. Both love to take a few lines, do bondage and really weird sex and after watching porn for hours. He does most of the heavy labor, driving, moving our merchandise from A to B and back. He was the last person to join gang and I must say, he’s lived up to his name of being a hard worker and honest man. My wife isn’t involved in this but she knows what I do for a living. She doesn’t mind, a diamond ring a year keeps her off my back. She works in a hospital so there’s never a shortage of clean needles and syringes and other crucial medical supplies. She’s the silent partner of the gang and given her important work, I’d like to keep it that way. I almost forget about our home chemist, Dr Eric Keppler. Graduated from the prestigious University of Danzig’s Medical Faculty of Experimental Medicine and Research, summa cum laude, on a thesis I don’t recall. Apparently it was very special and his writing style and thorough research was met with universal praise by his professors. I can understand why; when he wrote his thesis I supplied him with all the acid he could afford. No longer burdened by the annoyances of human logic but clear as night and on the far reaches of our solar system, he finished what was to become a major medical success story. Offered many a job abroad in the pharmaceutical industry, what made him do it I will never discover, but he decided to join us shortly thereafter. He runs an independent research firm and does some vague work on theoretical medicine and surgical procedures. He makes plenty of money that way so I guess he needs the excitement doing what we do for a living. A very tidy living. So there’s that: me and my wife, Buntie, Harry and his girl and Eric.
We go back to our appartment. Television’s on. Loud moans, clapping human flesh, screams, pulling hair, mixed with 1960s psychedelic rock blasting from the radio and the sounds of boiling water and intricate medical equipment in the kitchen, creating an atmosphere of clandestine industrial activity and the electrical charges of powerful forces of rock and molten metal in the earth’s inner crust. I must say I felt great, a wonderful feeling of power, I could lift up the entire planet, a crowd of at least ten million was cheering, chanting my name while Herb was still busy in the kitchen. It was about 7 pm, Buntie was out there in town somewhere selling coke to bankers ready to party tonight. The finances were done, payrolling could wait till tomorrow. Now I’m just too good to do something stupid like managing finances. I grabbed another bag from the table, half a gram, cleaned my little mirror with a piece of cloth, cut a line and rolled up a $100 note. Left index finger pressed against my left nostril, and snorted. Second line same thing, right nostril.
I saw Harry got up from the couch and started to make a little dance, uttering incomprehensible poetry, singing some weird songs and repeating himself again and again. He looked at me, smiled and laughed.
“Chevy, man, did you know purple lightning’s comin’ out of your ears. Everything’s purple and water. You have some weed man…” I rolled a fat blunt, gave it to him and he lighted it, passed it to his girlfriend. Today was like any other day, not doing anything, making loads of money, getting high and tonight we’d hit the club. The Bloom Boom Room on the other side of town is the latest, hottest destination for young bankers and financial wizzkids looking to get laid or a quick suck off in the bathroom. Our perfect clientele, loaded with cash and ready to spend. Nothing was wrong, the world was perfect. In the kitchen, the phone rang. Eric picked it up, I heard him saying something; phonecalls were pretty unusual. Normally people would wait for us to show up. Eric came out of the kitchen, he looked at us, me specifically, and asked me if I know someone named Izzy Edelstein.
“Do I know him?”, I replied. “Well… I think I do. Yeah, he’s that treasury manager at Mendelsohn’s. Or something. I dunno.”
“Yeah he wants to meet us. Says it’s pretty damn important.”
“It better be. I don’t like mingling with customers.”
“He’s a good client Chevy. Buys loads every other month for drug fuelled sex parties at his lavish penthouse in High Towne. The same Izzy who buys $1000 worth of cigars
and cognac and shit. I’d say you talk to him.”
“Right now, on the phone, talk business and drugs? No fuckin’ way.”
“He’s cool and clean.”
“I know that. I just don’t feel ok with talking coke over the phone.”
“It’s not about drugs. He wants us to keep something in storage for a short while. He needs to go abroad and something went wrong… You’ll have to ask him.”
“Ok I will.” I got up and walked to the kitchen. Rather than an ordinary kitchen, it was a drug laboratory which occassionaly served as a kitchen. Usually we’d just eat out or order food, kebabs or the like. Eric gave me the telephone, which was on hold.
“Hello there, this is Chevy. Mr Edelstein?”
“Pleased to talk to you Mr LeBaron, I have a small problem and I need your help...”
“Do talk about it. But you know where this conversation won’t be going.”
“I am awareof that. I have brought myself up-to-date about your nightly plans, I think we need to speak to each other in the Bloom Boom Room, tonight if that’s possible.”
“I think that’s possible Mr Edelstein. Could lift some part of the veil, I am curious.”
“All right. It’s about business. That’s all I can say right now. I will see you tonight, around 12 in the Velvet Lounge? I have already made a reservation at the Bloom Boom.”
“Yeah man that’s ok, see you then…” Before I finished, he already hung up the phone. If I knew what was going to happen, I would’ve brought a gun instead of drugs.