How I Got Into Dealing Drugs

Preamble: Quick note before I get started. Mom, Dad or anyone in my family reading this, please exit the browser now. The events detailed in this post were a long, long time ago. Sandra McCarthy don't get excited and try to drop dime again because I can hardly afford my own drugs these days, much less sell them.

As I had mentioned in my previous post, in moving back and forth across the country, coupled with a computer crash, and nerve damage, I thought I lost the raw 180 pages of “my glory days” from the first draft of the book.

Luckily, I searched my Gmail and found an email I had sent to myself from July of 2016, so I'm fairly sure, I have the whole thing again.

Bad old days, here we come!

Chapter 4: How I Got Into Dealing Drugs

“People don't sell drugs, drugs sell themselves.” – Chris Rock


Like porn, drug dealing was never anything I had considered doing for a living. It found me. Drugs were my chief source of income from the early to late 1990's.

I've always been a stoner. I smoked pot five or six times when I was 13 before I ever got high, but I loved it. When I lived in Connecticut, we'd get our parents to dp us off roller skating, then we would sneak out to the graveyard, smoke joints and play ice hockey. I can remember the first time I actually felt the effects and have been a committed stoner since.

At 18, one of the things I was looking forward to in Georgia was the vast difference in weed prices. In Connecticut, a quarter was $60 and not high quality. In Atlanta, a quarter of weed was $40 and slightly better.

There was a hitch, every year during the end of summer ATL would “go dry, ” and marijuana would be impossible to find. That July I moved there was the worst drought on record. Finding a nug would be like finding a brick of gold.

It was that bad.

Once I had my truck unpacked, my next order of business was scoring a bag. Crazy Chris called a few of his pot dealers, but everyone was out. That year, I can remember the police erecting billboards on the interstate stating, “you think it's dry this year, wait till next year” with a big marijuana leaf and international no sign.

I was frustrated and sober.

One of the first days in Atlanta, I was going to see where my mailbox was in my apartments, this older black guy in a car drove up and asked me if I was looking for weed. I responded, “Hell, yeah.” I had the cash; he took off his hat with a bunch of 1/8th bags rolled up in it and I bought one. He lived in my same apartment complex, gave me his number and said call him if I need more. I strutted back to my building with my first half-price Georgia dirt-weed. Everyone was dumbfounded “the new guy” could find weed, where the locals had failed.

Within an hour I am back at his apartment scoring a bag for Crazy Chris and then a few hours later, for Chris's friends, who I didn't even know. I started making 3 or 4 runs per day to the dealers' place. For a few days, I got the sacks for people without making a profit other than they'd smoke me out or give me a joint. As the week went on, people kept calling, so I proactively bought an ounce. I figured I could sell three-quarters and get my weed free. After another week I started making a lot of “new friends” because I was the only guy who could score weed. Eventually, knowing that business was incoming. I bought 2 ounces, 2 became 3, and soon I'd moved up to a “QP” (quarter pound).

Without knowing it, I had become a drug dealer.

I had a few “regular” quote jobs too. I worked at UPS for a while unloading trucks. I also used to work for my friend “Johnny Cold Beer” installing carpet. I will save those debacles for another chapter, as they were adventures in themselves.

Between working, selling drugs, partying and my girlfriend Beverly that had just moved up from Connecticut, I had my hands full. I never went to many classes at school and dropped out in the first quarter. I already knew some pretty advanced music theory just from years of reading guitar magazines, so everything at school was a refresher.

While I was working at UPS, I met this guy Spencer who had a similar side hustle. He had a better connection than the guy at my apartment building, so together, we graduated from “QPs” to pounds.

Some guys from Kentucky tried to stick us with a few pounds of really moldy dirt weed with maggots and it during the dry spell the second summer. We told them we didn't want this shit, and they could have it back. They refused, Spencer knew one of them had a big grow operation in the back of his house, so one October morning after work, just as it was time for harvest, we went to his greenhouse and chopped down all the flowering weed. We cruised down Peachtree Industrial Highway in rush hour traffic with marijuana plants darting out of every orifice and Spencer's compact car. Keep in mind; this was long before the tolerant medical marijuana years; this was 1991 Georgia: In the eyes of the law we were carrying a life sentence in Reidsville State Penitentiary.

Not long after I quit UPS.

Besides from working with Johnny a bit from time to time, I never had a “real job” again.

After a while, I lost touch with Spencer and was introduced to “Hippy John.” John was involved at a higher-level than Spencer. He was arranging shipments of hundreds of pounds of weed from Mexico. He became my new connection, and I was his right-hand man. We dominated the ATL pot market by having “mids,” which was HQ weed but not as expensive as hydroponic, and far better than the cheaper Mexican dirt weed. The best thing about “mids” was they had the highest profit margin and demand.

By 1995, Dick Delicious wanted to play a lot more shows out-of-town, so I wanted to solidify my income. I had a truck that I barely drove so I sold it for $3000 and picked up 3 ounces of the blow. I didn't know if I'd have any luck selling it, but within 48 hours the cocaine was gone, and I was re-upping. I don't like cocaine that much, so I made for a good coke dealer.

Say what you want about the morality of dealing drugs, but many people have asked me how I got so “good at business.”

I learned it by selling drugs.

From my stint as a drug dealer, I can do even relatively complex math calculations in my head. For example, if I bought X per ounce of blow then I could Break it up into to X, Y and Z at know what the profits were from each. Selling drugs is a service industry, and a big part of it was just being available and in stock.

For a brief time, I tried to sell ecstasy because coke clients often wanted ecstasy as well. What I've noticed is cocaine cancels ecstasy out. You just stopped rolling (that's no fun). I found myself buying a hundred pills and giving 80 of them away to chicks at parties when I was rolling my face-off. I was a shitty ecstasy dealer, so I didn't mess with it long.

The funny thing was for all the drugs I've dealt the only trouble I ever got into was for personal possession. While I was in jail, Hippy John kept supplying my girlfriend with the mids, so I never missed a beat.

When I got out of prison, I briefly considered going straight and getting a real job, but the problem with being a convicted felon on probation is no one wants to hire you. So I jumped back into drugs with both feet, this time with the threat of probation looming over my head.

I went another two years or so slanging hard, during this period that my Internet porn career was starting to take flight. I eventually approached my suppliers and told them that I wanted to get out of the game because I was making more money legally. Because I had always been trustworthy, paid cash, and could move product — they didn't want me to leave. So they made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

No, it wasn't a death threat.

They offered to make my life easier! They set me up so all I would have to was pick up an enormous amount about once per month. I had three guys, I could trust, so I immediately split it up between them. When 30 days or so would pass I would collect my money, restock, rinse and repeat.

Finally, I decided to move to California. I went to my suppliers and told them I was out of the business and this time I meant it. To placate them I made the introduction to the two guys that I had distributing for me, thereby cutting myself out as the middleman. To this day, they are still in the game, as far as I know.

Now with that out-of-the-way, I had a few more loose ends to tie up. I had this big envelope full of cash in my room. To be honest, I never counted it, but I assumed it contained something like $2000 or $3000. My girlfriend and I had mostly used it as drinking money when we went out to bars. The night before I counting it and my estimate was way off! There was over $20,000 that envelope. I had heard of the crime of structuring deposits (anything over $10,000 must be reported to the IRS). So we took the money and deposited it $5000 at a time into separate ATMS.

I never got caught.

Ever since then, I've been a buyer, not a retailer.

And that was how I got into dealing drugs.

JQ

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How I Got Into Dealing Drugs from Drugs

Exactly How Dick Delicious Got Started!

dick-delicious

“In the Beginning, God created the Heavens and the stars, and with one swift movement of his finger across the horizon, the Earth was born. Through millions of years, the Earth was in disarray. The Precambrian era brought about the first signs of life, followed by the Jurassic age and the rise of the dinosaur, Millions of Millennia pass, new species are born and experience life with great relish, and then as quickly as they came into existence, they pass into the great void known as extinction. Soon the first semblance of man (Zinzanthopus) arises in the Old Duvai gorge. Beijing man bestowed the gift of fire from Prometheus the Titan, soon the Gods of Olympus rise punishing Prothemeus for his betrayal by driving a stake through his torso embedding him into the Scythian cliffs with vultures ripping at his liver. Then, after eight years of Reaganomics, once again, God raised his lofty hand to the heavens to create, dare I say, his masterwork. Three raging wanton stallions from Atlanta, hitherto known to the people of these parts as the almighty, riveting, testosterone laden, shower knob masturbation fantasies of all women including dykes, lesbians, and clam-lappers, the majestic Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles, came into their magnificent being.”

– Hugh G. Rection 1998 (Scott Waldrop)

Well, it wasn't quite like that…

The year was 1992. I was jamming with an insanely talented drummer named Dave (later to become Phil A. Cunt). We were playing technical thrash metal for around a year that was so fast and complex; we could never find any musicians to complete the band.

I was introduced to our bass player, Scott Waldrup (a.k.a. Huge G. Rection) through my friend Mel. Mel was an excellent guitar player and always was banging the hottest chicks. Mel simply said, “You guys should jam.” Scott became my cohort of over 25 years in Dick Delicious.

We became best friends and had a lot in common. Many people even asked if we were brothers. We talked about starting a band but couldn't decide in a direction. It was 1992, and metal was in a sad state of affairs. All anyone cared about was grunge. It took months to figure out what kind of music we wanted to play. Regardless, we partied like madmen. We hung out at Charlie McGruder's (Atlanta's Rainbow Bar and Grill), lurked in strip clubs, took acid, mescaline, drank constantly, and did cocaine. I was 20 at the time, and Scott was 27. I could go to bars underage, because the state of Georgia took your license if you owed money on a speeding ticket. The paper ticket would become your “legal ID” until you paid the fine.  I erased the “71” and turned in into a “70” with a pencil. The speeding ticket got me into bars for two years! I love how stupid The South can be!

Scott hit me up one night and asked if I wanted to go bungee jumping. I had never done it before, so I agreed. We went and then proceeded to Charlie McGruder's for some hair-farmer debauchery. We picked up these two strippers at the bar and took them back to Scott's condo and took some acid. Our friend “Stinky Mike”, a homeless drummer, hopped in the car with us when we left. When we got back to Scott's condo, the two girls started bickering, and it escalated into a strange confrontation. They began smacking each other with high heels and taking their clothes off in the parking lot. One of the girls called someone to pick her up, and the other fell asleep while we tripped our brains out.


We were messing around with guitars. Scott and I realized that we both had written a bunch of funny songs. In those first five hours, we had written over ten songs, with names like “Nuclear Beer Fart“, “WoodChipper,” “Waking Up In A Pool of Vomit and Dirty Needles“. Quite a few of those songs would comprise the first Dick Delicious album. So we decided to start a band with well-played music with funny lyrics (a la Frank Zappa). We hadn't thought of a band name yet. We didn't pick a specific musical genre either, because we didn't want to be pigeonholed as metal or associated with the grunge movement.

The girl that had fallen asleep woke up, wasn't too happy to be at Scott's condo, and insisted Scott drive her back to the boonies. We protested and informed her we were frying our faces off on acid, and it was a bad idea to drive. She wouldn't stop complaining and was killing our high. Just to get her to shut up. Scott finally gave in. Stinky Mike, who hadn't taken any acid, woke up and got in the car with us.

For some reason, Scott had a ski mask in his car. I donned it and kept repeating “this ski mask makes me feel invincible.” This annoyed the hell out of the chick we were driving home, so that made me do it more incessantly. I suggested, as an image, the band should play wearing ski masks. Scott thought that was a great idea. Again, another crucial band decision. Later, people would claim we were copying El Duce, but we didn't really listen to The Mentors at all.
By the time we dropped the girl off, it was well into the next day, and we decided to go back to the bungee jumping place. This time, we were higher than Marion Barry. The same guy was hooking the bungee lines from the night before, except I'm sure that he had slept. We were the previous evening’s back-wash.

We were trying to narrow down a name for our new project; I suggested “Macho Nonsense” and Scott’s pick was “Dick Delicious and The Tasty Testicles.” I thought Scott's idea was funnier, so we went with DDTT. We would probably have a platinum album now, had we not picked that name. As we mulled over our decision, we went to a Mexican restaurant for burritos, cheese dip, and margaritas along with Stinky Mike.  Since Mike was a good drummer, we made him the first of many the band would have. We then picked stage names. I said I could sing, so I became “Dick Delicious,” Scott chose “Huge G Rection” and we dubbed Mike “Harry Scrotum.” As time went on, Scott and I began to share vocal duties. Having “no-fixed-lead-singer” later became a trademark of the Atlanta metal sound. You can see this in bands such as Mastodon.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering in the 90 degree Georgia heat in my apartment complex dressed in ski equipment, asking people if they where we could find “T-bone the sheep pimp”. Then we tried to hijack a bulldozer.

At some point, we finally slept.

In that 24-hour bender was exactly how Dick Delicious got started.

Were you expecting anything less?

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