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Me and my brother started living this life when we where sixteen and fifteen in Queens, New York. Our foster parents didn’t give a shit about us. They got paid to take care of us and we never saw any of that money. We couldn’t get real jobs because they would just take the money we made. We were too young to have bank accounts in our names and they wouldn’t open one for us. Even if they did it would just make it easier for them to take our money. Kids at our school went to thrift stores because it was fun for them. We went because our parents were cheap, and it was as close to shopping as we got. So we started selling weed, and maybe some blow here and there, but only if we were really desperate for money. Then we met Syd he became our best friend and we discovered he had a knack for forgeries. Made identical copies of me and my brothers report cards our Junior year of high school. The only difference was the grades. He’s good with computers and art. He had an exact replica of Vincent Van Gogh’s starry night hanging in his room that he painted. He even had some Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci paintings which he sold for a great price.
Me and my brother learned how to grow. Experimented, made different strands. Growing isn’t easy, you need the right supplies and what not. It can be a pain. The first time me and my brother tried a strand of our own exotic. It was heaven in a plant. Long story short we started selling our own crop, and people liked our shit. Not after long we needed to expand and we needed a grow house for the winter season. By this time me and my brother were eighteen and seventeen. Our parents kicked us out when my brother finally turned eighteen. They didn’t need us to collect anymore, and we had been saving our money instead of flaunting it. Since we had quit our jobs our parents had no reason to go looking for money from us. We used the money we had to get an apartment together. We used Syd’s shed as a grow house. His mom never went in because all his paintings were in there and it always smelled like paint. So we cleared out the paint and supplies and and made room for our crop. We installed lights for the crops. Set them on a timer so the electric bill wasn’t through the roof. The smell of paint covered up the smell of pot long enough for us to put in some flowers and other new plants around the shed to mask the smell.
After Syd moved in with us we had to find anther place to grow. So we found a small warehouse for sale. Paid for it in cash up front. Moved all of our crop out while Syd’s mom wasn’t home. Our new location was pretty cool. Syd could even work on his forgeries there. He had a work place set up and everything. The more attention we started getting the more popular our product became and so we had people wanting to get on our pay roll. Work for us. So we started interviewing and hiring. Yes we interviewed our interested candidates to sell our weed. You have to know who you’re getting in bed with before you hire them. The people we were looking for had to be strong, fast on their feet, and social know a lot of the people in their area. In total at the time we had around six people selling for us in Queens, then we started moving our product to the Manhattan area. While me and my brother took care of the plants, growing more, selling more, making more money. Our employees where selling like there was no tomorrow. Shit was going quick. We hired about four people that lived in Manhattan gave them five thousand worth of weed each. By the end of week they all came back for more to sell and money in their hands. It was amazing.
Since then we’ve only kept growing we made investments and after a while opened up a front business. A front business is basically just something you use to funnel your drug money through. Can’t go around making big cash deposits to the bank. Though a lot of idiots have tried. Starting this line of business has opened me and my brothers eyes to so many things. So now that you’ve gotten to know our back story. I want to tell you a bit about us. Our lives now, how we live, and most importantly, I want to show you how to run a drug cartel.
My name is Reece and my brother is Misha. He’s around six feet and I stand four inches taller. Were the same muscular build. His hair is black and mine is dark brown, both cut short. My eyes are a bright hazel but are nothing compared to Misha’s pale green eyes that turn grey on occasion. He has tan skin and I’m pale in complexion. My features are sharp, square face and jaw, big almond eyes, narrow slightly turned up nose, and full lips with a deep cupids bow. My brother has a heart shaped face, a medium straight nose, deep set eyes, a thin upper lip with a curvy cupids bow, and a full lower lip. We’re pretty attractive for a couple of drug dealers. People often think that were related because we wear our hair about the same length even though we look nothing alike. We’re still brothers even if it isn’t by blood.
We moved from Queens to the financial district of Manhattan. To say we’re financially stable is an understatement. Right now we have scattered grow houses. We’ve even expanded our horizons. We have three trap houses in Queens that are the bases of our coke, cocaine, meth, and heroin production. Some simple rules to go by; never get high off your own product (unless its weed). Me and Misha don’t do drugs. We smoke bud, but everyone smokes bud, its a plant. It shouldn’t be classified as a fucking drug. Second, Don’t hire junkies, or ex junkies. This should be obvious, because you don’t need to have someone coming in and using instead of selling your product. Plus they tend to bring unwanted drama, and problems to the business.
We had a junkie on our payroll once, and she was a smart one, if she hadn’t gotten caught. Her name was Carla, she was tiny, about 5 “2’, maybe shorter. She was naturally blonde, but dyed her hair black, cut it to about shoulder length. She was only eighteen, but once she underwent her makeover she looked at least twenty-four. She was always quite though, never brought too much attention to herself. While doing our rounds I noticed a gap in product to income ratio. With as much heroin as we push, someone was coming up short. So, I counted up everyone’s income. Carla was the only one that came up short. So I looked her in the eyes and said, “What the fuck is this?”
She had the nerve to lie to me, telling the truth would have saved her life, maybe.
“Its my weeks income.” I counted her money out loud, if she sold all of her product she’d have more cash than what she brought in.
“So, where’s the product you didn’t sell? Because this,—” I held up her cash before throwing it down on the table beside me. “— this shit doesn’t add up.” She stepped back slightly.
“I don’t—” I stepped forward and grabbed her wrist before she could finish, and pushed up one of her sleeves, checking her for track marks.
“You’ve been using my fuckin’ product?” She screamed, “No!”
I yanked her arm, “Then what the fuck is this?” There were obvious track marks on her arm from where she’s been shooting up.
“I’m diabetic!” I let go of her arm and shoved her hard in the chest pushing her to the ground.
“Ya ain’t no fuckin’ diabetic Carla. You’re a fuckin’ lair. Ya know the rules, no junkies on my payroll.” She started crying like a fucking toddler. One thing I hate more than liars, are tears.
“I can pay whatever is missing! please I need this job.” I shrugged, feeling no sympathy for her. If she needed this job she wouldn’t have lied to me.
“No ya don’t.” I pulled the gun I keep in the waist band of my jeans and popped a cap between her eyes.
“Fuckin’ junkie.” I left the body for my employees to take care of. Everyone knew they had to get their hands dirty from time to time. No one complained, seeing as I had just shot a girl in the face, and no one wanted make me anymore upset than I already was.