A Weekend at Turkeyfest – Chapter 4

 Besides being the editor-in-chief of the magazine, and a projectionist at the movie theatre, and a general whipping boy for the centre; I was a well known, low profile dope dealer. 

Or so I thought.
Nothing serious. Pot and hash and oil, sometimes mushrooms to customers whom I deemed fit for the trip.

I often had acid in those days. But I refused to sell it. If I thought you were of the right constitution to brave the ride I would do a hit or 3 with you. On my tab.

Enlightenment is priceless, and therefore, should never be sold.

Like many before me, I tumbled into the role of “the dealer”. it started out innocently enough. I couldn’t stand seeing my peers and associates consuming bunk dope. There’s nothing I hate more than folks spending their hard earned dollars on shit dope at inflated prices. And because I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who had some killer shit, and everyone else had bunky shit, we always ended up smoking all my shit, not the crème de a crap. So, I figured instead of sharing the goodness on my tab all the time, I would buy in bulk, sell off enough to recover my investment, and smoke the remainder for free. I thought of myself as a sort of boy scout, doing good deeds one gram, one eighth, one quarter at a time.

Unfortunately I grossly underestimated the market demand and word of mouth advertising whirlwind that accompanied good, fairly priced pot.
Before I knew it I had packs of ornery people waiting, like a pack of coyotes tracking a baby deer, on the routes and roads I traveled. Quickly I began to recognize the danger in allowing business to be conducted in this anytime, anywhere manner. Lawyers and doctors, and bankers had offices and working hours.
And so would I.

I constructed a work schedule with hours and locations of operation.
Rules were established and were dispersed in the oratory fashion which is so much the tradition in the tapestry of the drug world.

People were never to approach if they had not previously been introduced by someone in the know.
Also, it was forbidden to attempt a business transaction outside of the designated business hours or locations.
Patrons were never to come to my house under the pre-tenses of business, nor were they permitted to call in regards to said business opportunities.

Failure to abide by the rules resulted in instant denial of knowing who the fuck you were or what the fuck you were talking about; as well as a possible embargo against all and any future transactions.
After all, I had more than the CRA or overhead cost inflation to worry about. I had to keep a keen eye out for constables iron crotch and phillatio and their merry band of leeches. I also had to be ever vigilant for the presence of malevolent competition and, of coarse, The Rat.
I was so dedicated to being on full guard against The Rat that I kept an actual rat, just so I could become accustomed to it’s scents, it’s habits, it’s manner of being. That way, when out on the twisted streets, I would be more in tune with the specific pharamones and karmic undertows that are present in the company of The Rat.
A learned skill Steve Jobs may have benefited from in decades past.

It seems that in anything, be it business or politics, or religion or education; sooner or late a rat will slide in and contaminate the situation with the overwhelming stench of their shit. And then, it’s all over. zombieland!

Therefore I found it philosophically sound to act swift and with brute force at the slightest hint of The Rat’s agenda. This is a mindset that can be achieved and tuned only in the uncontrolled environment of the twisted streets. Indeed. The Rat is a dangerously un-predictable foe.
But worst of all, the whole time they’re near they’re walking all over and around you, dragging their balls over everything they cross.
Fuckin’ rats…

One of my favorite places to sell the green was at the coffee shop. I figured if I was gonna make money from dope I might as well contribute something to the community. And so, if I was working at the centre, and someone wanted to buy something, they had to buy a cup of joe and hang out there for a while until I got around to them. This gave a much needed economic stimulus to the coffee shop, as well as adding more depth and diversity to the social environment, or vibe, of the place. Movie patrons, radio staff, computer tech’s, artist’s and intellectuals, drug conesseurs and criminal dope fiend personalities. A very bohemian stew of idealism, experience, expertise, and tradition. I would venture to say that the economic influx and community goodwill that resulted from my personal business there benefited greatly the dedication to, and strength of, this rising temple of libertarian sovereignty. It also benefited my bottom line. Which in turn benefited the L.C.B.O.’s bottom line.

It’s the ebb and flow of the tides of life.

Let’s stop here for a moment, and enjoy the beauty of life, with all it’s simpleness’ and intricacies’ in harmonious and symbiotic vibration. Or perhaps, to roll a joint, pop a tab, sip some malt and listen to the latest breaking news coming into the CNN newsroom.

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