Blog

I won’t start with any excuses for not keeping up with this blog—fuck that. I’m here now, and that’s what matters.

But before we dive in, if you’ve been following along, reading these pieces of my past, thank you.

Now, back to the story...

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I’m standing on this farm. Just got out of the car with the guy introducing me to him. All I see is land stretching in every direction, with one house up ahead. It’s not like I pulled up and saw rows of cannabis plants waving in the wind—no, this wasn’t a postcard. I didn’t even know where the farms were, and honestly? I was glad I didn’t. There are things you shouldn’t know. Things that keep you safer.

The house is a log cabin, modest but nice. A classic wraparound porch, two rocking chairs, a swing bench, and one large country man sitting there, waiting. If you’ve ever walked into a Cracker Barrel, you know the vibe—except this wasn’t some cozy highway pit stop.

This man, let’s call him Grandpa because I have no fucking idea what his name was, wasn’t intimidating because of his size. No, it was the situation—me, standing alone in the middle of nowhere, stepping up to the next level in a world that wasn’t what it is today. I could be buried under this damn porch, and no one would know.

Grandpa, sitting there in overalls—shirt nowhere to be seen—sips his coffee and extends a calloused hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, voice low and even. “Mark here says you’re a good guy. Says you can move a lot of work.”

I take his hand. His grip is solid, squeezing just enough to remind me where I am. Inside, the 20-year-old me is screaming, Get the fuck out of here! But I keep it cool. “Yes sir,” I say. “I do my best. I think I can move a lot more of your product—for the right prices, of course.”

One more squeeze, then he lets go. Nods. “Good,” he says. “Let’s go see what we got.”

Then, turning to Mark, he says, “You stay back here. We’ll catch ya on the way back. Go inside, find something to eat.”

Wait… what?

The guy I came with—the only familiar face here—isn’t coming along. But I don’t hesitate. I don’t ask questions. I follow Grandpa.

We head toward a side-by-side, an off-road ATV parked right in front of my rental. No words, no explanation. Just get in.

I do.

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Deep Into the Woods

The deeper we go, the narrower the path gets. The thick brush swallows the trail until it’s barely wider than the ATV itself. The silence stretches long between us.

I do what I do best—fill the space.

“This reminds me of my grandma’s land,” I start, my voice trying to sound natural, like I wasn’t riding next to a man who could bury me out here without a trace. “Much bigger, of course. I miss the country sometimes, but I love the city life, you know?”

He nods. A grunt of agreement. Keeps driving.

Minutes stretch. Maybe ten. Maybe more.

Then, suddenly, we break through the woods into a wide-open valley.

And there it is.

A barn, standing in the open like something out of a movie. A classic, towering wooden structure, the kind with beams so thick and weathered people would pay thousands for a piece of it now.

“This barn has been here for 100 years,” Grandpa says.

It’s the first full sentence he’s given me since we started this ride.

We pull up, park, and step out.

Everything slows down.

I have no idea what’s about to happen. Every step I take, every door we open, every breath—it’s all in slow motion. From the moment I started this drive to this very second, I’ve been moving in fight-or-flight mode. Every nerve is locked in, focused on one thing: growth.

The barn door creaks open.

And there it is.

Weed. Everywhere.

Hanging upside down in the dark, like Kentucky tobacco drying after harvest. Rows of it, filling the space with that unmistakable, thick, sticky aroma.

And then, for reasons I still don’t understand, the first thing out of my mouth is:

“You don’t have any security here to protect all this?”

The second I say it, my brain is screaming, Why the fuck did you just say that?!

Now I’m overthinking.

Does he think I’m planning to steal something? Does he trust me less now? Did I just fuck this whole thing up?

But Grandpa doesn’t flinch. He just turns to me, voice calm, controlled.

“There’s only one way in and one way out of here,” he says. “This farm’s got over 100 acres. No one would make it out if they tried.”

A pause.

“This is where we keep the material that’s ready to move.”

Then he walks over to a horse stall, lifts a trap door in the ground, and starts heading underground.

A storm hatch. A hidden bunker room.

And just like that…

We’re going deeper.

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But that’s for next time.

Cheers to next week.