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I kept making monthly runs to the country boys until August, when the quality started dropping and the supply thinned out.

That’s the game especially when it comes to outdoor grows. 

Even with a solid plug, there are good runs and there are dry spells—you take both. The last harvest was running out, the flower wasn’t as fresh, and they were scraping every last bit they could. 

But in this business, you never turn down what your plug offers.

Three reasons why:
1️⃣ Loyalty. They helped me grow, and you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
2️⃣ Positioning. You want to be the top guy, the go-to rep they trust.
3️⃣ Consistency. Even in a drought, I made sure my team had something to push—because someone is always looking to buy.

The country boys were still solid. The only issue came from Mark.

Mark had introduced me to the Western Kentucky crew, and I always took care of him—gave him the same $300 mark-up deal, same deal I gave my cousin. Fair. Straight up.

But that wasn’t good enough for Mark.

Mark wanted more.

He was greedy, spoiled, a rich kid with no hustle. He realized he didn’t have the skills to flip like I did, so resentment crept in.

And that’s when he came to me with an offer.

Mark tells me he’s got a new connect—high-quality exotic's, 5 pounds for $15K.

It made sense. The country boys’ supply was drying up, and I needed maintain a variety of high-quality bud. I’d known Mark for years. Trusted him.

That was the mistake.

It was hot as hell that night—the humid, dewing heat the Ohio Valley is infamous for. The kind that sticks to your skin, slows everything down.

I was in my basement studio, blunt burning in the ashtray, smoke curling in the dim light. Video game on. Waiting.

"Where's your guy?" I asked Mark.

“Oh, umm… he’s coming. Said soon.”

Looking back, I should’ve known. Should’ve listened to that little voice in my head. But I didn’t.

I relit the blunt just as I heard a noise outside.

Rustling.

I paused. Listened.

Then—silence.

Probably the lady upstairs' dog, I thought.

Click. Flick. Lighter sparks. Blunt ignites.

BOOM.

The door explodes open.

Three men. All black. Masks. Guns.

I freeze. Confusion. Shock.

All I can do is put my hands up.

One of them grabs me by the arm, gun pressed to my ribs. Shoves me into the bathroom.

"Lay in the tub," he orders.

I step in. Door slams shut.

Silence.

I wait. Heart pounding.

Minutes crawl by.

I step out.

Mark is sitting exactly where he was, hands tied, playing his role.

The apartment looks tossed, but not really. Just enough to make it seem like a robbery.

They took only one thing—the $15K in cash sitting in a shoebox on the counter.

Not the two pounds of weed in the closet.
Not the small grow I had going for fun.
Not the other cash in my coat pockets.

Just the $15K.

Mark gets a phone call—answers, keeps up the act.

"They just robbed us, man!" he shouts into the phone. "You still coming?"

Bullshit.

A whole performance for someone who wasn’t even real.

I didn’t say much. With my head hanging low, I just told Mark, “Go home.”

It wasn’t the first time I lost money in this game.

But it was the first time I looked down the barrel of a gun.

Did I have a holy shit, I need to change my life moment? Did I see God and swear off the hustle?

Nah.

I took the lesson and kept pushing.

And the more time passed, the clearer it became—Mark set me up.

He stopped coming around. Moved differently.

It became obvious. 

I wasn’t a gangster. I wasn’t some hard-ass street thug. I was just someone who loved cannabis, loved the hustle, and loved what it provided for me and my family.

But I had good people around me.

And one night at bar in the Highlands of Louisville, a close friend who operated the bar, made sure Mark understood the consequences of his actions without me ever asking. 

I’ve had a lot of people screw me over.

But looking at my life now? I realize something.

I’m still winning.

I’m still here.

And I’m more blessed than ever.

 

See you next week!