Blog

Driving back home to Louisville with five pounds in the trunk and Mark riding shotgun, my nerves were dialed in. Locked and loaded. My eyes kept dancing between the yellow lines and the rearview mirror. Every set of headlights in the distance felt like it might be a cruiser. Every car creeping up behind us made my breath hitch in my throat.

The road stretched out ahead of us like a dare.

We were on the Pennyrile Parkway, which eventually bleeds into the Western Kentucky Parkway—one of those backroads to nowhere, cutting through the belly of the state. No welcome centers, no Cracker Barrels. Just dense country, with exits that lead to towns where the only gas station closed in ’98 and the sheriff knows the name of every pickup that passes through.

This isn’t the kind of road you take unless you’ve got something to hide—or something to prove.

You don’t get off unless you live out there.
And if you’re an outsider, they know. Doesn’t matter your skin color—if you weren’t born into that dirt, you’re a stranger.

Four hours later, we pull into the Highlands, my neighborhood back in Louisville. I was living in a basement studio I rented from the old lady upstairs for $600 a month. It felt steep, but I was surviving—barely. Every dollar I made was tied up in the flip. There were no profits yet. Just reinvestments and restlessness.

Los Angeles was still the dream.
Art school. Creativity. Freedom.
A full life lived out loud in a city where no one knew your name.

But for now?
I had five pounds of flower stuffed into a white Igloo cooler, sitting in the middle of my cinderblock apartment—and it felt like my first real step toward somewhere else.

Move the Work

First call?
Andy—my cousin, my best friend, the one who handed me my first ounce and taught me the rhythm of this game.

We never needed to talk business. It was built in.
Never mark up more than $300 a unit to each other.
No contracts, no handshakes. Just blood, trust, and mutual survival.

Me: “I’m back. I was able to get 5 lbs at $1,600 each. Whatever you want, you can have for $1,900.”
Andy: “I’ll take three, if that’s okay.”
Me: “Fuck yeah, that’s perfect. I’ll keep the two. If you move a full unit, don’t sell it for less than $2,600. I’m gonna start breaking mine down now.”

And that was it.
I was back in motion.

That night, I broke down two pounds in my basement—bare lightbulb swinging, music low, hands moving automatically.

• 16 quarters

• 32 eighths

• 8 ounces

• 1 full unit

Bag after bag.
Zips turned to stacks.
The phone was buzzing like it knew what was coming.

Then came the deliveries.
All over the city.
Driving in circles, eyes peeled, always on edge but never afraid.
Cash changing hands. Conversations short. Weight moving one pocket at a time.

• A full unit sold at $2,600

• Eighths at $50

• Quarters at $80

• Half ounces at $150

• Ounces at $200

I barely had time to sleep.
Didn’t want to.
The hustle was buzzing in my blood now.
The game was moving, and I was in it.

The Snowball Begins

Two days later, I was already headed back to see the country boys.
This time? No Mark. Just me.
Solo.
Enough cash in my backpack to pick up eight pounds. My own money. My own risk.

That ride was different.

There was no fear in my throat this time—just adrenaline, purpose, and a clear view of where this could go. I wasn't just flipping anymore.
I was building.

That moment—the return trip, the money in hand, the weight of it all—was the real beginning. The game had changed.

The snowball was rolling.

And the thing about momentum is…
once you taste it, you don’t want to stop.