Blog

Driving back home to Louisville with Mark next to me and 5 pounds in the trunk, my nerves are locked in. High alert. Eyes flicking between the road and the rearview. The highway is long, desolate, and any sign of another car tenses you up, until you know that it's not a cop. That's when you remember to breathe. The highway is called the Pennyrile, leading to the Western KY Parkway—cutting through the middle of nowhere.

Exits are few and far between. Even if you take one, don’t expect a gas station for another 20 miles. This is deep country. You don’t get off these exits unless you live there. Outsiders? They’re spotted immediately, and they aren’t welcomed—doesn’t matter the color of your skin, you’re just not from here.

Four hours later, we pull into the Highlands, where I lived in Louisville. Back to my basement apartment, a small studio I was renting from the lady upstairs for $600 a month. That was a lot at the time, and I wasn’t making real money yet. Every dollar I had was tied up in flipping, reinvesting, and building up enough capital to finally leave Kentucky. LA was still the dream. Art school, new beginnings, something bigger.

And at that moment, staring at the 5 pounds of flower inside an Igloo cooler in my basement, it felt like the first step.

Time to move this weed.

First call? Andy. The cousin who got me into this game with my first ounce.

We weren’t just family. He was my best friend. The one I trusted more than anyone. We had an unspoken rule—never mark up more than $300 a unit to each other. It wasn’t something we ever sat down and agreed on, it just made sense.

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 just like that, I was back to work.

That night, I broke down 2 pounds:

• 16 quarters
• 32 eighths
• 8 ounces
• 1 full unit

Then the deliveries started. All over the city. I was in constant motion—phone buzzing, hands exchanging cash, moving weight in small pieces to maximize every flip.

• 1 unit sold for $2,600
• Eighths went for $50
• Quarters for $80
• Half ounces for $150
• Ounces for $200

I barely had time to stop and breathe before the next move was lined up.

Two days later, I was already heading back to the country boys.

This time? No Mark. Just me, solo, with enough money in hand to pick up 8 pounds.

And that was it.

The snowball effect had started. The taste for the hustle had kicked in. The money was real now, and I was getting addicted to the game.

To be continued… Cheers to next week.