On The Other Side

Chapter 9 - The Highs

PABLO
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I've never been the kind of guy who deals with excess of bullshit.

'If it doesn't benefit you, it shouldn't fucking matter to you.' My father taught me and that's probably the best piece of advice he ever gave me.

I apply that wisdom to every aspect of my life. My friendships, my education, my empire, and most importantly, my fucking business partners.

That's why I fucking hate Damian. He never benefited me. He just slowed me down.

I get it, taking the stuff from Damian's son won't benefit me, especially since I already have more and higher-quality drugs than he does. But what does benefit me is Clay and his little friend George.

When I first started dealing, I was small-time. Dealt what I could, when I could, to whoever I could. Mostly ecstasy to college kids and weed to college dropouts. Once I realized that wasn't where the money or the power was, I started studying.

There was a full year right around the time I started college, I studied every minute of every day. And I'm not talking the bullshit textbook studying that lands you a full-time desk job making enough salary a year to buy one house, one car, and one wife.

I'm talking real studying. Meeting people. Becoming the person people want to meet. Sampling the good shit, the heroin, the coke, just to get a feel of what kind of drug fits better with what I wanna do. Knowing how not to get addicted to the shit. Getting to know your dealer so well that you become best friends with your dealer's dealer.

That's exactly when I met Damian. We were as close as brothers. He helped me deal and learn about everything. For a while, he was better than me. When we turned 23, we bought our first house together.

The house was bustling with people, coming in and out every hour, every day. These individuals were well-off and interested in our stuff.

After approximately six months of living together, I found him unconscious on the bathroom floor, with foam coming from his mouth.

I've never been so afraid before in my life.

I took him to the hospital and he was in a coma for a year. A year without him that I didn't know would benefit me.

Even though he was in a coma, I kept dealing. Before I knew it, I was so good that I was able to afford three mansions and four Bugattis.

Once he woke up, things took a turn for the worse. He needed constant assistance to avoid the drugs, which slowed me down significantly. He started convincing me to quit dealing, saying it was harmful for both of us.

Of course, I didn't listen and kept dealing.

He spent every day in bed as I worked my ass off. He was slowly getting on my nerves and it got so bad to the point he called the fucking police on me.

The police arrived and started banging on the door just as I had the most crucial client of my life sitting on the couch in the living room.

Not realizing that he had called the cops, I hurriedly ran up the stairs to his room, hoping we could escape together. However, when I opened the door, his room was empty, and he was nowhere to be found.

I successfully ran away but lost all of my stuff. I had to start from scratch once again. I learned a lot and I learned it the hard way.

I don't deal the petty shit now: X, weed, pills. I especially don't fuck with weed. It's an excess. You want weed? Buy yourself a gift card to the sweet shop. Don't waste my fucking time.

If you want the good shit, the shit that makes you feel like you're kissing the face of the goddamn Creator himself, that's when you come to me.

I'm still building. I'll always be building.

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