“The Mobster in Me”
All the things I did wrong growing up—stealing candy, skipping school, sneaking liquor—don’t compare to what’s coming. That was child’s play. Now I’m stepping into a new life. A life of big-time crime.
I’m around 21. Young, cocky, and already running a few hustles. I’ve got a bookmaking operation going—taking bets on football, basketball, horses. I’m selling weed on the side, keeping it casual but steady. I haven’t even seen cocaine yet, but it’s about to walk into my life and change everything.
The first time I tried coke, I didn’t like it. For the price, I expected fireworks. Instead, it was a short buzz and a bitter taste. But I saw the potential. People wanted it. They paid for it. And they kept coming back. So I started selling it.
Now I’m juggling three hustles: pot, coke, and bookmaking. I’m still too young to understand the weight of it all. If I get caught doing any one of these, I’m in deep. All three? That’s prison time. But I’m not thinking about consequences. I’m thinking about cash.
My client list grows fast. I learn how to stretch an ounce into two. Cut it just right, keep the quality high enough to keep them hooked. I’m making $1,000 to $2,000 a week. That’s ten times what I made working a legit 40-hour job. I’m living fast, spending faster, and feeling untouchable.
I used to think stealing a pack of gum was bad. Now I’m a full-blown criminal. My job is simple: sell drugs by day, bar to bar. Take bets on the weekends. Meet up with gamblers during the week to pay out or collect. It’s a rhythm. It’s a system. It’s a pretty good life.
And it’s going to get better yet.
I start dressing sharper. Flashier. I’m walking into bars like I own the place. I’ve got cash in my pocket, a pager on my hip, and a growing reputation. People know me. They trust me. They fear me just enough to pay on time.
But underneath it all, I’m still that kid from the strip plaza. Still chasing the thrill. Still looking for the next hustle. I don’t realize it yet, but I’m building a house of cards. And one day, it’s going to fall.
The Mobster in Me (Expanded)
I was getting a reputation. Not just as a hustler, but as a guy who could collect. Tough when needed. Calm under pressure. I didn’t go looking for fights, but I didn’t back down either. Word got around—I was reliable, I was fearless, and I got the money.
I never considered myself a mobster. But the guys I worked with? Their last names all ended in vowels. You know what I mean. They operated out of the same store I did—quiet, low-key, but always moving. I didn’t realize it at the time, but just being around them gave me extra backing. If someone gave me trouble, they weren’t just messing with me. They were messing with the whole crew.
I’d always been fascinated by mobster stories on TV. The suits, the loyalty, the code. Now I was kind of living it. Not officially, not with titles or ceremonies—but in the way things worked. In the way people treated me. In the way we moved.
Whenever we went out to eat, we never sat with the crowd. We had our own room. Separate. Private. I didn’t ask questions—I just knew that’s how it was. These guys were older than me, seasoned. They’d seen things. Done things. I was known as the kid, and they treated me well. Like I belonged.
There were five of them I knew well—guys I’d ride with, eat with, work with. The rest I’d see from time to time. They’d nod, maybe say a few words. I didn’t need to know everything. I just needed to do my part.
And I did. If they asked me to handle something, I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t weigh the risk. I didn’t ask for details. I just did it. Not because I was trying to prove something—but because I didn’t have fear. I trusted them. I trusted myself. And I liked the life.
Looking back, I don’t think I fully understood who I was with. Not really. But I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, my eyes open, and my hands busy. I was in the game now. And the stakes were getting higher.
The Mobster in Me (continued)
Life was on the upswing. I had money now—and I was spending it like it grew on trees. My mom used to say that all the time when we were kids. “Money doesn’t grow on trees, Tim!” She’d say it with that mix of frustration and love, trying to teach us something we weren’t ready to learn. Now I was living like it did. Fast cash, fast nights, fast everything.
I was doing well selling coke, but pot was my bread and butter. The margins were better, the clientele steadier, and the risk—at least in my mind—felt lower. One afternoon, the guy supplying me with weed took me to lunch. He was calm, direct, and didn’t waste words. He told me if I wanted to keep getting pot from them, I had to quit selling coke.
I didn’t argue. After he laid out the size of the next shipment, I knew it was worth it. Besides, I never liked coke anyway. The high was short, the vibe was edgy, and the people who used it were unpredictable. Pot was smoother. Cleaner. Easier to manage.
The next load was massive. When I opened the first bundle, it covered a big chunk of my basement floor. And I had ten more just like it. That stash alone could float me for a year or two. I wasn’t just moving weight—I was moving into a new tier of the game.
By this point, everyone who mattered knew I was honorable. I didn’t steal from my suppliers. I didn’t short my clients. I didn’t talk. That reputation was gold. Deals kept coming my way. Bigger, better, faster. I finally understood why selling drugs was the way to get ahead—if you could survive it.
But it wasn’t just the product you had to hide. Concealing the money was just as hard. You couldn’t flash it too much. You couldn’t bank it. You had to be smart. Careful. Strategic. These guys weren’t in any rush to collect. You held onto the cash until they reached out. No calls. No reminders. Just silence—until it wasn’t.
That was part of the game. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t push. You waited. And when they came, you paid. No excuses. No delays.
None of this was legal. Not a single piece of it. So you worked on drug hours. That meant late nights, early mornings, and no such thing as weekends. It meant being ready at all times, because the game didn’t sleep—and neither could you.
“We will get back to dealing coke a little later.”
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