The second part of this story was actually written by Red Rob Blogger himself. It was a lot easier for him to write this so he did. As can tell, this story shows that the money drug dealers make has been HUGELY exaggerated by the mainstream press. These people do not live the life of luxury. Their lives are pathetic if anything.
By Red Rob Blogger
As we walked down the street, we passed in front of a tall-brown slim apartment building.
“Say, we need some money,” Chelsea said. “I’m going upstairs to visit Craig. He is good for a date. It will only take me a few minutes and I will be back with some cash.“
She darted up the steps. A few minutes later she came down.
“I got some Cash,” she said.
I don’t know exactly how much she got, but I know it was more than $20 but less than $40. Whoever Craig was, he was fast in bed and from the woman’s viewpoint that is not good. Next it was on to Johnny’s house. When we got to their apartment, we walked up a flight of steps to a large brown porch with a railing and rows of doors. We got to Johnny’s, the white- wooden door with a small windows on it—knocked and then we were let in. Johnny was an older man in his late 40s. He had long-gray hair and a white beard. He was wearing an old worn blue collared shirt and old slacks. The house was a little dirty, but we all sat on the green rug around the glass pipes that sat on the brown coffee table in the middle of the room. Johnny had another friend over, Randy. He was shorter, brown hair and about 10 years younger. When we first came in the room, Johnny was looking for small pieces of crack that may have fallen on the floor. He kept finding little pieces of filth on the green carpet that looked like they might be crack. Johnny kept lighting the tiny pieces, with his lighter to see if they would melt. If they did, which rarely happened, he stuck the melted junk on the pipe just long enough to get that tiny little hit.
Mostly looking for scraps was just a sign of desperation. These guys had a look of desperation that I was beginning to recognize in pretty much all of the crack addicts I met. They all had that beady sweaty look to them. They were always searching for spare pieces of crack that fell on the floor.
“I got some rocks,” Chelsea said. “She got some of her rocks out and put them on the coffee table near the pipes. Next we were all sitting around their table and firing up one of the pipes. Each took a turn on the pipe. For a few minutes the whole group was content as the pipe and its white smoke filled all of our lungs. This reminded me a lot of my early dope smoking experiences. We would all get out our special pot pipes out and we passed around a bowl of whatever weed we all had at the time. Crack was a little different from weed. But weed smokers never had that look of desperation that the crack smokers have.
After about an hour I started to get nervous about Green Eyes and my car.
“We need to go back to that house,” I said.
“Don’t worry she’ll wait for you,” Chelsea said.
“Just the same—I’d like to go by the house and see if my car is back.” I answered.