Every town has its man. You don’t always recognize him when you see him on the street, or in a cafe. He comes in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes, the man is brash and ostentatious, and these men usually end up in prison or gasping their last breath in a gutter. Sometimes they listen to the voice inside their head that says "enough is enough," and they disappear as quietly as they came.
For a little while, I was one of these men in Manhattan’s lower east side. And heroin was my trade. I figure I’ve reformed enough at this point to tell my story, not out of pride or remorse, but simply a sense of hazy wonderment that yes, this was the person I used to be. This is the story of how I sold drugs to New York’s young and elite; my rise and fall.
Despite my rather libertarian beliefs about pot, I think heroin should remain illegal as hell. Stories like this remind me why. Oh, this story could easily be fake. That's fine, I enjoy a good story regardless. I suspect that if this story is fake, many stories like it have actually happened.
This would make one hell of a movie.