Chapter 143: If We Don't Go Crazy, We Die
Walter and Frank had nearly identical thoughts.
But unlike Frank, Walter didn't have any connections or tricks up his sleeve. He had spent his entire life immersed in chemistry. Outside of that, he had nothing—no skills, no experience in anything else.
Ironically, the one thing most essential in drug manufacturing was chemistry. Seeing how profitable the drug trade was, Walter finally got the idea to start his own business. He just wanted to make as much money as possible before he died.
But Walter wasn't an addict, and he knew nothing about the industry. The only person he could think of was Frank. So he reached out to him—but to his surprise, Frank turned him down.
Truth be told, Walter was grasping at straws. He lived in New Mexico, Frank was in Chicago. The two were separated by a vast distance. Even if Frank wanted to help, it just wasn't practical.
Unless Walter moved to Chicago—or Frank moved to New Mexico—it was never going to work. But they both had families and obligations. Relocating wasn't a realistic option.
In the end, Walter teamed up with his former student, Jesse Pinkman.
But Walter only saw the money in the business—he didn't understand how dangerous it really was.
As for Jesse? He was just a small-time junkie. Even if he knew anything about the business, it was only from the bottom-most rung of the ladder.
And yet, the product Walter created was the best of the best—a rare, high-quality crystal meth unlike anything on the market.
Jesse, a street-level dealer, took this premium product and tried to move it. If he had sold it on the street in small amounts—grams or tens of grams—it wouldn't have caused much trouble. But instead, he went straight to Crazy-8.
Crazy-8 was the top dog in that part of town. Every customer in the area answered to him. He was the biggest distributor—and Jesse used to buy from him.
Walter had cooked up an entire bag of crystal meth. Selling it piece by piece on the street would have taken forever. So Jesse went to Crazy-8, figuring he could move the whole load through his distribution channels.
Jesse's idea made sense in theory: a partnership between a producer and a distributor.
But this wasn't a normal business—it was a world where lives were cheap, and blood was currency. No one who survived in that trade was just "ordinary." Every one of them was a cold-blooded, ruthless killer.
So Jesse, walking in with high-grade meth and no muscle, was like a starving man holding a gold mine—trying to partner with a predator who'd sooner eat him alive.
It wasn't just a case of "an innocent man bearing a guilty treasure." This was like a lamb delivering itself to a lion's den.
Of course, things only went "well" because Crazy-8 ended up going down. If that hadn't happened, Walter and Jesse might have been killed—or worse.
Their first venture into the drug world, and they were already knee-deep in murder. Both of them were terrified. Neither had ever even seen a real corpse before—let alone created one.
Yet in just a couple of days, they had done something even most killers would find horrifying: they dismembered a body, chemically dissolved it, and turned it into a pool of slime.
If the police found out, it would have been classified as a high-profile, gruesome homicide, and the media would've turned it into a national sensation.
After disposing of the body, Walter and Jesse were both shaken. Fear gripped their hearts. They didn't dare touch the drug trade again.
If Frank wanted them back in the game, he'd have a lot of convincing to do.
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"Remember what I told you?" Frank said, patting Walter on the shoulder before they parted. "We're already dying. What's there to be afraid of? Most people say if you don't go crazy once, you'll grow old and regret it. But us? If we don't go crazy now—we'll die."
"Think about Skyler. About junior. About the daughter who's not even born yet. Just... think it over."
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By the time Frank returned to Jesse's house, it was already midnight. The TV in the living room was still on, casting a pale glow. Jesse lay passed out on the couch, a few beer bottles scattered on the table.
"This kid..." Frank sighed. He grabbed a blanket from a back room and gently covered Jesse before heading upstairs to sleep.
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When Frank woke up, it was already noon. Jesse was gone. Frank was alone in the house.
He stepped out and found a nearby diner for a simple meal.
Afterward, he drove around the town to get a feel for the place. He'd be staying a while—trying to convince Walter and Jesse to get back into the game. If it truly didn't work out, he'd head back to Chicago.
Frank also used the leftover money from dealing with the yellow sports car to buy himself a used car for getting around.
In a place like New Mexico—especially outside the state capital—it wasn't like New York or Chicago. You couldn't just walk or take the subway. Without a car, you were stranded.
By the time he finished exploring, the sky had already darkened.
Frank didn't go straight home. Jesse's house had never seen a home-cooked meal—he always ordered takeout: pizza or burgers. So Frank figured he'd buy some food to bring back.
But as he drove, he instinctively pulled up in front of a bar. His throat was dry. He swallowed hard.
"Just one drink. One and done," he muttered to himself, then stepped inside.
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Frank had only intended to have a single drink. But once he started, one became two, two became four…
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"Man, I haven't met someone this interesting in ages!" slurred Frank, arm slung around a fellow middle-aged drunk he'd just met. "I respect cultured folks like you. You're a professor, right? From... what university again? Eh, who cares! Drink up!"
"Two more Irish Car Bombs—on me!" the other man shouted.
"What was your name again?" Frank asked, eyes glazed.
"Erik! Erik Selvig!" the man bellowed into Frank's ear.
"Oh right, right... Ed... uh, Eric? Whatever. Doesn't matter, doesn't matter," Frank mumbled. "You said you're an astrophysicist, yeah? So tell me, is there really a Heaven?"
"Who knows?" Erik replied. "That's a question for God."
"God, huh?" Frank scoffed. "No one's seen Him. No one's even seen angels. I used to think that stuff was all lies... but now, I'm not so sure. Maybe the crazies were right all along. Maybe Heaven really exists."
"You been there or something?" Erik asked, smirking.
"If I'd been there, I'd be dead," Frank said, shaking his head. "Honestly... I think when I die, I might be heading to Hell instead."
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