Chapter 182: Process
Here's a summary of the last few chapters:
First, everyone picked a codename:
Walter became "Old White"
Pinkman was called "Little Pink"
Frank took the name "Old Man"
Their operation was named Heisenberg.
They then discussed issues around raw materials and production. A key point was the emphasis on Pinkman's importance to the operation—why they couldn't just kick him out. After all, he was the one who had the connections to secure raw materials across New Mexico.
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"Is the supply really that low?" Walter frowned instinctively upon hearing the numbers. He genuinely hadn't realized it was this tight.
Walter could produce a pound per batch, meaning they'd run out of materials after just two batches.
"Uncle Frank gave me some cash earlier and told me to stockpile supplies," Pinkman calculated. "We should have enough to make around eight or nine pounds of product now."
"That'll be more than enough," Frank nodded. "As long as you can maintain the usual quality, Walter, each pound should sell for at least thirty or forty thousand—possibly even more."
"Mr. White's work is a masterpiece!" Pinkman added, full of admiration. "Each pound should easily fetch fifty or even sixty grand!"
"Not quite," Frank shook his head but didn't elaborate.
The last pound had indeed sold for over sixty grand, but that was under special circumstances. Crazy Eight had just died, creating a vacuum in the market. Pinkman had also personally handled the distribution. That's the only reason the price went that high.
If they were moving full pounds at once, it would be wholesale. They'd be suppliers, not street dealers.
Everyone knows wholesale prices are significantly lower than retail. If they sold it themselves—handling production and distribution—they might get over fifty grand a pound.
But Frank had his doubts. Could they even move that much product on their own? It wasn't a small volume.
Still, it was too early to speculate. First, they needed to produce a batch, test the waters, and conduct some actual market research.
"With this week's new batch of materials," Frank calculated, "we should be able to make ten pounds. Even at a conservative thirty grand per pound, that's over three hundred grand."
"Subtracting costs and other expenses, split three ways, that's a minimum of a hundred thousand each."
"One hundred grand?!" Walter gasped.
He hadn't had a concrete sense of how much the raw materials or final product were worth until Frank spelled it out. The money stunned him.
Just recently, he had to use a credit card to cover a $5,000 medical consultation, and it nearly killed him inside.
He had even considered letting himself die rather than paying $90,000 for treatment. That decision had sparked arguments at home and caused his former student to insult him.
And now, he could easily walk away with a hundred grand!
Walter could make a pound a day. If his health allowed it, he might even manage two pounds a day.
That was still with the cramped conditions and limited tools in the RV. If he had access to a full-scale lab, he could produce ten pounds a day.
Even with the RV setup, he could easily make ten pounds in under a week.
Earning a hundred grand in just a week—Walter never imagined making money could be this easy.
Of course, it wasn't that simple. The product still had to be sold. The money wouldn't truly be theirs until the deals were closed and the cash was in hand.
The three of them continued discussing various details and logistics for over two hours.
"This is where we stand for now. If new issues come up, we'll reconvene," Frank said. "When this gets big enough, we might even bring others in. But no matter what happens—we three are always the core."
With that, the trio drove their patchy-looking RV out of the city and into the wilderness.
Recently, Frank and Pinkman had cleaned up the inside of the RV. The exterior was still rough—metal plates covered the conspicuous holes, giving the RV a battered, "repaired" appearance.
They parked in a remote location.
At Walter's request, the three changed clothes and donned gas masks.
In such a tight, enclosed space, odors could cling to clothing. More importantly, the process released toxic fumes. Gas masks were absolutely essential.
Frank had seen others cook meth before and even knew how to do it himself—kind of a family trade.
Still, from what he remembered, it had never involved this many complicated steps. Gas masks? That was new. But since Walter insisted, Frank went along.
When it came to the criminal underworld, Frank might've known more than Walter.
But when it came to chemistry—Frank wasn't even fit to carry Walter's shoes. Walter was the undisputed expert.
The RV wasn't very spacious, but they had removed all non-essential items. Only vital elements like counters and a water system remained. They even took out the toilet. It wasn't crowded with just the three of them inside.
Frank watched as Walter carefully laid out dozens of flasks and beakers—of all shapes and sizes—on the workbench. Glass, plastic, heating units—you name it.
Walter arranged everything meticulously. It looked like he was about to perform a serious scientific experiment.
"So many types of beakers?" Frank was amazed.
"This one's a Kjeldahl beaker—800 milliliters. Pretty rare," Walter explained, his eyes lighting up with passion. "That one's a Griffin beaker. There's an Erlenmeyer flask. But this here—this round-bottom flask holds a full five liters!"
Talking about his craft, Walter became animated and energetic—like a sneakerhead showing off a rare pair of Jordans, or a stamp collector showing off prized additions.
"Help me out," Walter called.
Frank and Pinkman assisted, doing grunt work like grinding pills into powder.
Frank truly learned something today. He watched as Walter combined powders, added mysterious liquids, and used precision scales—measuring ingredients to the exact gram.
Distillation, filtration, combustion, purification—so many complex steps that Frank quickly lost track. Halfway through, he couldn't even be of help anymore. He just sat back and watched Walter operate like a machine.
Pinkman, on the other hand, was able to follow Walter's process. He understood the terminology and could keep up with the workflow.
"Now we just wait for it to cool," Walter finally said after nearly two hours, removing his mask and collapsing into a chair, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"Damn," Frank gave him a sincere thumbs-up. "That was badass."
"Pinkman, you better learn this stuff," Frank said, turning to him.
"Huh?" Pinkman looked puzzled.
"Study under Walter. Try to memorize every step," Frank said seriously. "That way, even if something happens to us, you'll be able to keep the operation running on your own."