Chapter 188 – Running into a Wall
Pinkman and his band of junkie friends weren't just seasoned users—they also knew how to deal.
The pound of high-grade crystal that Walter cooked up landed in their hands, and if things went smoothly, they could've sold it all in less than three days.
But the drug trade's already carved up—big players have the whole market locked down. The moment Frank and his crew tried building their own distribution network, they stepped on some very dangerous toes.
And in this game? The big fish are extremely territorial. This isn't some sprawling world where you can sneak around. Word travels fast.
It didn't take long before the drug lords noticed a new product on the streets—crystal so pure it made their own stuff look like table salt. Alarms went off. Someone new was trying to make money on their turf.
Soon enough, Pinkman and his buddies found themselves being followed at night. A few deals almost ended in a hail of bullets.
Frank caught wind of it and quickly told them to back off—no more flashy sales, and definitely no more pushing in town. Instead, they were to hit the nearby small towns and try to move the product there.
The goal: sell out before the local bosses caught wind.
Luckily, it was just a pound. With caution and low-profile deals, they managed to sell everything. But what should've been done in three days got stretched out to a full week.
That one pound stirred up the waters. The kingpins weren't just noticing—they were making threats.
If Frank and company wanted to keep selling, to build their own network, they'd have to go to war—fight for territory against people who didn't play games.
Frank wasn't stupid. The "core team" was three guys: two half-dead, terminally ill middle-aged men, and a scared kid who flinched at loud noises. None of them could fight their way out of a wet paper bag.
To Frank, Pinkman was still just a kid.
And his junkie friends? Even worse. They were called junkie friends for a reason.
So, street dealing was off the table. Too dangerous. That left one option: wholesale.
Sure, the margins were lower—but with a reliable partner, they could make steady money without getting shot at.
"So we're doing wholesale now?" Walter asked, catching on.
"Yeah," Frank nodded. "But if we're wholesaling, we need a real kingpin. The small-time peddlers can't move this kind of weight."
The problem? Where the hell do you find a kingpin?
Frank turned to Pinkman. "You know any big-time players?"
"Uh… I did know one. But… he's dead. We starved him. Wait—no, smothered him."
He was talking about Crazy Eight—the guy who'd been chopped up and dissolved into goo.
Kingpins don't just hang out on corners. Most street dealers can't even get near them, let alone earn their trust.
Pinkman only met Crazy Eight because he was cooking and dealing with the guy's cousin. They weren't even close. Different leagues entirely.
Crazy Eight had been the only major dealer Pinkman had real contact with.
Before he died, Crazy Eight ran most of the territory around here. But once he was gone, everyone else swooped in and carved it up.
Back when Walter first made that pound of crystal, Pinkman knew he couldn't sell it all alone—not unless he had a decade to waste.
So just like Frank now, his first idea was to go wholesale. He'd taken the goods and gone running to Crazy Eight, hoping to make a quick deal.
Problem was, the product was too good. Crazy Eight knew Pinkman wasn't capable of cooking something that pure. He got suspicious, threatened him, and eventually traced it back to Walter—which set off the whole chain of chaos that led to his own gooey end.
Aside from Crazy Eight, Pinkman didn't know any other big players—just heard some names on the street.
"Who took over Crazy Eight's turf?" Walter asked.
"Some guy called 'Butcher.' But I've never met him," Pinkman replied.
"So what? Can't we just go knock on his door, like salesmen?" Walter asked, half-serious.
In the West, there's a kind of door-to-door salesman who just goes house to house with a suitcase of products. Walter was thinking like that.
Pinkman burst out laughing. "You can't be serious, man."
Frank shook his head. "Walter, this isn't a real industry with HR and marketing. This is drug dealing. These people are in gangs."
Even legal businesses are wary of strangers—corporate espionage exists for a reason. And in this line of work? One wrong move and you're fertilizer.
You're not some folk hero like Song Jiang from the Water Margin. No one's going to see a stranger walk in and say, "Ah! Brother Song! Let's break bread."
If you don't have a name, if no one's heard of you, no one will even let you see the boss. And if you do manage to get a meeting, why would they trust you?
This applies to any business. People like to work with those they know and trust—not random nobodies.
Put simply, you need connections. A referral. A middleman. Someone to vouch for you. Only then can you sit at the table and talk deals without getting shot or robbed.
In Beijing, there are even professional fixers who do nothing but network. They don't have jobs, but they know everyone. Want to meet a high-up or get a contract? They'll introduce you—for a price. They live off guanxi (connections).
Not just Beijing. Every city has these guys. Beer bellies, little leather bags, always on their phone, going from banquet to banquet. Everyone needs a favor. From getting their kid into school to landing a government project.
So if you don't have those kinds of connections, especially in a business this dangerous—you're out of luck.
"Anyone else you know who might know a kingpin?" Walter asked.
"Maybe Skinny Pete," Pinkman said.
"Forget it," Frank cut in.
Frank had seen all of Pinkman's junkie crew—and they were all the same. Street-level trash. No way any of them had real connections.
If they did have ties to a big player, they'd already be living large off the crumbs. They wouldn't still be scraping by with Pinkman.
It wasn't an insult—just cold, hard facts.
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