Death's a weird f*cking thing. It freaks people out something awful, but ultimately they are drawn to it like moths to a flame, as certainly was the case in this instance. My customers were initially worried about getting busted, so understandably they started shopping around in other areas. Naturally, they could only get by on scraps for so long before they had to return for a nice home-cooked fix. So before long, curiousity got the better of them and they came back.

Only to my great dismay, they did not come back to me. Instead they headed over to big, black OJ motherf*ckin' Butterfield's for some of that hardcore sh!t that was potent enough to take a motherf*cker out.

Junkies love that kind of buzz about a product. You'd think he were selling iPhones in a market full of Nokia's for f*ck's sake. Either way, the bottom line is that Butterfield was wasting no time in attempting to usurp my clientele, and that just would not do, big black motherf*cker or no big black motherf*cker...