The story of a former drug dealer

[42]

Salvia and Smoke
History. Who are they? Real or fictional? What is with them now and where are they? Are they alive at all? The life of the pioneers in the distribution of legal synthetic drugs at first turned out quite predictably. The state gave him the opportunity to spend years in stability, however, in a closed territory. She had to start working in order not to go crazy waiting for his return. They raced along the road of life speeding and violating countless rules, so that some services and authorities had to put a cordon in their way. It's too late to stop when the speedometer needle is on the limiter, because they crashed into the impenetrable wall of Russian justice. Explosion. And a happy life shatters into pieces. He has handcuffs, barbed wire, sentries on towers. She has monotonous gray days and tears at night.


This world was too boring and difficult for them, they wanted to go beyond their capabilities and did not want to repeat the fate of their parents. Probably, it was necessary to leave this country in time, but while they were deciding, this country left its children in its bosom, or rather, moved them to a deep ass. The state has arranged a trial, like a medieval one:
— Do you repent? Do you admit your guilt? No, of course not, but who cares?
The bonfire has already been lit, a gray faceless mass in fashionable and not very rags, cosmetic or factory dirt, with lips crooked from former envy and faces distorted with delight from punishment, chants:
— To the bonfire! Sorcerers, junkies, drug dealers!
Yes, it would be better to go to the stake than to live, having lost the right to freedom to be yourself and do whatever you want. Yes, they are psychopaths and misanthropes, but aren't people like them getting into power and deciding how to live for workers? However, (in the voice of Leonid Kanevsky) this is a completely different story.



Interview with Smoke&Salvia
Yo yo yo yo, hello everybody!
Today we are going to interview the people who were behind the development of the shady structure and business under the common name of "Legal". It's a shame this concept isn't really applicable anymore, since all synthetic surfactants fall under the People's Criminal Code article of the Russian Federation. But do you remember the beginning of the era of legal, the first inscriptions with the number of the then-cult messenger ICQ? If you don't remember, let us remind you; if you don't know, let us tell you.

EDITOR: How did you get into this biz? How did it all begin?

Smoke: It all started when we were buying smokes and one day instead of a box of cannabis husks we were given a zip-lock with a plant-based substance called Smoke. It was 2008. We didn't know what it was, maybe a new strain of marijuana? Salvia was chatting with a dude from Moscow, he had the nickname Travolta on ICQ. He explained that they were smoking mixes, and in addition to Smoke there were Spice, Ginny, Jarash and others, but he did not say that the mixes were saturated with synthetic cannabinoid JWH. Maybe he didn't know it himself, because the bags with the painted eye contained some blue lotus petals with almost mandrake root and some substance, probably a flavoring agent. The herb composition was perfectly legal, which meant that it was freely distributed by all postal services.
Travolta gave us a link to a website where we found a large assortment of smoking mixtures and other entheogens, so we had an idea: What if? On the website a 3 gram sachet of Diamond was priced at 1,500 roubles, in our town half a gram was bought for 1,000 roubles.

Salvia: Hello, dear imaginary editorial board! Very nice to see you in my face. As the saying goes, if you want to do well, do it yourself. And now I will answer your question, or rather, I will add to what I wrote above. And there is nothing to add, so let's have the next question.

- How did you find buyers?

Smoke: Graffiti on the walls. Everything brilliant is simple. Without embarrassment I will say: we were the first who did it well if not in the Russian Federation, then in the region exactly, the rest have adopted this idea and in a couple of years, the inscriptions were in every yard of any city.
Salvia: I don't know how I came up with it. Maybe I once corresponded with a dealer, I was waiting for hours for him to go to one dude, and then to another dude, and then they smoked some more, and then another way back, well, the money was given - wait for it. That's probably what I thought it would be good to write to someone who is constantly in touch and can sell you right now. It was at that time that my conversation partner (I found him by searching for "Drugs", just out of a desire to talk to someone on this very topic), tells me that in addition to illegal cannabis, there are absolutely legal psychoactive plants, and that there are a lot of them. I knew a lot about drugs at the time, but from book sources, which didn't say anything about it. Although there was silly advice to smoke peanut peels and do something with bananas. "The Anarchist Cookbook," I wonder if it's available somewhere to download now...? Shit, I've strayed from the subject. In general, they made inscriptions on the pavement, like, who knows, he will understand. By the way, then wrote the people absolutely do not know.

- You must have made some good money, huh?

Smoke: I wouldn't say that. My dream at that time was to have a Honda Accord and to become independent from my parents' house - that was all, it was fulfilled right away.  Then the money just kept coming in and going out. We could spontaneously fly to Moscow or to St. Petersburg for a week. We could rent a cottage to spend a weekend in a neighboring region. Spent money on travel and partying.
Salvia: It depends who you compare it to. Thousands of people made more money, but we always had enough. There may be people who have one pair of sneakers or a purse worth a couple of months of our life's expenses, but overall, life was definitely better than the average.

- You were also "taken in" by the police. Did you draw any conclusions?

Smoke: There was one conclusion: don't sell where you live. We moved to a regional town.
Salvia: That's a strange way to get caught. Some kind of a showdown. It was like the cops just wanted to get high on City Day. The confiscated mixes were never returned, they said they would give them back after the expertise. Apparently, they're still doing it.

- How do you feel about such a view as "dealers poison the people"?

Smok: This is a cliché, which people repeat without any understanding of the subject. There is no difference between a dealer and a dealer. We've always had an emphasis on smoke. Someday I'll create a separate thread with statistics comparing the number of deaths from overdose, the number of homicides while intoxicated, and open cases under Art 228. I doubt those graphs will show that drugs kill more people than people do. The pharmacy sells drugs more dangerous than hashish or the same mephedrone, but they don't give you jail time for selling them, like you're Osama bin Laden, wearing a WEED t-shirt.
Salvia: Well, yeah, I'll continue that theme. They poison themselves voluntarily, no one forces them. Demand creates supply. Don't put it on the back burner, in short.

- Are you in favor of legalization?

Smoke: Yes. At least in special zones, like they did for casinos. For example Crimea is the island of Liberty! It would be cool and the region would develop in a couple of years.
Salvia: I'm more in favor of decriminalization. The free zones should be built where there aren't that many tourists. There are already enough of them in the Crimea, especially now. If only in Siberia...

- How did you come up with the idea of writing a book?

Smoke: Salvia came to KDS (long visitation room, where relatives come to spend just under three days with their prisoners), I told him there's nothing to do here. I work, exercise, and read. She advised me to write, at least keep a journal of my thoughts, to somehow develop and not get dumb in a place like this. I always thought keeping a diary was an activity for teenage girls, so I decided to write a memoir. The first one was an article with the predictable title "228", it came out two sheets. I read them, crumpled them up and threw them away. Three years later I rewrote it and ended up with "Letter to the President."
Salvia: When he was leaving the house with the FSB, the last thing I said was, "Write." I knew then or thereabouts that I could write a book out of it. And I'll edit it.

- When will you release it?

Smoke: It's already done, 228 pages. All that's left to do is edit it.
Salvia: Oh, what a book, I can't edit this interview for a week! A book is sooooo hard. When we manage to do something that doesn't make me cringe, we'll pick up the 228 pages at the expense of the font and illustrations. That's all that's left to do.

- Do they donate?

Smoke: Yes. I would like to thank these people very much. There were even members of one hacker community among them.
Salvia: Thank you. The hand of the giver shall not fail.

- Did you buy any articles?

Smoke: Oddly enough, the first article was bought by Antimigalki, they have nothing to do with surfactant. Then a few articles took Cartel. But for the most part, I post articles on a pro bono basis - to the delight of Darknet people.
Salvia: It's pretty nice when you see people of a similar worldview in the comments who are close to these stories. I wish I could say "it's worth more than money," but I won't.

- What's it like in prison? What's it like to wait that long?

Smoke: They don't give you good food and don't treat you at all. All in all, you can live, you get used to everything.
Salvia: Waiting makes you crazy, but the desire to wait makes you live. As you may have noticed, I love quotes. This one couldn't be better.

- What is your advice to our subscribers?

Smoke: Live each day like it's your last! Everyone has their own head on their shoulders; no one should decide for you how to live your life. 
Salvia: My advice would be to always keep the size of the universe in mind. When you understand your insignificance on the scale of eternity, any problems are perceived very differently. Think.



Intro
I'm sitting in a smoky detective's office, through the wall, in another office my fiancee. We're getting married next week. Today we went shopping and bought all sorts of nonsense, without which no celebration can do, and then Vasya wrote to me in ICQ and asked for 1g of spice and 1g of cherries (this is a chemical analogue of hashish).
— Hi, I need one spice and one synthetic hashish for 2000 rubles
— Great, let's go to the same place in 30 minutes.
— Okay, I'm moving out.
Half an hour later I drive into the yard, stop the car at the entrance where Vasya is standing, he sits in the back seat, hands me the money, I give him two ziplocks, shake hands, he gets out. I don't have time to remove the bills, as a car pulls up sharply from behind, blocking the exit from the yard, two bulls run out of it, one opens my door, and pulls me out of the car. I automatically hit him in the face, but after that he grabs me by the same hand, puts me face down on the asphalt and fastens the handcuffs. Professionally, you can't say anything, however:
— Who are you?
— We're not bandits, don't worry!
There was an armed robbery at a gas station last week, so at first I thought it was some kind of regular scumbags. Another guy from the car tries to open the door from the passenger side, but Salvia managed to block it, so he pokes the crusts at the window and yells:
— Open the doors, we're from the police!
She opens it and gets out while they lift me off the ground and lead me to the back seat of that very car. I stay there alone and watch what is happening through the windshield. Those two, as it turned out, operatives, were joined by the head of the police department, Vovochka — a sweaty elderly man, shining bald, a fat slut, looking and talking like a saleswoman from the meat market, who always wants to fuck everyone. The last character is a short, lean, puny boy. Random passers-by begin to gather around. For some reason, the phrase "guards on backup dancing, understood for extras" comes to mind. They pull me out into the street, bring me to our car. The handcuffs behind my back are pressing my wrists, I look longingly at Salvia, she looks at me, standing on the other side of the car. The head of the Department of Internal Affairs shouts at us with fumes:
— ARE YOU REALLY FUCKING BUNCHING IN MY YARD!?
The police begin to search the car: they take out a bat, a gas key, an air pistol, two clips, a knife, a veil for the bride. Everything is accompanied by jokes:
— Well, you guys are seriously armed!
- Oh, a veil, you can hang it on the window in the cell! We'll give you a family one!
— Bonnie and Clyde, Ural spill!
One pulls out a bag of pharmacy pipettes from under the seat and asks:
- Why do you need this?
The puny one is responsible for us:
— They smoke spice through them.
That son of a bitch, he's hammering himself, since he's aware.
— Yeah! — Vovochka cries out joyfully, and picks up the foil from the rubber mat — Heroin!
Everything breaks inside me — did they throw heroin to us?! With a sinking heart, I watch him carefully unwrap the wrapper from Wrigley-spermint, bang! Empty. Vovochka throws a piece of paper on the asphalt with disappointment and grumbles:
— You're lucky... Where's the key to the glove compartment? Open it, or we'll break it out with a crowbar.
— It opens with the ignition key.
The glove compartment opens and ... On his fleshy face was the same expression that happens to a person who in the program "Field of Miracles" chose a box containing money. Solemnly and slowly, Vovochka took out a wad of money, scales, several large and a bunch of small packages, a mini hookah, a bong and a pipette on the hood of the car. All this time, the phone is bursting with calls — everyone wants to take it, and right now! The eyes of the witnesses and just watching onlookers widen and their jaws drop: the hood and roof of the car are strewn with weapons and "drugs" spice, jah rush, ginny, mix may, one gram of 50x salvia divinorum extract and cherry synthetic hashish.
— Do you know that heroin is in your synthetic hashish?! — the boss breaks the silence.
Fuck, he's talking about his heroin again, this substance haunts him, it seems that if we told him, "Yes, in our plan, heroin," he would immediately use it for its intended purpose, that is, into himself. The "saleswoman of the meat department" comes up, holding drug tests in her hands, a puny one helps her, they put the plan in one jar, mixes in others, shake them, and now the tests show the result — marijuana. No, this is some kind of production. I say to the puny one:
— Let's test the package with salvia, it is of plant origin, there are no synthetics in it, what will the tests show?
He doesn't seem to mind, but the "lady with meat" floats on the stage again:
— We have run out of tests, we just put everything else in the protocol!
Here are the bitches, staged a performance. Casual passers—by are happy to watch what is happening - you don't see this every day. But now we have already signed the protocols, we were seated in different cars and taken to the department. I'm driving in my car in the passenger seat. The cabin smells of fumes:
— How do you switch the music here? We don't drive a foreign car every day," says the opera, driving under the "brick".
That day there was no good and bad policeman, there were two vodka-fueled operas under the guidance of vodka-fueled Vovochka. I was taken to the office, two new witnesses came in a minute later — my son and dad, both also drunk — metallurgist's day, after all... The detective puts keys, bank cards, business cards, bills, change out of my pockets on the table and says:
— Take off your underpants, sit down five times.
— Yeah, I hid hashish in my ass...
- Yes, there were such cases.
I squat 5 times, raise my balls, everyone sees that I have nothing hidden anywhere, I get dressed. I sit down on a stool and while the witnesses are signing, I look around the office. The wooden entrance door, the wooden floor, the yellowed wallpaper — everything is old, shabby, greasy, dusty diplomas, shabby medals, an old pennant, a map of the city of the USSR times hang on the walls. There is a cabinet on the floor, a safe with peeling paint on it. In front of me is a table, behind it is an old armchair with wooden armrests, as if we are in a garage or a factory smoking room — the smell is just as specific. I look out the cloudy window — it's already getting dark, the witnesses are leaving, accompanied by one of the detectives. The second one stays in the room, he sits down in a fucked-up chair, lights up and talks:
— article 228, man. It is judged more severely than for murder, you will be given 10 years, you will go to the north of the region to the polar bears. And in the camp, they don't like dealers, you will already be met by a crowd of convicts with overworked cocks, your ass will go in a circle, sperm will flow like a stream...
I'm uncomfortable with his wet fantasies, I can see perfectly well that on the way to the office he rolled more vodka and is now talking about his dreams, even rolled his eyes, faggot. I look away, it's like a nuclear reactor at full power in my head: what the fuck is marijuana? why didn't you do the test? they don't know what legalka is? and what about my fiancee? ...
— I see you're not a bad guy, — the detective interrupts my thoughts, — How old are you? 23? The best age, tell me how it was and maybe you'll go home today.

To be continued...

[31.382]

wtf

[1.517]

Telegram: https://t.me/refundingavenue

[136]

What shrooms are you eating my man, I sure would like some.