crime – Page 12 – Pain In The Bud

Oh, hey. That’s a real nice pantry you got there, kid.

Marone! Look at this! Only six months old and living the high life on that Blue Buffalo. Chicken, turkey, salmon, beef, tuna, duck. Hey Fat Vinnie, they got duck!

Fat Vinnie loves duck.

So here’s what’s gonna happen, okay? Youse guys need protection from the rats. Vicious little sons a bitches, them rats are. But we got the muscle, okay? We’ll take care of the problem for you for a little quid pro quo from the pantry, if you know what I mean.

Capisce?

Six cans a week. We’re lettin’ you off light. We take Mr. Bubbles down the street for everything he has, ’cause we’s don’t like wimpy little pedigree cats thinkin’ they’re all special, do we Vinnie?

No we don’t, boss. No we don’t.

Now we keep this arrangement quiet between youse and us, okay? It would be a shame if that owner of yours came home one day to find shit in all her shoes and blamed you, wouldn’t it? You don’t want that. That’s a one-way trip to the shelter, my friend.

I been to the big house. Scrawny little kittens like you ain’t got a shot there.

Six cans, every Sunday. Next week we’ll take a look in that fridge of yours and if you got any gabagool or galamad, we’ll help ourselves to that too. For protection. Oh, and make sure you put some duck on the side for Vinnie here. He gets upset if he ain’t got no duck, and Mr. Bubbles don’t stock none.

See ya next week, kid.

Dear Buddy,

Catnip is incredibly lucrative, and in one year my new operation has expanded to a 20-cat organization slinging six pounds of the green gold per week to kitties in my neighborhood. I control all the colonies and clowders, and I have connections into the shelter system who deal exclusively to cats on the inside.

Now I’m looking to expand, but I don’t know where to go. As an OG niplord who practically invented the game, what do you think?

Respect,

Niplord in New York

Dear Niplord in New York,

I’m glad the youngins know my name and know of the path I blazed slingin’ that funky feline product. My empire was vast, I ate only the finest turkey and my human was none the wiser.

Now, to the matter at paw: You need to find a way into the suburbs. That’s where the real money is, dealing high-grade nip to high-class cats like those Persians, Abyssinians, Russian Blues and Turkish Angoras.

Do not, no matter how much money you think is on the table, ever deal to Siamese. They never shut up, and before you know it they’re blabbing your name to everyone, until officers from animal control are on your tail. Don’t sling to the Siamese!

The best way to get an in to the suburbs is to attend fancy feline soirees, the kind where those dainty Burmillas mix with the Angoras and pâté is served on silver plates, not in bowls.

Notice something about that group? Yep. They’re all white, which means you can jack up the prices and Five-Oh mostly leaves their neighborhoods alone. In the white neighborhoods, the kitty crack is sold in extravagant houses, not street corners.

But remember, you can’t show up at one of those lavish dinner parties talking street, son. Work on an appropriate accent, and give yourself a credible backstory so your new clientele believe you come from meowney. During my day I spoke with a convincing British accent, and told cats I was a British shorthair. They joke’s on them, ’cause they got played by a “common” American domestic shorthair. Fools.

Just remember to play it cool and never sample your own product.

Buddy out.

Fat Tony, RIP, controlled vast amounts of territory in Queens and Brooklyn before he was taken out in a hit by Los Gatos. The nip trade is lucrative, but it’s also dangerous.