Scotch: I can see that, sure, I can see that, but your problem, man, is that you too sure of yourself. “Don’t stress man, s’all good, don’ stress, I got this . . .” This is what you get, bro’ that’s why you’re sitting here like the world’s own ass-hole. But I gotta deliver, and that’s no matter what! I got nothin’ to go down and I swear on the Quran, it’s breakin’ my balls. I’m the one left carryin’ the can, and that’s stressin’ me, bro’.

The key to drug-dealing is consistency. You have to guarantee an uninterrupted supply of the product at all costs because the customer is fickle and always in a hurry. If a dealer can’t supply anymore, within a week, the goodwill value of his book of phone numbers plummets — we’re talking here about thousands of euros. A shortage of product is the dealer’s chronic sickness. It’s a bit like in the singing business: lots of talented performers, and barely any decent stuff to sing. To make sure you have work, ideally you want to write, compose and sing — to plant, transport and sell.

So, you can understand the distress of the cretin-in-chief known as Scotch who’s got nothing left in the shop except cannabis that’s going to be shoved right back in his face — and at the height of summer, what’s more, when everybody’s heading to the beaches with something to smoke in their bag.

The ill fortune of his supplier, Chocapic, therefore puts him in a seriously awkward position.

This latter accepted a delivery in the belief that it would comply with the sample, but a leak in the Go Fast car had spoiled the whole load, making it taste like petrol. The unfortunate Chocapic has paid out 180 big ones for 1 metre — that’s to say 180,000 euros for 100 kilos — with no hope of any return because his “business partner” Scotch is refusing the delivery, which doesn’t meet the standard he was entitled to expect.

Taking into account the wholesaler’s margin, I had worked out that Scotch must have at his disposal 200,000 euros of liquid assets, and that what was on offer from Chocapic must be very poor quality Pakistani product.

I went down to the phone shop on the street outside my apartment and bought a pre-paid calling card so I could contact this Scotch by SMS. Hoping the fool could read Arabic, I wrote:

Due to recent delivery am selling half metre of
quality at 250. Check photo.
(50kg of quality hash at 250,000 euros. Check sample.)

The next day the Second District DPJ sent me, amongst other translations, my own SMS as well as his reply and the rest of our exchange.

How strange to be confronted with your own words. It’s like being on a balcony, watching yourself walk down the street, and walking down the street at the same time.