Kingpins Quotes

It was a nice piece of work, Kingpin. You shouldn't have signed it.

The real enemy" is the totality of physical and mental constraints by which capital, or class society, or statism, or the society of the spectacle expropriates everyday life, the time of our lives. The real enemy is not an object apart from life. It is the organization of life by powers detached from it and turned against it. The apparatus, not its personnel, is the real enemy. But it is by and through the apparatchiks and everyone else participating in the system that domination and deception are made manifest. The totality is the organization of all against each and each against all. It includes all the policemen, all the social workers, all the office workers, all the nuns, all the op-ed columnists, all the drug kingpins from Medellin to Upjohn, all the syndicalists and all the situationists.

There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler.

Case had always taken it for granted that the real bosses, the kingpins in a given industry, would be both more and less than people.

In some cases, you can tell how somebody is being treated by their own boss from the way they are treating someone to whom they are a boss.

Nature Just because you shit fruit Don't think you're the Kingpin of the World

I have shown him that a man without hope is a man without fear.

You forget that every fallen angel was once an angel themselves. Monsters don’t really want to be monsters. We’re just like everyone else, waiting for someone to come save us from our very own damned darkness.

Nothing is wrong. It’s merely what you think is right and wrong that has you confused.

He just hoped to kill them without his wife noticing.  A stack of dead bodies would be a terrible way to start a honeymoon, when your bride thought you were “kind” and “gentle.

Most people go through life thinking that tomorrow they’re going to do something great. Tomorrow will be the day that they wake up and discover what they were put on this earth to do. But then tomorrow comes—and goes. As does the next day. Before long, they realize that there aren’t that many tomorrows left.

Fauci generation”—children born after his elevation to NIAID kingpin in 1984— the sickest generation in American history, and has made Americans among the least healthy citizens on the planet. His obsequious subservience to the Big Ag, Big Food, and pharmaceutical companies has left our children drowning in a toxic soup of pesticide residues, corn syrup, and processed foods, while also serving as pincushions for 69 mandated vaccine doses by age 18—none of them properly safety tested.55

KANAYA: Karkat What Is He Doing Here KARKAT: WOW, GREAT QUESTION! KARKAT: WHY DON'T YOU TAKE A FUCKING NUMBER AND GET IN LINE FOR THAT ONE!!! KARKAT: I'VE ALREADY GOT MINE! IT'S THE FIRST NUMBER THERE IS. AN ANGRY, TREMBLING DIGIT, TOWERING AND ERECT, POINTING DIRECTLY AT THE TRASHFACED KINGPIN OF INEXPLICABLE HORSESHIT HIMSELF, *GOD*!!!!!

In recent years, some of the biggest new drug kingpins can't be successfully prosecuted. The Pablo Escobars of today are coming out of China, and they don't have to worry about being imprisoned by their government. They can operate free and in the clear, within the boundaries of their country's own laws. Whenever a deadly new drug is made illegal in China, manufacturers simply tweak its chemical structure and start producing a new drug that is still legal. Many fentanyl analogues and cannabinoids have been made this way.

There was something kind of nice about operating out of the safe house—it was basic and simple, like camping for kingpins.

Slick pimps, bribing civic kingpins, distill gin in stills, spiking drinks with illicit pills which might bring bliss.

Case had always taken it for granted that the real bosses, the kingpins in a given industry, would be both more and less than people... He'd seen it in the men who'd crippled him in Memphis, he'd seen Wage affect the semblance of it in Night City, and it had allowed him to accept Armitrage's flatness and lack of feeling. He'd always imagined it as a gradual and willing accommodation of the machine, the system, the parent organism. It was the root of street cool, too, the knowing posture that implied connection, invisible lines up to hidden levels of influence.

But, someone told me that you’re a kind, gentle, and honorable man.  That I should come here and you’d help me. Midas squinted.  “Were they taking drugs at the time?

While most ‘pinheads’ do indeed begin with a casually acquired flashy novelty pin, followed by the contents of their grandmothers’ pincushion, haha, the path to a truly worthwhile collection lies not in the simple disbursement of money in the nearest pin emporium, oh no. Any dilettante can become ‘kingpin’ with enough expenditure, but for the true ‘pinhead’ the real pleasure is in the joy of the chase, the pin fairs, the house clearances, and, who knows, a casual glint in the gutter that turns out to be a well-preserved Doublefast or an unbroken two-pointer. Well is it said: ‘See a pin and pick it up, and all day long you’ll have a pin.

Over time he learned that the way to have a leg up on everyone else was to anticipate something before it happened and then have the answer to it.

ghosts came chasing, lurking in the darkness of our minds.

(Marvel belongs to Disney, DC to Time Warner) that are the kingpins of superhero comics.

His father is hinky, she said with a sigh. And by hinky she meant a drug kingpin.

Our spirit animals were all of the genus American Kingpin Tragically Slain in His Prime. Our parents learned English from the Beatles, but we learned from Biggie.

What he needed was a place where he could be on his laptop for eighteen hours a day and no one would question why he was being antisocial or what he was working on. Which meant he had to go to San Francisco.

Several officers had stopped by to ask about Day, all of them avoided mentioning God’s psychotic threats against the kingpin. Hell, if his coworkers weren’t afraid of him before then, they sure as fuck were now. Day

I wake up horny in the middle of the night? You’ll wake with my cock in your pussy,” he continues. “You’re doing the laundry and looking hot? I’ll bend you over the washing machine. You don’t say no. You don’t complain. I don’t ask. I just take.

You type lines of code into a computer, and out comes a world that didn’t exist before. There are no laws here except your laws. You decide who is given power and who is not. And then you wake up one morning and you’re not you anymore. You’re one of the most notorious drug dealers alive. And now you’re deciding if someone should live or die. You’re the judge in your own court. You’re god.

I'm an emotional fucking fortress. I only feel what I want to feel, and not a damn thing more.

Like people who smoke a joint with someone to make sure that person isn’t a cop. Or a hooker who asks her john, “Are you a cop? You know you have to tell me if you are.

I glare at him, willing ice daggers to come out of my eyes and stab him.

I’m like the monster that hides under your bed, waiting till the moment your breath evens out, and your eyes close to attack.

Even though all these people were dealing in illicit activities, they each had a moral sense that their particular outlawed product was more just than another.

Look around, Dollface. Make those ovaries light up. I want them to shine the bat signal for my boys.

I want to be proud that she has a backbone, but I also want to break it, snapping it into itty-bitty pieces.

kevinelliott3@gmail.com

You’re immune to her.” “I’m not. I just know when she’s trying to get something out of me.” “Is resistance not the same as immunity?

Gwen mentally cursed her dead husband for his continuous and unrelenting stupidity.

Gwen glowered at them, irritated by their lack of enthusiasm for her villainy.

You’re really not sucking at this so far.” “Thank you.  I appreciate feedback, too.  Especially when it’s positive.

Gwen stood there for a beat, breathing hard. “See how much simpler it is if you aim for the head?”  Midas demanded.

Missed you too,’ he murmured against my skin, the indents where his teeth had pierced my flesh humming with a pleasant pain.

You too friendly for me, playa. I like mine stiff on hoes and insane about me.

The fucking nerve of these people! Luccio deserved to die. He was going to kill me, so it was either him or me. When it comes down to a bullet, I will always choose to put one in the other person.

He would soon be the first person in history to start an underground drug Web site on the Internet and the first person in history to see it go bankrupt because he had written so much shitty code.

A strapping stable boy.” “I have no idea what that even means. It sounds like a word women use to describe men when they don’t want the men to understand what they’re saying.”  Which was… intriguing.

If an issue is of importance to one party, they can request the second party’s assistance, collaboration, or focus on said issue. The second party will do his/her best to accommodate them without whining.

Ziggy is in front of the tube, as if nothing much has been happening in his day, watching Scooby Goes Latin! (1990). Maxine after a quick visit to the bathroom to reformat, knowing better than to start in with the Q&A, comes in and sits down next to him about the time it breaks for a commercial. “Hi, Mom.” She wants to enfold him forever. Instead lets him recap the plot for her. Shaggy, somehow allowed to drive the van, has become confused and made some navigational errors, landing the adventurous quintet eventually in Medellín, Colombia, home at the time to a notorious cocaine cartel, where they stumble onto a scheme by a rogue DEA agent to gain control of the cartel by pretending to be the ghost—what else—of an assassinated drug kingpin. With the help of a pack of local street urchins, however, Scooby and his pals foil the plan.

And that really big mattress in our bedroom.  It’s… really big.” “The biggest one ever made.”  He agreed happily.  “I made sure of it.” “I needed a map to find my way off of it this morning, Midas.” “Kitten, keeping you in that bed is kind of my goal in life, so I’m not complaining.

As she came to a close, she looked at Ross and said, “What is clear is that people are very, very complex and you are one of them. There is good in you, Mr. Ulbricht, I have no doubt, but there is also bad, and what you did in connection with Silk Road was terribly destructive to our social fabric.

Gwen accepted the explanation, moving onto the doll battle.  “Hey, what happened to Clarissa of the Clouds?” Trystan seemed eager not to discuss the gryphons’ language.  “She is now a dead decapitated zombie.”  He delivered the news with a pitiless smirk.  “Demonica Rex will soon eat her bones.” “Bitch.”  Gwen muttered, flashing Demonica Rex a glower.

Is it Guinevere?”  The Scarecrow demanded, like he’d just figured it all out.  “You know she killed Arthur, right?  She’s probably planning the same fate for you, you fool.  She wants your money.” Gwen scowled. “I doubt that.  She’s drafting me a will, which leaves my fortune to my bodyguard, Trystan Airbourne.  She was very insistent on it.  There was a slideshow.

When you go back to Pablo Ecobar, this guy blew up a passenger plane, police headquarters, funded guerrillas to kill Supreme Court justices, and had the number one Colombian presidential candidate assassinated. Now there is no organization in Colombia that can go toe-to-toe with the government, that can threaten the national security of Colombia. In each successive generation of traffickers there has been a dilution of their power. “Pablo Escobar lasted fifteen years. The average kingpin here now lasts fifteen months. If you are named as a kingpin here, you are gone. The government of Colombia and the government of the United States will not allow a trafficker to exist long enough to become a viable threat.” In this analysis, drug enforcement can be seen as a giant hammer that keeps on falling. Any gangster that gets too big gets smashed by the hammer. This is known as cartel decapitation, taking out the heads of the gang. The villains are kept in check. But the drug trade does go on, and so does the war.

As he looked around the computer, he realized the PC was acting as the back-end system for the point-of-sale terminals at the restaurant—it collected the day’s credit card transactions and sent them in a single batch every night to the credit card processor. Max found that day’s batch stored as a plain text file, with the full magstripe of every customer card recorded inside. Even better, the system was still storing all the previous batch files, dating back to when the pizza parlor had installed the system about three years earlier.

Each and every day, as we navigate the real world, we leave a billion little fingerprints in our wake. The door handles we touch, the screens we press, and the people we interact with all capture a trace of our being there. The same is true on the Internet. We share pictures and videos on social networks, leave comments on news articles. We e-mail, text, and chat with hundreds of people throughout the day. If there is anyone who left more of those digital fingerprints lying around the Internet than most people, it was Ross Ulbricht. He spent years living on his computer and interacting with people, good and bad, through that machine. Over the course of my research for this book, I was able to gain access to more than two million words of chat logs and messages between the Dread Pirate Roberts and dozens of his employees. These logs were excruciatingly in-depth conversations about every moment and every decision that went into creating and managing the Silk Road.

If I had lied to the CIA, perhaps I might have passed a test. Instead of writing a book about the White House, I’d be poisoning a drug kingpin with a dart gun concealed inside a slightly larger dart gun, or making love to a breathy supermodel in the interest of national security. I’ll never know. I confessed to smoking pot two months before. The sunniness vanished from my interviewer’s voice. “Normally we like people who break the rules,” Skipper told me, “but we can’t consider anyone who’s used illegal substances in the past twelve months.” Just like that, my career as a terrorist hunter was over. I thought my yearning for higher purpose would vanish with my CIA dreams, the way a Styrofoam container follows last night’s Chinese food into the trash. To my surprise, it stuck around. In the weeks that followed, I pictured myself in all sorts of identities: hipster, world traveler, banker, white guy who plays blues guitar. But these personas were like jeans a half size too small. Trying them on gave me an uncomfortable gut feeling and put my flaws on full display. My search for replacement selves began in November. By New Year’s Eve I was mired in the kind of existential funk that leads people to find Jesus, or the Paleo diet, or Ayn Rand. Instead, on January 3, I found a candidate. I was on an airplane when I discovered him, preparing for our initial descent into JFK. This was during the early days of live in-flight television, and I was halfway between the Home Shopping Network and one of the lesser ESPNs when I stumbled across coverage of a campaign rally in Iowa. Apparently, a caucus had just finished. Speeches were about to begin. With nothing better to occupy my time, I confirmed that my seat belt was fully fastened. I made sure my tray table was locked. Then, with the arena shrunk to fit my tiny seatback screen, I watched a two-inch-tall guy declare victory. It’s not like I hadn’t heard about Barack Obama. I had heard his keynote speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention. His presidential campaign had energized my more earnest friends. But I was far too mature to take them seriously. They supported someone with the middle name Hussein to be president of the United States. While they were at it, why not cast a ballot for the Tooth Fairy? Why not nominate Whoopi Goldberg for pope?

Democracy, the apple of the eye of modern western society, flies the flag of equality, tolerance, and the right of its weaker members to defense and protection. The flag bearers for children's rights adhere to these same values. But should democracy bring about the invalidation of parental authority? Does democracy mean total freedom for children? Is it possible that in the name of democracy, parents are no longer allowed to say no to their children or to punish them? The belief that punishment is harmful to children has long been a part of our culture. It affects each and every one of us and penetrates our awareness via the movies we see and the books we read. It is a concept that has become a kingpin of modern society and helps form the media's attitudes toward parenting, as well as influencing legislation and courtroom decisions. In recent years, the children's rights movement has enjoyed enormous momentum and among the current generation, this movement has become pivotal and is stronger than ever before. Educational systems are embracing psychological concepts in which stern approaches and firm discipline during childhood are said to create emotional problems in adulthood, and liberal concepts have become the order of the day. To prevent parents from abusing their children, the public is constantly being bombarded by messages of clemency and boundless consideration; effectively, children should be forgiven, parents should be understanding, and punishment should be avoided. Out of a desire to protect children from all hardship and unpleasantness, parental authority has become enfeebled and boundaries have been blurred. Nonetheless, at the same time society has seen a worrying rise in violence, from domestic violence to violence at school and on the streets. Sweden, a pioneer in enacting legislation that limits parental authority, is now experiencing a dramatic rise in child and youth violence. The country's lawyers and academics, who have established a committee for human rights, are now protesting that while Swedish children are protected against light physical punishment from their parents (e.g., being spanked on the bottom), they are exposed to much more serious violence from their peers. The committee's position is supported by statistics that indicate a dramatic rise in attacks on children and youths by their peers over the years since the law went into effect (9-1). Is it conceivable, therefore, that a connection exists between legislation that forbids across-the-board physical punishment and a rise in youth violence? We believe so! In Israel, where physical punishment has been forbidden since 2000 (9-2), there has also been a steady and sharp rise in youth violence, which bears an obvious connection to reduced parental authority. Children and adults are subjected to vicious beatings and even murder at the hands of violent youths, while parents, who should by nature be responsible for setting boundaries for their children, are denied the right to do so properly, as they are weakened by the authority of the law. Parents are constantly under suspicion, and the fear that they may act in a punitive manner toward their wayward children has paralyzed them and led to the almost complete transfer of their power into the hands of law-enforcement authorities. Is this what we had hoped for? Are the indifferent and hesitant law-enforcement authorities a suitable substitute for concerned and caring parents? We are well aware of the fact that law-enforcement authorities are not always able to effectively do their jobs, which, in turn, leads to the crumbling of society.

The Honeynet Project would secretly wire a packet sniffer to the system and place it unprotected on the Internet, like an undercover vice cop decked out in pumps and a short skirt on a street corner.

When his birthday came soon after the party, she sent a decorated box of balloons to his office at MPath, and Max was moved nearly to tears by the gesture.

Check-fucking-mate, mama.

She gave him an arch look, like she didn’t believe that.  “I’m sure you need to keep up your reputation as a villain…” “I am a villain.

He’d stolen odds and ends for over a year, and now he had gold.  Crime paid, just fine.  Anyone who said different was doing it wrong.

Let the market decide; not the government.” “Let the people determine who should win; not the politicians.” “We’re changing the world and making it a better place.

them from the wreckage of his choices. Targeting a dangerous ex-drug kingpin and his own father, Jared needs to learn who to trust, who to kill, and who to forgive when their respective paths collide.

But the swindler had one more trick up his sleeve. Two weeks later he managed to get his bond reinstated, bailed from the detention center, and promptly vanished. Anglerphish was a debacle. After 1,500 hours of work, the government was left with a fugitive informant and tens of thousands of dollars in new fraud.

DarkMarket turned out to be an unguarded spot. A British carder called JiLsi ran the site, and he’d made the mistake of choosing the same password—“MSR206”—everywhere, including Carders Market, where Max knew everyone’s passwords. Max could just walk in and take over.

While Ross had saved up for the perfect ring with which to propose, when he romantically asked his girlfriend for her hand in marriage (Say yes, please say yes), she instead said she had to tell Ross something (Well, this doesn’t sound good). At which point she admitted that during the past year or so she had cheated on him with several different men. (Several? As in more than one? Yes. Several.) To make matters worse, one of them was one of Ross’s best friends.

On another occasion, he claimed, he walked into a bank and wrote a note on the back of a deposit slip: “This is a robbery. I have a bomb. Give me money or I’ll blow the bank.” Then he put the slip back on the pile as a surprise for the next customer.

Behind them, the long wooden pews were mostly empty: no friends, no family, no Charity; she’d already told Max she wasn’t going to wait for him.

Now, I just had to figure out what the fuck was wrong with Tatiana.

The key to cracking a full-disk encryption program is to get at it while it’s still running on the computer. At that point, the disk is still fully encrypted, but the decryption key is stored in RAM, to allow the software to decrypt and encrypt the data from the hard drive on the fly.

of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler. The dream across the way was none of these, not even of that kind of world.

This is ridiculous. Will either of us ever finish a sentence ever again? We’re like dunderheid teenagers. She at least has an excuse, only being two years more than that age. I’m forty. I’ve been the kingpin of Blackstone for a decade, and I’ve fallen for this girl like rock tossed into a loch.

If it weren’t for my daughter, I’d take you up in a split-second on accepting my marriage-of-convenience proposal. You’d have your knickers ripped off and my cock in you before you could blink.

We’d have to both be faithful.” Not an issue on my side, for certain. “I don’t share. If you’re my wife, you’re mine.

I’m going to make you come with my mouth, and you will take it,

He eats me out as though he’s starving, with grunts of enjoyment like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. His hands on my thighs to keep me still as the sensations are too much for me and I writhe. Those purring sounds he makes go right into my bones. Everything tells me—apart from his lack of actual words—that he’s delighted by licking me.

I might have extracted a vow of free use from Blythe, but as my vision blurs and all I can see is the blue of her eyes, I know it’s me who is her slave. I belong to my wife entirely.

If one of my men dared to walk inside or if she decided to exit for whatever reason, I’d have to rip their eyes out and then their balls would be next.

Bite that fucking tongue if I were you. You stepped into my world and fucked up big time.

The producer became the kingpin. He was the independent set-up inside the studio. The front office had nothing to say about it. He did what he wanted to do, functioning as an independent unit.

The “J. Edgar Hoover of public health” has presided over cataclysmic declines in public health, including an exploding chronic disease epidemic that has made the “Fauci generation”—children born after his elevation to NIAID kingpin in 1984— the sickest generation in American history, and has made Americans among the least healthy citizens on the planet. His obsequious subservience to the Big Ag, Big Food, and pharmaceutical companies has left our children drowning in a toxic soup of pesticide residues, corn syrup, and processed foods, while also serving as pincushions for 69 mandated vaccine doses by age 18—none of them properly safety tested.55 When Dr. Fauci took office, America was still ranked among the world’s healthiest populations. An August 2021 study by the Commonwealth Fund ranked America’s health care system dead last among industrialized nations, with the highest infant mortality and the lowest life expectancy.

Case had always taken it for granted that the real bosses, the kingpins in a given industry, would be both more and less than people. He’d seen it in the men who’d crippled him in Memphis, he’d seen Wage affect the semblance of it in Night City, and it had allowed him to accept Armitage’s flatness and lack of feeling. He’d always imagined it as a gradual and willing accommodation of the machine, the system, the parent organism. It was the root of street cool, too, the knowing posture that implied connection, invisible lines up to hidden levels of influence.

He is the master of all he surveys. The kingpin of Rotherhithe is no servant. He’s a dom.

Interior Design and Decoration Kaspar von Morgenlatte did an admirable job with your apartment, but the look is somewhat outdated and more than a little disturbing. (If I recall, the design concept was commissioned by your husband in the early 2000s to evoke the Miami Beach bachelor pad of a Bolivian drug cartel kingpin. This was done extremely successfully. I particularly admired the “chalk body outline” mother-of-pearl inlay on the ebony wood floor and the trompe l’oeil “bullet marks” on your master bedroom headboard, but I think that it would be inadvisable to host a children’s birthday party here, especially while those Lisa Yuskavage paintings are still hanging.)

Soon it became more clear that Bush’s appeal for a “kinder and gentler America” was little more than rhetorical appeal to an aging voting population. The Bush who occupied the White House moved quickly to establish his “tough guy” policies, by creating a major media pretext for a military invasion of a tiny Central American republic, Panama, during the Christmas days of his first year as President, December 1989. By eyewitness accounts, upwards of 6,000 Panamanians, most poor civilians, were killed as U.S. Special Forces and U.S. bombers invaded the small country on the pretext of arresting General Manuel Noreiga on charges of being a drug cartel kingpin.

(802 was his area code from Connecticut, where he had grown

Which means I have time to get my priorities in order and roll a nice fat blunt, because I'm gonna need it.

As drugs flow up into the United States, all kinds of people make money off them. People are subcontracted to ship, truck, warehouse, and finally smuggle the product over the border. To complicate this, drugs are often bought and sold many times on their journey. People actually handling these narcotics will often have no knowledge which so-called kingpin or cartel ever owned them, only knowing the direct contacts they are dealing with. Ask a New York cocaine dealer who smuggled his product into America. He would rarely have a clue. All this helps explain why the Mexican drug trade is such a confusing web, which confounds both journalists and drug agents. Tracing exactly who touched a shipment on its entire journey is a hard task. But this dynamic, moving industry has a solid center of gravity—turfs, or plazas. Drugs have to pass through a certain territory on the border to get into the United States, and whoever is running those plazas makes sure to tax everything that moves. The border plazas have thus become a choke point that is not seen in other drug-producing nations such as Colombia, Afghanistan, or Morocco. This is one of the key reasons why Mexican turf wars have become so bloody. The vast profits attract all kinds to the Mexican drug trade: peasant farmers, slum teenagers, students, teachers, businessmen, idle rich kids, and countless others. It is often pointed out that in poor countries people turn to the drug trade in desperation. That is true. But plenty of middle-class or wealthy people also dabble. Growing up in the south of England, I knew dozens of people who moved and sold drugs, from private-school boys to kids from council estates (projects). The United States has never had a shortage of its own citizens willing to transport and sell drugs. The bottom line is that drugs are good money even to wealthy people, and plenty have no moral dilemmas about the business.

You holy men are the real drug kingpins of south Louisiana.

The most virulent expression of narco religion is by La Familia Cartel in Michoacán. La Familia indoctrinates its followers in its own version of evangelical Christianity mixed with some peasant rebel politics. The gang’s spiritual leader, Nazario Moreno, “El Mas Loco,” or the Maddest One, actually wrote his own bible, which is compulsory reading for the troops. This sounds so nuts I thought it was another drug war myth. Until I got my hands on a copy of his “good” book. It is not an easy bedtime read. But La Familia is only the most defined voice in a chorus of narco religion that has been rising in volume for decades. Other tones of the choir include some morphed rituals of Caribbean Santeria, the folk saint Jesús Malverde, and the wildly popular Santa Muerte, or Holy Death. Many who follow these faiths are not drug traffickers or gun-toting assassins. The beliefs all have an appeal to poor Mexicans who feel the staid Catholic Church is not speaking to them and their problems. But gangsters definitely feel at home in these new sects and exert a powerful influence on them, giving a spiritual and semi-ideological backbone to narco clans. Such a backbone strengthens El Narco as an insurgent movement that is challenging the old order. Kingpins now fight for souls as well as turfs.

For some big-shot kingpin, he certainly sounds a lot like a parrot.

It looked as if God was focused solely on Day’s mouth. They knew shit was about to get real serious. They had the information and were going after the kingpin and his army. There was no doubt that he was a dangerous man, and one of them could end up getting killed. “Have dinner with me tonight?” Day asked, his voice full of emotion. “Yes,” God answered immediately.  

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the Tea Party movement was a “mass rebellion…funded by corporate billionaires, like the Koch brothers, led by over-the-hill former GOP kingpins like Dick Armey, and ceaselessly promoted by millionaire media celebrities like Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity.” Behind

On closer inspection, as the Harvard political scientist Theda Skocpol and the Ph.D. student Vanessa Williamson observed in their 2012 book, The Tea Party and the Remaking of Republican Conservatism, the Tea Party movement was a “mass rebellion…funded by corporate billionaires, like the Koch brothers, led by over-the-hill former GOP kingpins like Dick Armey, and ceaselessly promoted by millionaire media celebrities like Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity.

The Tea Party Movement was a mass rebellion funded by corporate billionaires, like the Koch brothers, led by over-the-hill former GOP kingpins like Dick Armey, and ceaselessly promoted by millionaire media celebrities like Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity.

I promise, you about to have a lot of overdosed muthafuckers on your watch.” “Nah, dead motherfuckers can’t buy drugs; that’s bad for business,” I said, walking out of the warehouse and getting into the back of the all-black tinted Suburban truck.

If I was going to sit in a cell, it would be because of some shit I was actually caught doing, not because of some jealous bitches snitching or greedy niggaz tricking.

Before we begin our tour of the drug war, it is worthwhile to get a couple of myths out of the way. The first is that the war is aimed at ridding the nation of drug 'kingpins' or big-time dealers. Nothing could be further from the truth. The vast majority of those arrested are not charged with serious offenses. In 2005, for example, four out of five drug arrests were for possession, and one one out of five was for sales. Moreover, most people in state prison for drug offenses have no history of violence or significant selling activity. The second myth is that the drug war is principally concerned with dangerous drugs. Quite to the contrary, arrests for marijuana possession - a drug less harmful than tobacco or alcohol - accounted for nearly 80 percent of the growth in drug arrests in the 1990s. Despite the fact that most drug arrests are for nonviolent minor offenses, the War on Drugs has ushered in an era of unprecedented punitiveness.