Anywhere you go in the east coast there is one name that stands out above the rest in the underground criminal world: Jimmy the Nut. Jimmy was born and raised in Boston. He came from a good family and went to a nice school. Well, as good a school could be in that part of Boston. Jimmy was well known in many areas of organized crime, but his specialty was distribution of Marijuana. He started out in Boston after talking to a buddy of his at a hip hop concert and realizing how much money he could make. He made a deal with him that same night and began his career. It wasn’t long before Jimmy moved up the ranks of Boston’s most hardened criminals.
Jimmy quickly outgrew his neighborhood and eventually Boston. He began taking trips from the border with Canada to Florida sometimes. His trips grew longer and the loads much larger. He could see his empire growing before him with every run he made.
His empire grew so much he started making runs west of the Mississippi. He found himself in such cities as Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Little Rock, Kansas City and Chicago. Everyone wanted to get some of Jimmy’s weed, but no one knew how to get ahold of him. Rest assure, though, if you’re smoking weed ANYWHERE from the Midwest to the East Coast, Jimmy had something to do with it.
Jimmy’s next move was to make a trade with the Mexicans. He heard the prices in South Texas were ridiculous, and he wanted to find out for himself. He arranged meeting a few Mexicans in a warehouse in Laredo through a few connections he had in Houston. He brought a lot of money with him.
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Four men in a warehouse impatiently await the arrival of Jimmy the Nut. They were told to be at the Sanchez warehouse on 88th Street at 8pm by a man on the phone claiming to be “Jimmy the Nut”.
“Hey, what time is this guy getting here, I’m hungry!” Asked an oversized cholo Mexican dressed in brown and white from head to toe. He was wearing white Nike Cortez, white tube socks with brown stripes, brown Dickies long shorts, brown t-shirt and a brown bandana covering his forehead but leaving his slick, black hair exposed.
“Shut up, fool, you’re ALWAYS hungry!” one of the other four answered mockingly wearing basically the same uniform and it seemed as if the only difference between the two was about 275 lbs.
“Shut the fuck up, fool, no I’m not! I just like eating all the time.”
“That’s worse, pendejo!” A third Mexican interrupted with a much deeper voice than the first two, but he was as thin as a broomstick and taller than a palm tree. He was dressed much different than the first two, but still in the basic brown and white scheme. He was wearing a brown pull-over with a gigantic hoodie almost covering his eyes. The word “Ruthless” printed in white across the hoodie and “Familia Guzman” across the top of the back. The middle read Lane St and the bottom said “killers.” Most criminals don’t usually go around telling people where they’re from, but the Familia Guzman gang flaunted their territory and wanted everyone to know what set they were from.
The fourth Mexican just stood quietly leaning on a tall, wooden crate sitting on a pallet in the middle of the warehouse. He was the shortest but fattest of the four and also the quietest. The most input he contributed to their conversations was an occasional chuckle here and there. He was wearing a white shirt with a mural air-brushed in the front spelling out the words “Insane Guzman” in a sparkling, chrome-looking style.
“Do you think he’s real? Or do you think someone’s fucking with us?” asked “Sobre Guzman,” the oversized, hungry gang banger.
“Shut up, ese, you’re annoying me!” answered Ruthless.
The four continued cracking jokes and picking on each other to pass time as they waited for what could be anything and were starting to become extremely impatient. It could be a set up by the police or an ambush by a rival gang. There WAS, however, the possibility that it MIGHT be the deal of a lifetime and if the buyer was who he said he was, the gang had potential to make money in amounts reaching the millions.
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