Daily Life (6)

The rain came today. But instead of cooling things down, it only made the air hotter. A perfect, hellish harmony of humidity and temperature, I suppose. Lying under the air conditioner at home watching the news, they were talking about the effects of global warming. It suddenly occurred to me—if the climate is warming, wouldn't the grass grow better? And if so, shouldn't the price per gram of my product go down?

While I was lost in these thoughts, playing the role of some amateur climate policy scholar pondering planetary concerns and industry trends, a message arrived.

Hamo-hamo (36.6) and blueandgreen were model customers of the same type. They bought a steady 1 gram every week. I remembered their politeness and that cute username. When I looked it up, it turned out to be the mascot of Jinju City in Gyeongnam Province. Using something like that isn't great—it pins down your location too clearly.

What the hell was this? It sounded too good to jump at right away. I'd been trying to find a sales rep without any luck, and now one was just falling into my lap?

Good, good. I'd been watching him for about a month. His mindset seemed solid and his actions were clean. Still, after getting burned by my American contact, I needed to do some due diligence.

That made sense. People tend to let their habits show when they're drunk and the vibe is right. He'd spotted a solid opportunity. But running a dealership while working a regular job carried way too much risk. The same went for getting caught. It was time to pass on some know-how to my prospective first automatic recruit.

As a full-time management consultant, I conducted a comprehensive business diagnosis. Nightclubs, room salons, and other nightlife establishments were at the top of the enforcement priority list. In other words, they were the first places the cops went when they needed to pad their arrest numbers. So what was the solution? Simple—don't get caught. If you scaled up with that naive mindset, you'd end up in handcuffs. And once that happened, there was no fixing it.

According to the drug white paper published by the Prosecutors' Office, about half of the people in our industry received sentences within a year. Even possession cases often ended with a simple warning. Whether that was fortunate or not, I wasn't sure. The reason, apparently, was that the prisons were so full they couldn't isolate people for such minor crimes. Especially with marijuana—its low risk meant it was becoming legal in some countries, which explained the lighter punishments.

But those of us dealing in substances that could actually kill people, like me, were walking around with our lives on the line. Our prosecutor friends weren't stupid. They'd drawn their own invisible lines for managing society. Whether that was the right way to put it or not, they seemed to be enforcing them. For dangerous drugs, getting caught meant a minimum of five years under the Narcotics Control Act alone. The law stated five years or more. Since it was the minimum, the prosecutors would happily pile on at least that much.

Five years and you're out? It might not sound so scary at first. The real problem was that our prosecutor friends would tack on additional charges—murder, organized crime formation, special economic crimes, money laundering, you name it. They'd bundle everything together and push for the maximum sentence. That's why our organization bosses ended up facing thirty years or life imprisonment.

So, acting as a management consultant, I provided the following advice: Sell exclusively in 0.5-gram units, manufactured in cigarette form. Limit sales to one per person per day, strictly following the 1-1-1 rule. If caught, apologize profusely, promise never to do it again, and adopt a thoroughly submissive, repentant attitude. In short, I designed the entire operation around the likelihood of receiving a simple warning.

This was how I began my franchise business. I never imagined it would go this well.

Word must have spread through the waiter scene near Hamo's area. Messages started trickling in, one or two at a time. So, like the Godfather of Chicago, I laid out the rules and handed out 10 grams each. To my star pupil, my first automatic recruit Hamo, I doubled his supply while collecting payments.

Oh yeah! Was I about to pull off a KOSPI listing like Mr. White Snake?

About a month passed like that. Because the quantities were small, collections went smoothly and there were no incidents. I was thrilled. I kept shipping product while humming Hamo-hamo—by the way, "hamo" is a Gyeongsang dialect word meaning ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠something positive. I was riding that wave, pumping out product like crazy. Let's go for that KOSPI dream! Lululala, may these days last forever~

While I was humming and preparing today's orders, I suddenly got curious about my sales performance. Maybe I should learn how to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠keep proper books? Oh! If I sent just this batch, the accumulated total would break 100 grams. Then I could pay my brother back and maybe buy a car?

I was deep in future life-planning when a warning message flew in.

Stop what? There was no subject, no object. If you're going to say something, say it properly. I tried to ignore it, but then messages came from Hamo's friends. They couldn't do it anymore. Damn. So that's what this was about. Was my KOSPI dream going to end as nothing but a dream?

Whenever I had something to complain about, Flashmob was the only one I could turn to. Ever since I met the Sky God, he'd been like a Gabriel guiding me. Who else would listen to my prayers and monologues?

So this General Chungmugong was the one managing Hamo's area? If he was a regional boss, wouldn't he have no interest in a small fry like me?

I typed the message with the pitiful desperation of a baby bird waiting to be fed.

He was right. I'd started as an ordinary citizen, but after seeing the big money my courage had grown to match the size of those stacks, and I'd forgotten my place.

As expected from my Saint Gabriel! He gave me a clear diagnosis of the situation and even presented solutions. After finishing my conversation with Flashmob, I pondered whether there was any way out. It was such a shame. This franchise business with its excellent turnover, clean operation, and low risk! My dream of becoming the second White Snake had been right in front of me!

Let's think this through. First, I had no connections. If I did, I wouldn't be struggling like this. I could have just sold through my network. And paying tribute wouldn't work—the original cost I got from my brother plus my margin left no room for it. In my view, the current setup was already optimal. It was basically a simple business with a cost-plus-margin structure. Adding tribute on top would create negative margins. Then I'd have to increase what I gave to the Hamo brothers, but they had to make a living too. It wasn't like every customer was willing to pay triple.

And finally, I had no power. Had Flashmob put a camera on me or something? How did he know so much? It was depressing. It felt like a delicious rice cake had flown into my mouth only for someone to snatch it away, leaving my lips wet with nothing but bean paste.

The receivables from the product I'd distributed over the past month were collected. But the General had enforced things so thoroughly that when I asked the Hamo brothers, they wouldn't even respond. In other words, they paid the money and then cut all ties.

And just like that, my short-lived franchise dream came to an end.