THE RISE OF THE JERKY CARTEL
In 1997, a band of three young, small-time crooks developed a recipe for a highly potent substance that went by the street name ‘Jerky.’ Within weeks, jerky flooded the streets of Chester County, PA. The gang was moving 10 kilos a week – pushing in the back alleys, the street corners, and the recess yards. Supply couldn't keep up with demand, and the boys got sloppy. In the fall of ‘98, a deal went awry in the 9th-grade hallway bathroom when a teacher caught the boys mid-chew. The three received 4 hard hours of after-school detention... without parole.
Whilst on the inside, they conspired with a cellmate that went by the name ‘G-off,’ a notorious carnivore known for only two things: a distribution network that stretched from Brazil to British Columbia, and an insatiable thirst for meat. It was this cell-mate-ship that altered the course of jerky trafficking, and American history, forever...
By 2006, the once small-time crooks had become a syndicated international jerky cartel known as Righteous Felon – and their product was everywhere. Movie stars, politicians, professional athletes – everyone wanted a taste of the action…literally. If you did jerky in the United States between 2006 - 2011, there’s an 85% chance it came through Righteous Felon.
The jerky became so prevalent and so profitable, that in 2011, the Obama Administration, pinched with a rising debt crisis and demands from the liberal left, was forced to pass the Freedom of Flavor Act - which legalized the production and sale of high potency beef jerky for medicinal purposes and allowed government taxation on each transaction.
In an attempt to maintain national security, the U.S. government solicited Righteous Felon to oversee the notoriously violent Jerky industry. Righteous Felon declined the offer; citing jerky for “medicinal purposes only” as a direct violation of basic human rights. As the industry lay unregulated, the smaller cartels began to up-rise, and the government was forced to concede and allow Righteous Felon to distribute and oversee the sale of jerky to all people, regardless of their state of health.
So, as you rip open this bag, and the aroma hits your nose, the flavor; your tongue, the endorphins; your brain, the smile; your lips…. Remember my friend, this time last year, if a cop busted in right now, you’d be serving 20 to life.
The boss. Born from nothing. Spent his youth building fences. Then poured concrete. Boxed for sport, weight class unknown. Word spread he was throwing fights--disgraced somewhat. Bet on dogs for a while. Hit it big. Then on horses. Lost it all. Turned to poker. Onto high stakes poker. Then poker in an illicit professional league. Traveled the world on this five card credit line. Istanbul. Amsterdam. Mozambique. Argentina. All the while developing a pallet and deepening his to tongue. Took the jerky recipe from his youth to the next level. Shot first Rhinoceros while developing lime teriyaki from Rhino belly. The same year, bedded first supermodel testing phermonal frequencies in the flavor spectrum. A bell hop by the name of Roberto was the first life he took while pairing jerky with a glass of human blood. Started the company in 2011, does whatever the hell he wants, whenever the hell he wants. A distinguished example to us all.
Cattle breaker. Could rope a steer before he learned to suck his thumb. Once slapped a cow across the face for eating pellet feed. Then shot it with a twelve gauge. Believes in grass diet to a psychotic degree. FDA, citing a 'dangerous contempt to growth hormone' tried to shut him up, shut him down. Then the traps started poking around his pastures. Then inspectors in hazmat suits. It took twelve men to apprehend Mr. Matador, bucked the whole time like a 4,000 lb longhorn. The courts would've squashed him but the community backed him. Also his wife, 22 years married. Night before she took the stand she's found dead in a pay-phone, slug in the brain and a handful of grass shoved in her mouth. Citing a purity so high it would obliterate any competition and pose a public health risk, the courts forced The Matador to cut his ties to RF sentencing him considerably. But Matador is quick. He can hunt. He can cook. Broke out lickity split. After crafting a 20 lb specialty batch from the corpse of his wife's killer he retired into obscurity, went in hiding. Then his little brother brought him back into the fold.
Speed demon. Learned to work an engine in his Uncle's garage. Dropped out of school to start chop shop, age 11. Personality traits include a stoic directness and punctuality. Never late in his fucking life. First getaway job at 17, blew the doors of a Dodge Challenger getting three Irishman out a city bank with a burlap full of presidents. Acquired first bullet wound. First casualties in '97: The milk went sour when his finger man tried to pull a double cross. Blood spewed across the cab of a Corvette Stingray, bundles of cash sopping it up. His boys shot dead. Sirens screeching from behind. Punching the throttle and bursting off a bridge, the wheel man tumbled out the driver's side door as he watched the most beautiful carriage he'd ever steered plunge into the Delaware. Tried to break good. Just wasn't in him. Tried to go clean but gets his rocks off on the dirty. Met with El Jefe in 99. Been running jerky ever since. PPK on his person. Never been pulled. Kid's too damn fast to need it.
Guerrilla scribe. Propagandist. Trickster. Fabricated a civil war in the lower Amazon to protect tribespeople from a hellbent rubber harvesting conglomerate. Spotlit corrupt CIA practices when leaking confidential records. Has a penchant for the little guy. In fact, is a little guy. Spent two weeks in the Oval Office, hidden, collecting information, exploiting flawed White House security, becoming a legend when he revealed himself. 'To think,' they said, 'that little guy is this generation's Houdini.' Achieved personal life goal at age 23 when he shook the hand of Chepotle Guevera. The world awaits. What will he do next?
Mover. Shaker. Hustler. Untamed outlaw. Bristles at authority and the Old Guard. Ropes you in with a disarming smile and a snack-stash you couldn't shake a stick at. Poached from a rival cartel to create new distribution networks and diversify into other decadent revenue streams. Connections in high (and low) places with a Rolodex so thick, he has people at Rolodex in his Rolodex. Fixing son of a (hired) gun who, legend has it, bribed the admissions office with a tractor trailer load of snacks to get into the nation’s premier Crook College. Promises to find what you need, no matter the ask. Rogue Renaissance Man who goes with his gut, especially when the tank needs filling.
The trigger. Fascinated by insects as a child. Tore off their legs and slid them into microscopes. Tortured rabbits. Became versed in the caves and mine shafts of his West Virginia comeuppance. Pushed best friend down mine shaft then became like a son to best friend's family as they worried, grieved, accepted loss. Fused modern mechanics to his grandaddy's rifle. Target practice with rabbits. Decorated soldier in Afghanistan when time. Cashed in on sight and trigger when time. Mercenary work, contracts in saudi Arabia, iraq. Eventually homeward bound with a fatwa on his head. Target practice with US Congressmen, Senators, CEOs. Formed a résumé in the trail of dead that followed behind. Then the money came. Cohen's barrel got so hot seemed like the entire Northeast had a bodybag to fill. Suspected to be instrumental in assassination of prosecutors in 'Matador,' 'Chemist' cases. Completed assignments for RF unknown.
Explosions all he knows. Demolition 'expert.' Made a C4 boo-boo in Nicaragua, 1986. Thus, hook for hand. Loose-cannon pyromaniac. Insatiable thirst for the incendiary. Client: "I gotta bank job I wanna do." Demming: "Blow it up." Client: "Huh? The vault, the doors, what? You haven't even got the particulars yet--" Demming: "Whatever I'm doing. Whatever I'm running. I have one condition. I. Blow. It. Up." Client had a cheating wife. Tried to blow her up. Thus, peg leg. Fellow patron made an 'arg matey' crack at the cantina one night. Right then and there: tried to blow the prick up. Classic all-or-nothing son of a bitch on the verge of meeting his maker. Boom.
Flavor boy. Won his third grade science fair making napalm from sheep's milk. Torched two childhood homes contributing to parents' bankruptcy. Money from renegade fragrance company brought him back to school. Honored as first to develop hot sauce from orchids. After a brief love affair with sharks and the writings of Chepotle Guevera, dropped marine biology and public disobedience to peruse chemistry full time. Failed out. Spray painted 'fucking fascists' on college laboratory while cooking highly potent synthetic stimulant known as VIVID, for his mother's maiden name. Formative gustatory enlightenment attributed to apprenticeships with Givaudan, Bruichladdich, Wylie Dufresne. All ended with mysterious disappearances of volatile chemicals and equipment. . Currently: multiple poisonings in outer-Philadelphia area linked to The Chemist. Recent string of arson activity Brooklyn, NY linked to The Chemist. America's most wanted terrorist and sought after molecular gastronomist. King Abdullah has requested his services in unknown capacity. This year, VIVID was statistically the most abused amphetamine by traders, bankers, and politicians. Sources confirm The Chemist works in conjunction with RF gastronomy unit.
Arms dealer. Upheavalist. Thrillionaire. Ties to the Russians, the Saudis, and of course, the Canadians. Self inflicted Freemason's tattoo on left butt-cheek at age 11. Linked to The Skulls, The Red Brigades, factions that inspired the Arab Spring, and icons associated with The New World Order. Responsible for the recent doxing of high-profile political leaders. Instrumental in the acquisitions of enriched uranium for several questionable nations. Great, great grandson of the inventor of the Luger pistol. A vengeful revolutionary and across-the-board bastard.