Brick House of Cards: Strong Foundation

By Malcolm Gibran Welborn

Dred Scott Vanderpool grew up in a drug-infested community in Washington State, not far from the Canadian border. He started smoking hashish during his teen years and never stopped. Dred, who was also known by the nickname Chunky, graduated from college ahead of schedule and decided to pursue drug trafficking full time in lieu of a more traditional career path. Chunkys first order of business post-graduation was setting up a legal business entity that allowed him and his partner in crime since childhood, Tafari Winslow, to funnel illegal revenues into legitimate bank accounts. These two close friends and business associates worked hard to amass millions in cash, selling cocaine, hashish, and marijuana all over the West Coast. When they agreed it would be prudent to deposit dirty money into bank accounts they had opened in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland that was the beginning of the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524669461

Malcolm Gibran Welborn

Malcolm Gibran Welborn grew up in the Anacostia section of South East, Washington, DC. The experiences he had there during the course of his childhood and adult life inspired his writing style. He witnessed how the residue left behind by drug addiction, homicide and homelessness can strengthen and galvanize historically neglected neighborhoods and communities. He also lived in Europe for four years as a teen and as a result, considers Germany his home away from home. The author is an avid reader by day. He is also a dedicated writer by night, passionate about words having the ability to impact the world in powerful ways. His love of literature, poetry, prose and song define his artistic nature. The author has a Bachelor’s Degree in Business Law and has worked in the field of Satellite Engineering for 20 years.

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© 2017 Malcolm Gibran Welborn. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/31/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6928-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6946-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

I. Why people get high…

II. Strong Shipments, Inc.

III. Could never be a thug wannabe gangster

IV. Standard Operating Procedures

V. Institutions of higher learning

VI. Money & Banking 101

VII. Mu Omega Beta

VIII. Mixed up in the game

IX. Confessions of a refined dope smuggler

X. Under Surveillance

XI. Stash House Boogie

XII. Going on the lam

XIII. Violation of the RICO & Controlled Substances Acts

XIV. Trials & Tribulations

XV. Two Day Sentence

XVI. How to find supreme clientele at the barber shop

XVII. Born Again Kingpin

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all of the forgotten men and women in America who are victims of very biased practices perpetuated by federal and state judicial systems. These are carefully engineered systems of imprisonment designed to keep the have-nots as far away from the haves as humanly possible. A modern day hunger game, if you will. Those among us who are unfortunate products of their environments, I dedicate this book to each and every one of you, from the bottom of my heart with everything decent inside me in mind.

Waking up hearing rapid gunfire on nearby streets for the better part of a century can be very detrimental to the human mind, body and soul. I grew up in the heart of Southeast Washington D.C. in the Anacostia neighborhood. I’m proud of where I grew up but I’m not proud of some of the things I witnessed and participated in when I lived there. I have witnessed heroin addicts shoot up in between their toes, in a filthy, piss filled alley way. I have witnessed drug sales in open air markets, attempted murder, robbery and assault. On numerous occasions I have been both a victim and a beneficiary of criminal activity. By the grace of God, I have lived long enough to write a few captivating stories based on my life experiences. At some point, I ended up developing a love hate relationship with humanity. Ultimately, I was inspired by this relationship to start writing books.

The prison industrial complex is responsible for incarcerating roughly two million people in the United States of America. The vast majority of the people who are locked up in the United States are either Black or Latino. I dedicate this book to all of the inmates who were sentenced, using discriminatory mandatory minimum laws. Inmates who are in essence modern day field hands working for chicken feed. The entrepreneurs who are investing in the prison industry so they can capitalize off of cheap labor are starting to reap huge benefits and record profits. These investors don’t have to pay unemployment insurance, offer paid vacations or worry about unions or strikes. All of the workers are full-time. They usually start their shifts on time and they never call out sick.

No other modern, developed society has jailed more of its citizens than the United States. Contracting prisoners to provide hard labor in exchange for twenty-five cents an hour fosters an environment with built in financial incentives for locking up as many people as possible. The prison industry is one of the fastest growing segments of the U.S. economy. It has grown into a multi-million dollar business opportunity complete with trade shows, conventions and advertising campaigns.

Federal law requires five years of imprisonment for possession of 5 grams of crack cocaine or 3.5 ounces of heroin. Possession of 2 ounces of crack or rock cocaine requires a minimum ten year sentence be served, if convicted. Federal law stipulates five years of imprisonment is required for possession of 500 grams of powder cocaine. Most people who buy or sell powder cocaine in the United States are European-American. Most of the people who deal heroin and rock cocaine in the U.S. are typically African-American or Latino-American. Sentencing for possession of crack and heroin is 100 times more severe than the sentencing requirements for possession of powder cocaine, which favors European-Americans immensely. This isn’t right and in my opinion, these mandatory minimum laws need to be amended as soon as possible.

I am pledging a donation of ten percent of the profits made from selling this book, to the American Civil Liberties Union Foundation. I decided to focus my fundraising efforts on activities that will support this organization. The ACLU has taken the lead on serving as the champion of this cause and other legal issues affecting people of color disproportionately. The ACLU has historically protected and represented neglected and overlooked ethnic groups and religious sects in America.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my family for encouraging me to believe in myself: the Welborns, the Roberts, the Pritchetts, the Janifers, the DeFreitases, the Matthews, the Winfields, Tates, the Bonds family, the Browns, the Collins family, the Eghbal family, the Lamprons and the Barrys.

Much love and respect to all of my associates, friends and A1’s from day one who have served as a consistent source of inspiration: Mike Puga, Dave Brown, Doug T aka Catfish aka Dub Sinatra, Scott L, Shantrell, Marva, Sexy Dex, Bruce, Dirk, Diane, Liane, Torrie, Rob, Stef, June, Shiela, Toby, Rob, Ben, Scott, Robin, Julia, Luz, Marisela, Louisa, Spencer, Sabrina, Lynnita, Mark, Corey, John, Connie, Sandra, Thomas, Michele, Jennifer, Christina, Brooke, Shannon, Kim, Shawn, Don, Dave, Susan, Rob, Sheila, Joos, Tee, Tim Williams, Thomas Harris, June Culbertson, Kimmie Kim, Kerry, Janet, Jenifer, Mike & Doug Edwards, The Pinson Brothers, Robert Carpenter aka Carp, Eric 3alarmchilly Thompson, Thomas, Alan Seraile, Aaron Tildon, Mearron Sanity Malone, The Real Sean Lee aka The Real Coach Carter, Big Ken, John Tsatsos aka Tsats, Poverty, Uzi O, Pure Fyre, Redos, Beez, Mr. John Shine, Tom E, Coach Steve Christian aka Roll Tide Bama, Dreadlock Rasta, Joe Stakem, Chris L, Howard, Walt, Rufus Chester III, Larry Love, Stan The Man, Craig A, Mark Z, Reuben V, John Whitt Jenkins, Dwayne McCoy, Bruce Simpson, Joey Quander, Zeke, Mike Scott, Dave Arthur, Boogie, Spoon, Tim C, John R, Chris Palmer aka Palms, Dirty Mo, Waniboo Chege, G-Money, J-Money, DP, The Supreme Money Team, Troy Robertson, Matt H, Eric DJ-EZ Money Agyemang, Dre, Eric, Ike, Chuck and Buck.

I would be remiss if I didn’t give a special acknowledgement to my 9th grade English teacher Cathryne Blocker aka Ms. B. Ms. B was the first person who told me I should consider becoming a Writer. Obviously, I never forgot her advice. I owe a debt of gratitude to Ms. B because I committed to completing this project based largely on her eye for talent.

My 10th grade English teacher Sandy Riggins picked up where Ms. B left off. She pushed me hard to improve my writing ability after selecting me to participate in my high school’s debate club. When I was a junior in high school, Ms. Riggins encouraged me to apply to Yale, Stanford and Westpoint. I applied to a total of seven different universities, at her urging. Originally, my plan was to apply to three because I didn’t want to waste money on college application fees. (Side Note) It’s crazy that a grown man is willing to pay $250 for a pair of Jays but won’t even consider paying a $25 college application fee (back to acknowledgments)… An education is priceless, considering what one can accomplish with so much knowledge at your disposal. Lower level employees, executives and entrepreneurs all need some level of education to carry out their individual life plans and goals. Education can be very beneficial even when it’s self-taught. I eventually chose Florida State University over Florida A&M and Howard University. The college application process was more intense and serious than I realized it would be.

Thanks to the tutelage I received at Bad Kreuznach American High School from Ms. Blocker, Ms. Riggins and Mr. Hepler, my high school guidance counselor, getting into college was much easier than I had anticipated at the time. In hindsight, I appreciate the entire faculty at BKAHS so much for encouraging me to pursue the academic route. Back then I didn’t understand how useful an education would be once I learned how to use it. Acquiring knowledge at the highest level, presented the best opportunity for me to accomplish significant feats during the course of my life. The education I received going to a DoDDS school in what was called West Germany at the time shaped my mind, attitude and world view. Growing up in DC, I thought in terms of exploring my neighborhood. By the time I graduated from high school, I was thinking more in terms of exploring the world.

This book was inspired by my mother Patricia Welborn in particular. She was very quietly a poet in her own right who had an interesting way with words. God rest her soul… She was a career School Teacher who worked in the DC Public School System for twenty years and the Department of Defense Dependent School System for twenty one years. She was a beautiful woman inside and out who dedicated her life to educating the poor, neglected and disenfranchised.

I have to also acknowledge my father Charles Welborn, who is my moral compass, spiritual advisor and confidante. I am the man I am today because my parents encouraged me to tap into my potential and express myself using the talents the Creator has blessed me with.

All praises due to God!

Chapter 1

Why people get high…

I smoked hashish for the first time during my freshmen year in high school, at our football homecoming dance. It was at that point in my life I decided getting high in extreme moderation was the cool and expedient thing to do. One of the unexpected benefits of being a smoker was it made me more popular with the hottest chicks in my high school. The bad girls, the easy girls and just about every girl I was attracted to when my hormones started raging. They were all fair game as far as I was concerned. Being a known smoker made a very favorable impression on the young ladies at my school who were juicy, horny and ready to have sex. I went to high school in a rural area in northwestern Washington State not far from the Canadian border, in a drug smuggler’s paradise known as Bellingham County. Pharmaceutical grade ecstasy, oxy, hashish, mushrooms and extremely potent marijuana were all very easy to acquire there.

Hashish is a highly concentrated illicit substance made from the hash oil extracted from exceptionally lethal marijuana buds. Blond and dark brown chocolate hash are both available in the form of a brittle block that has to be cut, chopped or shaved in a similar manner as a brick of cocaine. Most of the black hash sold on the streets or in the mountains, depending on where you purchase it, is flexible and easy to manipulate like clay.

My desire to get high with other like-minded individuals increased dramatically the evening of our football homecoming dance. When our chaperones that evening weren’t watching, one of my demented teammates, who happened to be a major contributor on the Bellingham County High School varsity football squad that season, spiked the punch bowl with a pint of home-brewed moonshine. It was some very smooth booze that had little to no after taste. Some of my classmates were willing participants but there were also a few kids who didn’t like the mind altering concoction. By the time Mrs. Daringer and Mr. Phillips realized what happened, the damage had already been done.

In Bellingham, it wasn’t hard finding two things during my youth. There was always a lot of homegrown weed all over the county and backyard brewed apple corn liquor was also a local favorite. During the hottest time of day, you could smell the pungency of skunk plants in the air all over the county during the months of September and October. On a clear night from the peak of Henderson Hill, you could see many of the local stills resembling glow lights from a distance, glowing bright like a raging bonfire the night of the big game.

While our chaperones had their hands full restoring order to the dance that memorable evening, me and a few of my buddies on the team and our dates decided to take advantage of the opportunity. We went for a quick walk undetected so we could find somewhere private to get high. We ended up on the bleachers at our home football field a short distance away from the dance. It didn’t take long for our starting quarterback, Bobby Ducketts to pull out a soda can that he masterfully converted into a pipe in a matter of seconds, using a pocket knife. B.D. fluffed up a small piece of blond hash in the middle of the can, where it had been flattened and punctured repeatedly. The empty soda can with tiny little holes poked in the middle of it was transformed very easily into what would have been considered drug paraphernalia by the authorities in most jurisdictions. We passed the make shift peace-pipe around several times very deliberately, awkwardly waiting our turn to take a hit from the handcrafted aluminum smoking device. Caught up in the moment, I found myself anxiously anticipating each hit of the Moroccan Blond. The huge hits of smoke I inhaled from the homemade can-pipe had me higher, more mellow and more stoned than I had ever been before in my life. I suppose the term stoned refers to how it must feel to have rocks hitting you all over your body head to toe. When I started smoking that good shit, I learned real quick how it must feel to have rocks and stones thrown at you by an angry mob trying to kill you. This one time after smoking a little too much, I pondered if Jesus’ brother James felt the same way I was feeling, when he was stoned to death by Hebrew demagogues. The mind and more specifically a person’s thought process can be all over the place, after over indulging in weed smoke.

When I was in high school, getting high in a group setting was an extremely overrated exercise in self-destructive bonding. What was so cool about recklessly inhaling, exhaling and coughing uncontrollably ever so loudly, while making a half-hearted, futile attempt to muffle the highly suspicious noises? At the time, I didn’t recognize that I had become dependent on maintaining a higher level of consciousness. Eventually, I had no choice except recognizing I was starting to develop an addictive personality rooted in self-medicating away any pain I would experience throughout the course of my life.

My first memorable private encounter smoking marijuana alone was during my teen years. I think I was fifteen or sixteen years old. I was rummaging through my dad’s stuff, looking for his Cuban cigarillo collection. One of my dad’s musician friends used to smuggle Cuban cigars into the United States illegally from Canada. In lieu of finding my dad’s vintage stock of stogies, I stumbled on to his funky reefer stash in a humidor on the top shelf of the homemade cabinets in our garage. I already knew what weed looked and smelled like so I wasn’t shocked or confused when I found my dad’s private reserve. However, like my Grandma Tudy used to say, Curiosity is what killed the cat, baby…

When I was learning how to roll weed, I experimented with one paper, two papers, big papers, small papers, licorice papers, basically everything at the local smoke shop from blacks to chocolate blunts. Eventually, I learned how to roll the perfect joint using one of my favorite brands, Dizzy rolling papers. My dad was always partial to Dizzy papers and I ended up following in his footsteps. Like father… Like son… I guess.

On an almost perfect afternoon during the early 90’s, the opportunity to experiment on my terms presented itself. I can remember when because some classic Biggy was playing on the radio. The first time I heard Juicy I knew immediately that the radio airwaves had just been revolutionized forever because that joint was pure fire when it first came out. Even though my mood was as close to perfect as one could imagine that day, something was missing. I messed around and rolled a blunt so enormous I looked like I was a young Fidel Castro with that big motherfucker hanging out of my mouth. I grabbed a pack of matches out of the kitchen cabinet, went for a long walk in the woods near my house and proceeded to get as high as a Martian astronaut for the first time in my life. Up until that point, I had been basically puffing lightly and passing the joint quickly, when I was among friends who were smoking kind bud.

When I learned how to roll a Bob, I discovered how to get turned up on a whole different level. I would take a gram of sticky, preferably orange or skunk and a gram of Mexican. I would chop up my recipe real fine with a grinder, blend in a gram of fluffed up hash and would roll the final mixture in a fresh tobacco leaf that was soft and therefore easy to manipulate with my fingers. I used to call that recipe heavenly hash. I had never really been a hard core smoker before this stage of my life. I had only been slightly high a few times. Never stoned out of my mind… however, that all changed as fast as a cloud of smoke exits a weed head’s nostrils. I learned to love coughing profusely in an almost ridiculous fashion like I was about to die… and that never stopped me from taking more hits.

When I was a little kid, I used to catch a contact high every now and then, when my pop and the musicians in his band would smoke out during their rehearsals with me running around all over the place. Not realizing the affect it was having on me, they thought nothing of smoking openly in my presence. I eventually discovered the after effects of a traditional American smoke out and once that happened, a contact buzz would never satisfy me ever again. At a very young age, I was developing an insatiable appetite for THC and my inability to control that urge led me to dark places I could have never imagined during my infancy.

On weekends, me and some of my childhood friends used to get high together up on a hill on the edge of the