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When I was born the world was a far simpler place. It was all just cops and robbers. But it wasn't for me. Then came the Summer of Love. Hasish and LSD arrived on the scene. There were villains locked away for twelve years for robbing a bank of ten grand, doing time with drippy hippies down six months for smuggling two million quid worth of puff. I mean work it out mate. We're in the wrong fucking game. Drugs. Changed. Everything. Always remember that one day all this drug monkey business will all be legal. They won't leave it to people like me. Not once they figure out how much money is in it. Not millions. Fucking BILLIONS. Recreational Drugs PLC: "Giving People What They Want." Good times today, stupor tomorrow. But this is now. So while prohibition lasts, make hay while the sun shines. I'm not a gangster. I'm a businessman whose commodity happens to be cocaine. I mean ten years ago a bit of charlie was for pop stars or a celebrities birthday bash. It was demonized by Daily Mail Readers getting drunk in naff wine bars. Now they're my biggest clients. This is Clarkie. Double first at Cambridge in industrial chemistry. Only he's got to pay off his student loans somehow. Today I only deal in Kilos. And, depending on which tariff you use will cost you 28 grand, or fifteen years in prison. Which is more than a rapist. C'est la vie. It is vital that we work to a few golden rules: Always works in small teams. Keep a low profile. Never deal with anyone who doesn't come recommended. I mean it's like selling anything: washing machines, hand made rugs, blow jobs, as long as you don't take the piss people will always come back for more. And that's not to say that we don't have that special kind of magic that turns two kilos into three. But never get too greedy. Know and respect your enemy! It is only very very stupid people who think the law is stupid. And avoid like the plague, loud attention seeking wannabe gangsters who are in it for the glory, to be a face, to be a name. They don't mean to fuck up. They just do. Oh, and forgive me for stating the obvious, but stay away from the end user. They're guaranteed to bring you trouble. As do guns. I hate guns. And violence. But, as some Roman general once said. If you want peace, prepare for war. Morty, and his assistant Terry watch my back. Morty learned to be cautious the hard way. He did ten years inside. He's my bridge to the criminal world. And he insures that the traffic is one way.

Life is so fucking good I can taste it in my spit.

Well I'm honored. But for me this is all over. I'm getting out. What was true then is true now. Have a plan. Stick to it. So I'm sure you must have lots to discuss... but I have no business being here. I've got someone to meet. Adios, amigos.

Paul the Boatman. Kinky, The Duke. Slasher. Kilburn Jerry. Crazy Larry. Mr. Lucky. Troop. Jimmy. I don't want to add my name to that list. My name? If you knew that you'd be as clever as me.

Everyone wants to walk through a door marked "private." Therefore, have a good reason to be affluent.

Fuck me, Gene. I fuckin' hope not. Are you trying to scare the shit out of me? I mean, I fucking hate guns - Although that one is really pretty. What is that, Second World War?

I'll treat this lunch like a last supper, feign interest in his nostalgic tales, and get out.