Value Added

Ryan Johnson told all his teachers to get fucked in Year 11. They had stopped caring if he was right or wrong or learning, which he was, having mathed the fastest route along the six points of profanity and into expulsion. Anything the school could offer was quicker over the internet and worth less than the title of 'bloody cunt of a legend'. That social standing had translated into a network and a step into employment ahead of those who had preferenced their grades, many now languishing and left behind over the past eight years.

Walking through the university does not sting Ryan with regret but he feels like a tourist. The blokes at the warehouse are always theorising about millennials of totalitarian political correctness but Ryan reckons it's just fashion - different clothing, mannerisms, cultural activities. Students bitch about the plight of transgender Eskimos in order to fit in, get along, get by and get laid. Fuck, man, Ryan knows he could give a shit about anything if it got him in the pants of these uni girls. No, these uni women - no mere girl fills jeans quite like that.

Onto the coffee shop, where Carl Reid has already ordered for both: 'A good morning for some wood, Ryan.'

Indeed, Ryan has a subtle bulge: 'How are you not straight, surrounded by - ' pointing eyes at a passing pair of wiggling asses ' - all of this?'

'I experimented during my youth.'  Sliding over the newspaper. 'Cops found fifteen acres on a Victorian property. Five point eight mil.'

Ryan sits, scans the story, that's good coffee: 'Doesn't affect me. Started because of a tax fraud investigation and, besides, their product is a matter of volume. We provide quality, add more value.'

Meaning chop-chop, black market tobacco. Ryan has a mortgage on a quarter-acre wreck on the suburban fringe, having converted the backyard into a tobacco crop (value added) and renovated the garage into a small tobacco barn (value added). 'Chop-chop' is so named because of the minimal processing (a tobacco shredder from the U.S. adds value) but Ryan also applies home-made organic pesticide and fungicide (value doubly added) and an aniseed glycerol (value added) whilst curing. Sure, the shelf-life is shorter but the nicotine hit is more natural, healthier, less addictive.

None of these added values matter much to the blokes at the warehouse, who aim for the cheapest convenient hit every two hours. Therefore, the market for Ryan's product is the young affluent with money to spare, pleasure centres unwarped and appearances to maintain. A chance drunker encounter (Ryan had been flirting with Carl's wingwoman) established this market in Carl's network (value added) with Carl's brand (value begrudgingly added). That queer bastard (both technically true) appeared to have more money than sense but, on later reflection, seems to have the sense to make some money from his appearance i.e. sell shit.

Ryan produces a small sandwich bag with this batch's sample: 'Back when Australia had licensed growers, before our time, the profit was in the stuff sold on the side.

Carl spreads a pinch on rolling paper: 'No licences therefore decreases the illegal supply, then they increase the tax.'

Nodding, smiling, he gets it: 'Which makes the crop on the back acre high risk, high reward.'

Carl lights for three seconds and quaffs: 'Good man, tastes just the same. I suppose there are still the smuggled darts.'

Ryan smiles polite, the product has been consistent for two years now, begins rolling his own: 'They tend to come from China or Indonesia. More for the pack-a-day guys.'

Carl twists to rest his left arm over the chair-back, has another drag. He cuts a handsome figure in a yellow shirt, skinny jeans, clean shaven and Wil Anderson hair. Ryan reminds himself that he is dealing with a young queer (never use 'fag' unless everyone else in company has) with all the emotion and ego of a uni student. Thus Ryan continues:

'Smuggled cigs are convenient when you know where to get them. What you want to avoid -' Remembering Steven, the brief mentor and right Ivan Milat motherfucker, '- is stolen ciggarettes. Bad crowd.'

Carl exhales, sets up a joke: 'That just leaves vaping.'

Ryan takes the cue: 'Vaping is for pussies. And gay men don't go for pussy.'