In the gritty hoods of Houston, where dreams clash with reality every day, there was a brother we all called Fish—a real one, from the block, loyal to the core. Fish grew up in our neighborhood, the kind of place where you learn quick how to survive and provide. By the late '90s, he was heading off to college on the East Coast—somewhere in the Northeast or mid-Atlantic, chasing a degree as a pharmacy tech. He wasn't just going for the books; he was building a future for his family, especially his sister back home. Fish made sure she lived a little stress-free—sending money regularly so she could pay bills, buy groceries, maybe even treat herself without worrying. That was Fish: always putting family first, even when the game got heavy. This was the era of the ecstasy boom in America, especially on college campuses from 1998 to 2004. MDMA (ecstasy) exploded in popularity—surveys showed past-year use among college students jumping from around 2.8% in 1997 to 4.7% by 1999, with sharp spikes continuing into the early 2000s. High school seniors saw lifetime use nearly quadruple over the decade, and ecstasy became a staple at raves, dorm parties, and frat houses. It wasn't just pills; prescription opioids and other controlled substances were circulating too, but ecstasy was the king of the party scene—feel-good energy, empathy, all-night vibes. Demand was insane, and Fish saw it clear as day. As a pharmacy tech student, he had that insider edge: knowledge of dosages, effects, how the system worked. He started small, flipping to classmates and campus networks. But he scaled up fast. His connect was a solid dude named Chianese—Houston-based, reliable, with access to large quantities of ecstasy (MDMA tablets) and prescription pills (think oxycodone or similar painkillers that were easy to move back then). Fish would fly home to Houston every few weeks for the re-up: picking up serious weight—hundreds, sometimes thousands of tablets or pills—packaged smart for the trip back.Pre-9/11 airport security? A whole different world. No TSA yet—private screeners handled things, metal detectors and X-rays focused mostly on weapons like guns or big knives. No shoe removals, no liquid limits, no full-body scanners. Domestic flights were lax; you could walk through with carry-ons barely checked for drugs. Random pat-downs happened, but if you looked like a regular student—clean-cut, backpack, no red flags—it often slid right through. Carrying concealed product? Risky as hell, but plenty did it: hidden in luggage linings, body-packed discreetly, or just mixed in everyday stuff. Fish mastered it—catch a flight east loaded, distribute on campus, then back to Houston for more. Round-trip hustles kept the supply steady, no major dry spells. He was a true dealer—professional, low-key, never flashy. Never got busted, not once. In an era when campus raids and bad connects took down plenty, Fish stayed clean. He supplied dorms, house parties, Greek life—ecstasy for the ravers chasing that euphoric roll, pills for those needing focus or escape. The cash flowed: tuition covered semester after semester, rent paid ahead, car note never late. Extra went straight to his sister—wire transfers, cash drops, whatever kept her comfortable back in the hood. "She don't gotta stress," he'd say. That was his why—family over everything. The money built a cushion: vacations, gear, helping out the family. But it wasn't just about stacks; Fish lived the double life like a pro. By day, studying pharmacology, acing classes. By night, moving product quietly, building trust with buyers. He never overindulged himself—sampled to test quality, but kept his head straight. The hustle provided, and he provided back. Then, the world changed forever on September 11, 2001. Airport security tightened overnight—TSA formed, rules ramped up, scrutiny everywhere. Flights got riskier for anyone moving anything questionable. Fish adapted, but the game shifted. He kept grinding through the early 2000s, riding the ecstasy wave as use peaked around 2001–2002 before starting to dip. Tragically, it all ended too soon. Fish died in a car accident—gone in a flash, no warning, no second chances. Our hood lost a real one: the brother who made it out to college, hustled smart to support his people, sent money home so his sister could breathe easier. He never got caught in the system, never snitched, never folded. Just a Houston kid chasing better for his family, navigating a wild era of loose borders and booming demand. I really miss my friend. Fish was more than a dealer—he was loyal, generous, family-oriented. The stories we tell now keep him alive: the flights, the re-ups, the way he looked out. In a world that moved fast and dangerous, he moved with purpose. Rest in peace, homeboy. You provided, you protected, and you left a mark on the block we'll never forget. This story honors the real hustle of the late '90s and early 2000s—ecstasy and pill dealing on East Coast campuses, pre-9/11 travel risks, Houston connections fueling the supply. A tribute to a legend from the hood who made sure his sister lived stress-free while chasing his pharmacy tech dream.
BY Lord Darrick
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