Some Disco King’s Journal – Part II

This is the second part of a continuous journal written by a recovered "user". Or as he likes to call himself: Disco King. Read the first one if you haven't yet, then come back here.

August 20, 1992

I can remember it like it was yesterday. Early Thursday morning, a hangover to deal with and my father banging on the front doors. The expectations, fears bubbling in me came true. Me and my cousin had to move out of the flat, the sell-contract had been already signed. Everything disappeared in a second, I had to start building a new home all over again. This time in Kranj, where my father built a small family bakery.

September 1992

The first school day and nobody to say hi to. Studying became a strange thing by that point. I could feel the pressure of not handling life and after 2 weeks I was already a dropout. Living with my parents, working in the bakery, trying to fit-in was my daily routine. All of a sudden everything became so predictable, stable. Kind of like the calm before the storm. Of course, something was bound to happen and something did happen. Dad opened a new bakery, the family was moving to another place. The story got a new beginning, again.


Doing occasional baking during the day, going out during the night seemed like a life I had chosen.  One night, around 8 pm I walked into a bar, where I had already become a frequent customer. After a couple of beers and getting emotionally slightly paralyzed, a couple of guys and 2 girls sat down at the table next to me. It was just one of those times when you instantly connect with someone. Boom, we were suddenly stuck in a deep conversation about life. Things escalated quickly and I was offered a joint (rolled cigarette, filled with tobacco and Indian cannabis). Smoke, mixed with alcohol rushed to my brain. I was blown away to a land where no awkward silence or strangers exist and an opportunity opened to meet a new people in a totally different, unusual light that night.

First thing in the morning I picked up my mobile. It was filled with new texts and numbers. Matej was my first choice to call and we decided to make a re-run of last night. This time I was in charge of buying weed. Žiga, my side-wing, appointed me to a man, with whom I was supposed to meet in a dark alley corner. He looked suspicious enough to be a dealer. A quick handshake and I held my first pack of the green stuff. The outcome of the night was not-so-surprisingly similar to the last one and the bunch felt even more attached than before.

"The man who handed it to me eventually took me to another level of drug abuse."

As days went by our “meetings” started to become evermore monotonous. Consuming the herb took place almost routinely. The body was slowly adapting to the known drugs and a need to take a chance with unknown remedies eventually possessed me. “Skunk”, a sub-genre of cannabis was next on the menu. The man who handed it to me eventually took me to another level of drug abuse. Along with weed, he usually dealt with hash too and since I was a naïve young boy his mind tricks didn’t have to last long until I subdued.

Next thing you know – first acquaintance with dealing drugs on my own. My first buy – 10 grams of hash for 100 Deutsch Marks (major currency in Europe before Euros were introduced in 1999). Based on my calculations, a bar of hash should give me enough to pay off the debt to the boss-dealer, allow me to smoke it from time to time, as well as come out with a decent profit. Now, those were simpler times, no smartphones or even PCs were around, the internet was still in the making. In order for the word to get around and money flying in one had to mobilize all of his social circle. This was a slow process, but still, the newly formed connections were trustworthy. It took time for me to develop a sustainable network.

Despite the lagging process, appetites grew bigger with every sell I made. When ambitions started to hit the roof, quantities got bigger, audacity sky-rocketed. It was only a matter of time when the reek of the green stuff began to intrigue my roommates, that is my parents. Luckily, our relationship was built on trust, so they were cool about it. Their only demand was not to get involved in hard-drugs. “Of course”, I said, “I’m not stupid”.

"The only problem with narcotics is that there is a strong possibility the seller starts to consume them proportionally with their abundance."

The logic behind every business is to grow. As the demand increases, the seller has to expand the variety of the supply. Simple as that. The only problem with narcotics is that there is a strong possibility the seller starts to consume them proportionally with their abundance. I was no exception to the rule.

Drugs began to form my life in a way they wanted to. Their power came to life, my own will was being held hostage to the dirty-money before I even realized things had gotten out of hand. Getting the drivers license and buying my own car - a metallic-black Golf GTI went hand in hand with dealing, which at that point became a normal career for me.


An average day started at 5 am, when I did some chores for my dad - mostly delivering bread to bakeries. This took me around 5 hours. It came in handy enough to pose as a camouflage job. All I had to do was to brush off the remaining flour and change the ride. Little packs of skunk and hash, wrapped in tin foil already found a place in the flashy new car, sometimes even up to 300 grams.

Yet, still no doubt of getting caught crossed my mind. The trade was handled with just enough of precaution so that all of the phone calls to customers were made at the post office. This way, nobody could track down my activities.

"Ultimately, all that it took was one simple question: “Do you want some?” Suddenly, a half of an ecstasy pill was running down my throat."

As my drug-based social circle widened, more and more people with various knowledge and experience began to loosen my seemingly tough moral fibre. Summer was right around the corner and the idea of having casual road-trips sounded like fun. The Golf became an occasional 2-hour hotbox, a dope-mobile, all the way to the lake where we used to host parties at. 

I still give myself hard time when I remember how quickly all of my principles had folded. Ultimately, all that it took was one simple question: “Do you want some?” Suddenly, a half of an ecstasy pill was running down my throat. To close the deal, a sip of icy water helped me to swallow the bitter regret. I guess this is the magic of life, being able to see clearly right after you make a mistake. 

By Blaz, edited on 10 June 2018