By Bruce Porter
BLOW is the not likely tale of George Jung's curler coaster experience from middle-class highschool soccer hero to the guts of Pablo Escobar's Medellin cartel— the biggest importer of the USA cocaine offer within the Nineteen Eighties. Jung's early company of flying marijuana into the USA from the mountains of Mexico took a dramatic flip whilst he met Carlos Lehder, a tender Colombian automobile thief with connections to the then newly born cocaine operation in his fatherland. jointly they created a brand new version for promoting cocaine, turning a drug used basically through the leisure elite right into a great and unimaginably profitable enterprise— one whose gains, if criminal, could have ranked the cocaine enterprise because the 6th biggest deepest firm within the Fortune 500.
The trip got here to a screeching halt while DEA brokers and Florida police busted Jung with 300 pounds of coke, successfully unraveling his fortune. yet George wasn't approximately to move down on my own. He deliberate to convey down with him one of many greatest cartel figures ever caught.
With a riveting insider account of the lurid global of foreign drug smuggling and a super-charged drama of 1 man's meteoric upward thrust and determined fall, Bruce Porter chronicles Jung's existence utilizing remarkable eyewitness resources during this seriously acclaimed actual crime vintage.
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Additional info for Blow: How a Small-Town Boy Made $100 Million with the Medellin Cocaine Cartel And Lost It All
Somehow I knew this was my life now. I’d made my bloody bed and now I had to lie in it. I’d chosen this life and that’s how it would be from now on. The system would try to crush me and all I could do was refuse to be destroyed. It wouldn’t be easy. We’d be up at 6am every day for a cold shower before compulsory physical training come rain, snow or shine, and mostly it seemed to piss it down. We were marched everywhere military-style, slouching spines pushed straight, shoulders back, eyes forward.
Thank you. Additionally, thanks must go to the people who have been there for me every step of the way. Friends like Arnie Fouste, now sadly deceased and deeply missed. His friendship can never be replaced. Likewise to Dawn Hodges for her support, Patricia Edwards whose encouragement gave me optimism for the future, and to my mates ‘Big’ Paul Foley and Billy Sprague for their endless loyalty and friendship. A very special mention must go to Danny Woollard for inspiration, and for helping me remember the stories.
Now I was simply a number and a surname. That number would follow me through the system from day one. A damp towel was flung at me and I patted myself down quickly. Our clothes were replaced with prison-issue underwear, socks, rough shirts and trousers – all grey, all itchy and all uncomfortable – and rough army surplus blankets for our beds in the dormitory. No privacy, no luxuries, piss-poor food, everything done at double-quick time and the screws screaming at you from dawn to dusk, that was Kidlington.