Courting a Dealer: A Game of Respect, Greed, and Velvet-Gloved Threats

In this town, loyalty ain’t free. It’s rented... one day at a time.
A dealer, see, he’s a creature of habit. He likes familiar faces, steady hands, and a joint where the lights don’t flicker unless somebody deserves it. He’ll stick by you so long as the money’s green and the floorboards don’t squeal.

But there’s one thing every dealer loves more than loyalty: profit.
Fat stacks. Greased palms. The sweet rustle of bills that says you’re someone worth doing business with.

Rolling Out the Carpet

When you take one of your properties—maybe a corner deli, maybe a hole-in-the-wall bar where the jukebox only plays heartbreak—and you christen it a Dealer-Friendly Location, you’re sending up a flare. You’re telling every hustler from here to the docks:

"My door’s open. My books are clean. And my handshakes mean something."

From that moment on, your place joins the circuit, the round-robin constellation of spots a dealer might choose for his next stop. And that choice? It ain’t random.

It’s business.

Tax rate. Foot traffic. Local population. Reputation.
These are the gears in the machine, all clicking together to spin your odds in the Dealer Selection Lottery Pool.

High foot traffic? That’s bodies walking past your door, every pair of shoes another chance.
Big neighborhood population? More bodies, more pockets, more chances.
A good relationship with the dealer? That’s gold. It tilts the scales your way like a crooked judge on a payroll.

But the real killer—the make-or-break—the whisper that decides it all?

Your tax rate.

The Tax Dance — Courting the Line Between "Thanks" and "Go to Hell"

Your tax rate ain’t carved in marble. Hell, you can twist it any which way you want - even after the dealer sets up shop.

But every time you bump it 0.1%, the universe rolls what the streets call a "Fuck You Dice."

Dealer’s tolerance ain’t printed on his forehead.
Maybe he’s patient. Maybe he’s a powder keg with a short fuse.

If the roll lands inside his comfort zone?

He shrugs.
Lights another cigarette.
Keeps on dealing like nothing happened.

But if it crosses that invisible line... if that dice comes up snake-eyes against your greed?

Then he snaps his case shut, buttons his coat, and mutters something cold like:

"You had a good thing here… but you got greedy."

And just like that, he’s ghost.
Gone to some other mug who knows how to treat a guest.

Hands Off, Hands On... Pick Your Poison

Now, you wanna sit back and let the coins trickle in? You can.
A little passive income, a respectable weight in the pocket—nothing wrong with that.

Or...

Or you can get your fingers dirty.
You can micromanage every crumb, every tick of the meter, every little detail like a capo running numbers in the back room at 3 a.m.

During the soft opening... what the boys upstairs call the "introductory period", the dealers shift their locations quick, giving everyone a taste, a sampler platter of opportunity. And if you spook one... if you pop your taxes too high and make him bark?

He’ll only stay mad a little while.

For now.

Because once the kid gloves come off, and the city stops pretending to be polite?
When the training wheels are gone and the real game begins?

Pissing off a dealer won’t be a slap on the wrist.
It’ll be a scar.
One you’ll be explaining to your accountant (and your conscience) for a long, long ass time.

Some small quick adjustments and testing is currently underway, there will be an expanded test involving users later tonight, and if things go well, it should be live in the AM.