That was the first time I realized it's all just paper. Paper and words.
So I found some nice stock, matched the fonts, and faked my first document in Photoshop. My first sale was a dude I used to get high with who got pulled over sans insurance and ticketed for it. I offered to test my little scheme out on him. It worked. He got out of a ticket, I got a little bag of dope, and that was it: I was in business. Everybody expects something more in-depth from your criminal origin story, but there's no official college course for budding felons ... aside from maybe political science.
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"I'm sorry, Advanced Lock-Picking is full. Have you considered Intro to Hot-Wiring?"
From that point on, I offered six months of phony insurance for $30. It was a way better deal than actual insurance, for everyone but the people my often-drugged-up clients hit. They probably took little solace from the fantastic savings I offered, no matter how much everybody loves a good deal.
Like any subculture, meth-heads tend to find each other and congregate, so as to better discuss the pertinent meth-related issues of the day. One of my druggie friends would tell the story of how I thwarted the law with nothing but my trusty clone tool to another druggie friend, and eventually word spread. There aren't many meth-heads with a fine eye for detail and, more importantly, a printer not already sold for meth. So I made my name, and the business opportunities started flooding in. And by "business" I mean "crime," and by "opportunities" I mean methamphetamines.
I was on my way to becoming the Wolf of 8-Ball Street.