The Hustle Gospel

You don’t start by selling your soul. No, that comes later.

You start with a dream. A fire in your gut and a pocket full of motivational quotes. You start with “grind” and “hustle” and whatever other buzzwords are trending on LinkedIn. You start with your best friends, guys you’ve known since fifth grade, when it was just video games and dirty jokes and pretending you didn’t care about being losers.

You start with beer and late-night talks that turn into brainstorms that turn into “Why the fuck not, man? Let’s go for it.”

And that’s the first domino. After that, it’s just gravity.

“Bro, listen.”

Alex leans in, eyes glittering with that shark-eyed hunger. The one that says he’s already two steps ahead, that he’s already thinking about how to flip this into profit. You’ve known Alex since he was the kid selling candy bars out of his backpack in the school hallway. Back when he still smiled for real, not like this—teeth bared, edges razor-sharp.

“There’s a gap in the market,” he says, leaning over the garage workbench like he’s pitching to a room of Fortune 500 execs. “People need this.”

You glance at the blueprint he’s sketched out. Crude, messy, but the idea’s there. A “fitness tracker” for pets. DogFit. You laugh, shaking your head, because it’s so stupid, so absurd. But then he hits you with the numbers. The pet industry. How much people spend on their dogs, their cats, their emotionally stunted iguanas.

“Bro,” he says, leaning in. “We’re talking millions.”

So, yeah. Why the fuck not? It’s all about scale, anyway. Start small. Scale up. Everyone’s gotta hustle.

Except.

DogFit never takes off. Three months of R&D, thousands in credit card debt, and your parents’ garage full of cheap knockoff electronics. Alex burns his prototypes in a fit of rage, curses the market, the economy, capitalism.

“We just didn’t go hard enough,” he says, hands shaking. “Next time. Next time, we go all-in.”

The next time is a pyramid scheme. Herbal supplements.

The pitch is easy. Low buy-in, high reward. Just get your friends to get their friends to sell it. But then the packages pile up in Alex’s basement, unopened. Your girlfriend dumps you because you’re always on the phone, pushing product, peddling bullshit.

“Have you tried AlphaMind?” you’re asking her during sex. “It boosts cognitive function—”

She slaps you.

The slap echoes. And you quit AlphaMind.

But not Alex. He’s on to the next. He’s always on to the next.

It’s just a matter of time before morals start looking like inconveniences.

“I’ve got a buddy,” Alex says, twitching from the three Adderalls he popped an hour ago. His eyes are red, bloodshot. “He can hook us up.”

“What kind of hook-up?” says Corey, the quiet one, the guy with the nerd glasses who hasn’t been the same since his start-up went under. Now he just nods along, like a passenger in a car speeding toward a cliff. But he’s still here. Because that’s what friends do, right? They stick together. Through the grind.

Alex grins. “We start importing.” And he lets the word drugs hang there, thick and heavy, until it fills the whole garage.

You wait for Corey to say something, anything, but all he does is nod.

And that’s it.

Drugs aren’t easy. Not like in the movies. No drive-bys or dark alleys. No shootouts.

You start small. Just a few ounces. Hand-offs in parking lots, cash in paper bags. Then it’s more. Pounds. Kilos. Dark web transactions that make your heart stutter every time you hit “Confirm.” You’re laundering money through fake invoices, building shell companies. You’re a fucking businessman. You’re almost proud.

But then Alex gets greedy. He always gets greedy.

“This is the one,” he keeps saying. A mantra. A prayer. Eyes wide, hands jittery. “This is the one that’s gonna put us over.”

It’s always the one.

Until he decides it’s time for a new product. Something “innovative.” Something no one else is pushing.

Something lethal.

Fentanyl.

Corey’s shaking his head. But you? You’re already numb. You’re in too deep. The shit’s already on your hands, soaked into your skin. Doesn’t matter if it’s cocaine or fentanyl or fucking cyanide. At the end of the day, it’s just numbers. ROI. A ledger you’re balancing with your soul.

“We shouldn’t—”

“Shut up, Corey.” Alex’s voice is low. Dangerous. He’s not your friend anymore. He’s something else. A machine built for money. A shark in a suit. “Do you want to be rich, or do you want to be right?”

Corey doesn’t answer. You all know the answer.

It’s the kids that break you.

The news flashes their faces—smiling, freckled, normal—plastered across screens like a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

“Three dead in suspected drug ring,” the anchor says, voice polished, professional. And then they list the victims. Names you’ll never forget. Names that will carve themselves into your nightmares.

And then.

Alex’s face.

“Suspects at large,” the anchor says, and your heart stops.

Because they know.

They know.

You’re driving. The wind’s howling past the cracked windows of the Impala. Corey’s slumped in the passenger seat, staring blankly out at the highway. And Alex?

Alex is still smiling.

“That’s it?” he says, shaking his head. “Three kids? That’s what breaks you?” He laughs, sharp and bitter, eyes wild. “We were gonna rule this city, man.”

You don’t answer. You just grip the wheel, knuckles white. Headlights flash by. Semis roar past. You don’t know where you’re going. You just know you can’t stop.

“Come on,” Alex whispers, leaning closer, voice soft. Coaxing. He still thinks he can talk his way out of this. Still thinks he can sell it. “Don’t you want to be a fucking legend?”

And then something snaps.

You jerk the wheel.

The car flips.

Glass shatters. Metal screams. Your whole world tilts, spins, folds in on itself like a broken promise. Time slows, stretches, warps.

And then—

Nothing.

You come to, hanging upside down. Blood in your mouth. Pain like fire in your chest.

Corey’s beside you, crumpled, unconscious. Alex is a ragdoll in the backseat, face slick with blood.

But he’s still smiling.

“Hey, man,” he slurs, voice wet, bubbling. “This… this can’t stop us.”

You laugh. Or maybe you sob. You’re not sure.

“Don’t you get it?” you whisper, choking on the words. “It’s over.”

Alex blinks, blood trickling down his forehead. And then, slowly, that smile fades. His eyes go blank. Cold.

“You’re such a quitter.”

He says it like a curse.

And that’s when you do it.

You reach up, fingers trembling, and unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Yeah,” you murmur, and shove him.

Alex drops. Headfirst. A sickening crunch. His eyes go wide, lips parting in surprise.

“Guess I am.”

And then, you close your eyes.

Because every hustle has an end.