[ WP ] You are a travelled drug-dealer in the state of New York and open a pizza place as a cover for a drug operation . In doing so , you find your true passion , making pizza .

`` Chessie?'' 
 
 Chester Finkman, an old culinary student of mine, had just fallen out of the upstairs window of the house next to the kitchen that Frank was busting. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He put his finger against his lips and ran for the hills. 
 
 `` Told ya Sargent Science was a Mex.'' Frank said when he got back. 
 
 `` Yeah, yeah.'' His partner, Lopez, never seemed to let Frank's racially tinged jabs get under his skin. 
 
 My brother in law worked for the FEA, the Food Enforcement Administration. He'd invited me on a ride along, and somehow, in this particular fast food bust, Chessie was there. It was almost fate, I knew what I had to do. 
 
 I walked up to Chessie's house. It had been a day since the bust and he had n't made it far. His license plate read'SGTSCNC', he was clearly no expert, but he was the closest thing I had. I knocked on his door, waited for a cautious response, and instead got a door wide open to a squinting Chessie. 
 
 `` Mistah Night? Look, what happened the other day, it's not what you think-'' 
 
 `` Chessie, I know you're in the pizza business, that's why I'm here.'' 
 
 `` What are ya talking about, Mistah Night?'' 
 
 `` I want to make pizza.'' 
 
 `` What?'' 
 
 `` I want to make pizza. I'm a chef, you have connections in the business. We can make lots of money together.'' 
 
 That's when my Empire began. The more I cooked, the more I told myself that I was doing this for the money, to help my family. They did n't know that I had breast cancer yet. How could I tell them? We could barely afford life as it was, what were they going to do when I was gone? But the longer that I molded the dough, mixed the sauce, grated the cheese, I knew. I knew that this was what I was born to do. 
 
 `` Walton, are you going to snort your crack?'' 
 
 `` I- I'm not hungry.'' I had too much on my mind to eat. My wife was just trying to help, but all I could think about was my cancer... and... and pizza. I could n't get my mind off of it. I had to make it for the money. I had to make it for the money. I had to... I had to make it. 
 
 My family did n't take my cancer well. The treatments were frequent and expensive. I had to kick my pizza production into overdrive. I *wanted* to kick my pizza production into overdrive. It was exhilarating. I had already killed twenty people, five just for looking at my pepperonis wrong. Chessie and I were at the top of the game. 
 
 `` Say my name.'' I had made a pseudonym to hide my real name, and he knew it. 
 
 `` Say my name.'' I said again. I knew he knew, everyone knew who's pizza was the purest. 
 
 `` Boyardee.'' he replied. 
 
 `` You're dough flippin' right.'' 
 
 I killed them all. 
 
 The chemo had made me bald, and the fedora made me look saucy. People had made a drawing, a symbol for me, and everyone who saw it knew what it meant. My Empire was growing, I was getting in more money than I could handle. More money than I should have. I had to create a reason for it. 
 
 I started my own meth lab. A five star restaurant. I knew nothing about chemistry, but I would make it work. Everybody would want my signature blue meth, and from there I could create the illusion of profit. The government would assume that my money came from my resturant, but it would actually be from my pizza. A money laundering scheme, it was perfect.
