Chris Blum. Photo by Ryan Schill
Editor’s Note: The following story contains graphic language and images. It may not be suitable for all readers.
One day, long before he found himself wanting to die in a cheap motel, Chris Blum got caught shooting up heroin at work.
Needless to say, he lost his job.
“That’s when I started going sort of full time. I was going out helping my drug dealer get money,” he said.
And then, Blum said, he had an epiphany.
“Man, I know where my drug dealers keep their money,” he said, laughing quietly. “I can jack them motherfuckers, too.” So Blum got a few of his buddies together and planned the heist.
At a table in a quiet coffee shop in suburban Atlanta, Blum mimed holding two guns with his hands, pointing his index finger at me and sticking up his thumb like a child playing cops and robbers. A bit too loudly for the coffee shop patio he said, “Freeze!”
“Then we’d kick the fucking door down, take the shit and leave. It was a good day.” Blum chuckled. A man sitting at an adjacent table looked uncomfortable.
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