"Out back of a dumpster, I found 36 cases of champagne! We can bring that here and sell it, man!"
Well, that sounded fairly reasonable, and off they went; it took several trips to get it all here, and Layne and Garet and I reorganized, stacking cases of champagne in the corner of the kitchen, next to my desk, in the apartment's sole closet. 36 boxes full of bottles of Hungarian champagne. Ten years later, I still have one of the boxes; the champagne, however, is long gone.
Not because Jackson sold it, of course.
His idea was this: He'd take a bottle or three in his backpack and walk up at down the Strip and Fremont Street selling it for $5 per bottle. But would you buy champagne from a wild-eyed tweaker? Well, neither would the tourists. $3. $1. No dice. So he started moving out of the tourist areas into the seedier local areas; he made some sales there. Not enough to pay our rent, though.
A side effect of this... since we were broke, we could not afford to buy beverages. Could barely afford food - we lived on ramen when I couldn't manage to shoplift much. So what did we end up doing?
Drinking the champagne. At every meal. Beef-flavored ramen and Hungarian champagne. Breakfast of champions.