Chapter 363: Bargaining
Fring used "Chicken Brothers" as a smuggling network—but he didn't treat it as a mere tool. On the contrary, he ran it with genuine care.
The result? What started as a cover had exploded in reputation, becoming one of the top fast-food brands in the country. At least for Frank, their burgers and fried chicken easily beat places like McDonald's or KFC.
And that wasn't all.
Fring was also a well-known local philanthropist. He maintained excellent relations with law enforcement, frequently donating to police departments and supporting charitable causes.
When Frank searched for information about him online, he found article after article about Fring's donations—along with photos of him shaking hands with police chiefs.
Fring hadn't just built a business façade—he had crafted an entire public persona to match.
No narcotics officer, no matter how sharp, would ever suspect that the man funding their operations—their "friend of the police"—was actually a major drug kingpin.
At that point, "a mouse feeding milk to a cat" didn't even begin to describe it.
Given how meticulous and cautious he was, it was no surprise Fring had lasted this long without being caught. Just as Goodman had said—he truly was a master.
After exchanging a few pleasantries, Fring suddenly spoke.
"I have a question."
"Go ahead," Frank replied.
"Are you an addict? I don't do business with people who use."
Fring studied him carefully. Frank's pale complexion and frail condition did resemble that of a long-term user.
"Don't worry," Frank said calmly. "None of us use. In fact, that's a strict rule for joining Heisenberg—no exceptions. As for me… I'm sick."
"Sick?" Fring asked. "May I ask with what?"
"No point hiding it. Cirrhosis. Late stage."
"…My condolences."
Fring paused, then added, "Given your condition, our future cooperation…"
"This is my last time handling things personally," Frank said, taking a sip from his empty cup—only to hear the hollow slurp of air through the straw. "Someone else will take over my role afterward. It won't affect our partnership."
Without a word, Fring stood up, walked behind the counter, and refilled his drink.
"Thank you," Frank said, accepting the cup.
"Now then," he continued, "let's talk business. I assume I don't need to introduce Blue Angel."
"I've heard plenty," Fring replied. "Its purity is… extraordinary."
"You've tried reverse-engineering it," Frank said with a faint smile. "With your own chemists and labs. And failed."
Fring didn't respond—but his silence was confirmation enough.
"We need volume," Fring said, shifting fully into negotiation mode. "At least 200 pounds per week."
Two hundred pounds.
Roughly ninety-one kilograms.
And that was just weekly demand.
Multiply that by four, and you were looking at over eight hundred pounds a month.
The scale was staggering.
"You know our production capacity," Frank said evenly.
Even if Heisenberg stopped supplying Chicago and New York entirely and redirected everything to Fring, it still wouldn't meet that demand.
"I'm aware," Fring said.
Blue Angel's limited supply was famous in the underworld. Every month, only a fixed amount circulated—first come, first served.
That scarcity had turned it into something priceless.
At high-end parties—especially among wealthy elites, celebrities, and trust-fund heirs—producing Blue Angel wasn't just about drugs.
It was status.
Fring knew all of this.
And yet, he still asked for such a massive quantity.
A classic opening move—start high, push hard.
Because in business, everything was negotiation.
Like buying sapphires in Sri Lanka.
The seller might name a price of 350,000.
The buyer counters: "Thirty. Take it or leave it."
And somewhere in between… the real deal begins.
There was nothing wrong with that—of course there wasn't.
"We've recently improved the formula," Frank said, abruptly shifting the topic instead of continuing to haggle over supply.
"Improved?" Fring's brows furrowed slightly.
"That's right. The reason supply was so limited before was due to flaws in the formula—it restricted production," Frank explained.
"…You mean…" Fring caught on instantly, his pupils shrinking.
"Exactly. With the improved formula, output will increase significantly. As for how much—that's still being tested."
With the factory completed and the underground lab now operational, production capacity had naturally surged. That cramped, makeshift RV lab was officially a thing of the past.
"That said," Frank added calmly, "even with increased production, Chicago and New York remain priority markets. You're third in line."
"I understand." Fring nodded, no longer probing about exact quantities.
He adjusted immediately—like a seasoned negotiator.
"When Goodman spoke to you, he should've mentioned our requirements," Frank continued, raising two fingers. "We only have two conditions for local partners. First—no addicts. Second—you must have established smuggling channels."
"He did mention that," Fring said. "So, what exactly do you need from us?"
"Transportation," Frank replied. "Using your channels. I assume you rely on this fast-food chain for distribution?"
His gaze drifted meaningfully toward the "Chicken Brothers" sign.
Fring didn't deny it.
"What do you want us to transport?" he asked.
"Blue Angel, of course. What else would it be?" Frank said plainly.
Fring's eyes lit up, a flicker of excitement breaking through his usual composure.
"You intend to entrust all distribution to us?"
"You're overestimating yourself," Frank said dryly. "You'll handle one segment—this route to Chicago."
His tone made it clear: this was just a single link in a much larger chain.
A transit point.
Nothing more.
"Your job is simple," Frank continued. "Move the product safely from here to Chicago. That's it. Don't ask where it comes from. Don't ask where it goes after."
The implication was deliberate.
Frank was guiding Fring's assumptions—carefully shaping the narrative.
The goal was simple: never let him suspect that production was happening in New Mexico.
Instead, Fring would believe the product merely passed through his territory.
And naturally, Fring began filling in the gaps himself.
He knew Blue Angel had first appeared in Chicago—its reputation built there before spreading outward.
If it were being produced in Chicago, then logically, shipments should flow outward from there—not into it.
Which meant…
The source had to be elsewhere.
But where exactly?
That… remained hidden.
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