A cook is no good without a proper distributor. Initially, that was all you'd wanted. Then Gus Fring had swept in like the fairy God mother of illicit substances and offered you the world.

"What is this?"

You questioned as he led you underground. The area was hidden beneath a laundry, entirely inconspicuous.

"Your new lab."

Gustavo answered plainly.

In truth, the room was incredible. Blood red tiles, an omen perhaps, with what must have been a small fortune of equipment. How nice that would have been, in your earlier days.

Your soon to be new boss watched you examine your new workspace, a faint hint of satisfaction behind his eyes when you commented on all the fantastic things it held.

"I need 200 pounds per week to make this economically viable."

He finally announces.

"You would choose your own hours, of course, come and go as you please. So long as the quota is met."

It was all a chemist could ask for, though perhaps a little too good to be true. Still, would it be ridiculous to look a gift-horse in the mouth?