Tracy of the Grey Market
In shadowed corners of the peptide trade,A figure loomed, half myth, half charade.
Known simply as Tracy, a dealer of dreams,
With roots in two worlds, or so it seems.
From France he hailed, yet his lineage tied
To China's heart where secrets hide.
Fluent in four tongues, his words were a dance,
But his avatar spoke: a beauty from France.
A porcelain face on a screen so fair,
Customers pondered, "Is Tracy even there?"
A woman? A man? The truth wasn’t clear,
Yet for cheap peptides, they overcame fear.
He took crypto payments, no fuss, no delay,
Yet patience was needed, for shipping’s slow way.
“A month at most,” he would gruffly decree,
“If you don’t like it, you’re not buying from me.”
Customer service? A far-off mirage,
Questions met with a virtual barrage.
“GlpKaren Fishsteak,” he’d type with disdain,
On forums, he ruled with contempt unrestrained.
But Tracy delivered—most of the time—
Even if waiting felt like a crime.
His loyal buyers, though often irate,
Knew he was the cheapest; they’d just have to wait.
Then came a post, cryptic and terse,
Before New Year, when business grew worse.
“No more orders, I’m going dark,”
A warning struck like a haunting spark.
Security concerns, he claimed with care,
Disappearing into the frosty air.
And lo, as Customs increased their hold,
The peptide trade grew silent and cold.
Tracy, the shadow, the master, the myth,
Vanished, his trail a mere wisp to drift.
Yet whispers remained, and hope lingered too,
That Tracy would rise like the spring's first dew.
For though he was brusque, and his dealings opaque,
The peptides he shipped could make bodies awake.
And so they await, with wallets in hand,
For Tracy’s return to this grey market land.
