The Great Friesinbag: Cooking the American Dream

    "The Great Gatsby X Breaking Bad"  Fan Fiction

Click Play Theme to set the mood 🎧 🎶

In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father was absent, and I was raised in absolute poverty.

All I remember of him was the faint smell of soap—sterile, faint, and clean in an ironic way.
He died of Huntington's disease when I was six.
Since then, I chased the American Dream like it owed me something.
I studied until my mind burned, graduating at the top of my class from Caltech—the so-called genius everyone expected to become a rich, respected, world-class chemist.
And for a while, I believed them.
Does anyone want to guess how my life turned out after the pursuit?
I'm a high school chemistry teacher scraping by on minimum wage, which barely covers rent, haunted by the illusion I once had about my future.
Walking to class, I reminisce about my own high-school days—when, just like many of my students, I used to yearn for that American Dream to be mine.
Now I'm laughed at and judged by kids who know nothing about my past or the picture of Friesinbag that I once painted for myself.
One day, I tell myself, I'll break through this life and truly become Friesinbag—by making generational wealth and building an empire.

JAMES WHITE

While I'm lost in thought, my phone rings.

It's my brother-in-law, a DEA agent named TJ "Specs" Schrader—he wears big yellow glasses and carries a heart carved out of justice.

TJ SCHRADER

"James, hear this," he says. "We just caught one of the biggest dealers in Albuquerqhattan—Gus Wolfring. Runs the fast-food chain Los Momos Amigos. We hauled four million dollars in cash."

"Four million?" I ask.
"Yep. You heard that right."
"That's crazy, TJ. You think I can come with you to see him? What does a man with that much money even look like?"
TJ chuckles. "Sure, James. You need something fun in that boring life of yours."
I sit next to TJ while he interrogates Meyer, who's sweating but smug—confident he'll be out in no time.
TJ leaves to get coffee for both of us, and I'm left alone with Meyer.
He looks at me like I'm beneath him.
After a moment, he asks, "What do you do for a living, Mr. White?"
"I teach chemistry," I reply.
"How much money do you make doing that?"
"Not as much as you," I answer.
He smirks. "You think this is all I've got? This is a fraction of what I make in a month."
I look at him in disbelief and wonder, Is this the green light I've been yearning for?

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "Can you tell me how you made this much money, old sport?"

He stares at me for a long time. "By selling the product," he says at last. "I have a chemist from Germany—Gale Carraway. Best in the business."
"Gale Carraway?" I repeat. "I could out-cook him in my sleep. If you want real perfection, partner me with Gale."
Meyer laughs. "You'd work for me? With a DEA brother-in-law watching your every move? That's rich."
TJ returns, furious. "He's walking free—no evidence," he mutters.
Meyer grins. "Told you."
TJ slams his hand on the table. "I'll catch you, Meyer. I won't let a drug lord walk free."
Meyer only glances at me as he's led out, a look that says we'll talk later.

MEYER WOLFRING

A few weeks pass before I visit Los Momos Amigos.

ELLIOT BUTTCANEN

Meyer acts like we've never met.
"What'll you have?" he asks.
"One Diet Coke," I say, "and five minutes of your time."
He sighs and sits. "We're not alike, Mr. White. You don't have what it takes."
"If you don't partner with me," I tell him quietly, "I'll start cooking myself. I'll disrupt your market. And if you try to kill me, the DEA will come straight for you."
He stares. Then he nods once.
The deal is struck.
Six months and seven weeks pass.
We've made over $6 million, and I quit teaching.
But deep inside, the dream feels incomplete.
The incarnation of Friesinbag needs something more.
That's when I remember Gretchen Buttcannen—the woman I loved in college—now married to Elliot Buttcannen.

We were once engaged, until I left, humiliated by her generational wealth.

I swore I'd earn enough to deserve her, but she married a big-eared, wealthy, aggressive man instead.
I meet them at a café in my flashy yellow Rolls-Royce Corniche.
We sip coffee awkwardly, wincing at Elliot's comments:
"It's up to us, the dominant race, to watch out, or these other races will have control of things."
Then his phone rings; he steps out.
Gretchen's eyes glisten.
I ask what's wrong.
"Elliot's cheating on me," she whispers.
"Leave him. Come with me," I say. "Let's relive our past. This time, I can give you everything."
She shakes her head. "He'd kill me if I tried."
Elliot returns, and they leave.
That night, I realized their mansion sits directly across the bay from mine.
A green light glows at the end of their dock—always on.

I watch it every night after work, wondering:

If Gretchen knew what I really did for a living, would she still love me?
I don't have the answer.
A sweltering day arrives—the hottest in Albuquerquhattan that year.
I see Elliot's blue coupe pull away and decide it's my chance.
Inside, Gretchen and I drink tea, sitting too close, eyes locked.
I lean toward her—and the door bursts open.
Meyer Salamanca stands there, shocked.
Before we can speak, footsteps thunder upstairs.
Elliot appears, staring in disbelief.
"What the hell are you both doing here?" he yells.
Gretchen panics, begging him to calm down.
She rushes me toward the door.
I resist, turning back.
"Elliot," I say, "she doesn't love you anymore. She never did."
I look at Gretchen. "Tell him."
Tears fill her eyes.
"I love you, James," she says softly, "but I also loved Elliot.
Why isn't it enough that I love you right now?
Why must I say I only love you?"
We stare at each other in silence.
Then I leave.
"Call me tomorrow," I say. "Tell me your decision."
Meyer walks me outside.
"You can never win her, James," he says. "You're just a Meth cook. She'll never love you."
I raise my gun, trembling. "Say my name, Old Sport."
He says. "Friesinbag."
The shot rings out.
That night, I couldn't sleep—not because I'd shot Meyer, but because of the ache that Gretchen left behind.

I sit by the window, staring at the

 green light, waiting for Gretchen's call.

By morning, I can't take it anymore.
I drive to the Buttcannens' mansion.
A crowd gathers in their garden.
I push through and stop cold.
Gretchen hangs from the balcony, still and silent—unable to live knowing I loved her while she remained trapped with Elliot.
The phone never rang.
Across the bay, the green light keeps burning—bright, distant, and eternal; 

My dream remained a dream forever.

So I cooked on, 99.1% pure meth, fire against the current, borne back ceaselessly toward the woman that I loved, forever chasing the illusion of becoming 'Friesinbag'.