anabolic extreme archives issue #2 dnp and insulin 2

January 2000
Issue #6

The Jason Meuller Story
By Jason Mueller

So, just who the hell is this Jason Meuller character anyway? He comes out of nowhere, produces this webzine called Anabolic Extreme, and actually has the audacity to tell the truth! However, we know nothing about him, he hasn't ever posted a picture, for all we know this guy weighs 150 lbs and has 15-inch biceps. Valid points, all.

So who am I? Well, that story will be told in full detail eventually. For now, you'll have to settle for the Readers Digest Condensed version. Here goes.

Let's start with my name. Jason Meuller is a pseudonym, allowing me to keep my real identity a secret. Why is this necessary? Well, I'm on felony probation for possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance, namely anabolic steroids. That's right my friends, I'm an ex-steroid dealer. My past is not something I'm particularly proud of, not something that I share with most people that know me. For the most part, I'm known as the nutrition guy who is surprisingly smart for his size. Sort of a backhanded compliment, but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I first started bodybuilding at the age of 16, when I was about 5'10" and 120 lbs. At that time, I didn't have visions of setting the world on fire with my physique, my goal was to put on enough muscle to avoid being harassed at school. I have always been athletically gifted, prior to my foray into the world of bodybuilding I was a nationally ranked long distance runner. One of the reasons why I'd never put on a great deal of weight was that the sports I was involved in kept me unnaturally thin. While the rest of the kids in my school were worrying about sneaking out and getting loaded on the weekends, I was trying to figure out how to shave an extra minute off my 10-mile time. At some point, I became disenchanted with long distance running. I can distinctly remember running one day and asking myself, "Why the hell am I doing this?" I quit that sport and picked up bodybuilding almost immediately.

In 8 months, I put on 60 lbs. During my sophomore year in high school, I weighed 120 lbs. When I returned for my junior year, I was 180 lbs. No one knew who I was, and even my friends were amazed at the change. By the time my senior year rolled around, I was weighing 210 lbs, fairly lean. My high school actually has a bodybuilding show and I competed in it, taking second in the heavyweight division. I competed at a bodyweight of about 180 lbs. I graduated that year at about 220 lbs, one of the biggest guys at my school. I had literally undergone a complete physical transformation in two years.

Time for college. To say that I had led a sheltered existence up to this point in my life would be an understatement. My mother was an extremely religious woman and did her best to protect me from the evils of the world. Let me tell you, she did a great job. When I moved to go to college and away from her overprotective reach, the shock was almost more than I could bear. In high school, I hadn't dated a whole lot. Christ, I didn't even go out the night of my graduation because my mom was afraid I'd get killed by a drunk. In college, I discovered women like muscular guys. A lot. We'd throw parties at my apartment and I'd be running around in a pair of gym shorts, trying to get laid. In retrospect, I had to be the cheesiest fuck on the planet, but I was loving life. Grades suffered as a result of my newfound freedom. I was beginning a pattern I would exhibit for years to come, immersing myself totally into bodybuilding to the detriment of everything else in my life.

In 1990, my brother was killed while flying an FA/18 off the coast of California. I had never known my father, he abandoned all of us when I was three. My brother, who was eight years older than me, basically took on the role of father to me. I worshipped him, and everything he did. From the time he was a child, he had wanted to be a fighter pilot. By the time he was 23, he was in the Marine Corps, learning how to fly fighters. His drive and determination to succeed was inspirational. His death marked a turning point in my life. I lost all of my focus and direction, the only thing I cared about was my girlfriend and bodybuilding. I was 20 years old at the time.

For the next few years, I attended college and pretended like I cared about my major in Food Science and Dietetics. I was attending college full time and working two jobs, managing both a World's Gym and a mini-storage facility on weekends. World Gym, it was here I had my first experience with anabolic steroids. This was one of those clubs that will never exist again, the kind of place where you walked in the bathroom and routinely saw guys taking shots and everyone was on gear. Christ, every night when I emptied the trash I was tossing at least 10 used syringes. This was right after the Anabolic Steroid Control Act of 1991 had passed and gear was still all over the place. Imagine me, totally naïve and innocent, being dropped into a situation where I'm seeing these huge guys stick needles in their ass. It was both shocking and eye-opening at the same time. I honestly believed all of the horseshit lies that were told in the magazines, at the time bodybuilding publications never discussed steroid use. Weider was on the top of his game, he had all of the stars at the time doing ads for his supplements, praising them for the slabs of muscle each concoction had added to their physique. If the magazines did discuss steroids, it was some tabloid story talking about the dangers of their use.

In retrospect, I think about how naïve I was and I have to laugh. I honestly believed that all of the pro bodybuilders in Flex and Muscle and Fitness were natural. I don't know who the hell I thought was using steroids, but I didn't think it was the Lee Haney's, the Rich Gaspari's, or the Shawn Ray's of the sport. I thought that steroid using bodybuilders were lazy, that they used steroids because they lacked the dedication to succeed without them. I wanted to believe this, I needed to because my value system precluded me from considering using gear. It would be unfathomable for me to accept that I would never be able to compete professionally without using steroids because that was something I was unwilling to do.

So what happened? Well, in 1993 my training partner decided he was going to enter the teen Cal. He and I were extremely competitive, although he was 3 years my junior, he had established some teen powerlifting records (which still stand to this day) and was very strong for his age. Our workouts were brutal, with neither of us willing to concede victory to the other. About 8 weeks out from the show, my buddy confided in me that he had been using deca preloads from Mexico for the past two weeks. In the face of this, my resolve weakened. I had been exposed to steroid use for several months, and the only side effect I was seeing was that everyone on them seemed bigger than me. Now my best friend is admitting to me that he's been using them and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him start kicking my ass in the gym. In two days, I had purchased 6 Mexican sustanon preloads at an exorbitant cost from one of the gyms dealers. He told me to take one a week for six weeks and I'd get great results. He was right.

I started my first cycle at 235 lbs. In six weeks, I was up to 250 lbs. I had been stuck at 235 for over a year, and I put on the 15 lbs without changing my diet or training program. It was too easy. I began researching steroids thoroughly, buying all the books I could possibly get my hand on. I became obsessed, literally thinking I was but a few cycles away from bodybuilding success.

I guess it's only natural that steroids fascinated me after the effect they had on my physique. I was a junior in college when I started my first cycle, and I could barely afford rent, much less expensive drugs like steroids. So, I started doing what a lot of enterprising first time steroid users do, I started dealing. It was easy, I grew up in a small town and every time I went home, I had every wanna-be in town asking me to hook them up with a cycle. First I started to sell small quantities of Mexican gear. It was fairly simple, I was moving small amounts of sustanon 250 other Mexican drugs in exchange for getting my own drugs at cost. Soon, I was known as the man to come to if you wanted steroids. Even the cops knew I was a dealer, for some reason they chose to leave me alone. I was selling steroids to a friend of mine in the police academy and he was going along on regular ride-along with the local police force. He said all the cops on the force referred to me as the "Steroid kid". Quite an honor.

Through nothing but my own stupidity and a lack of other options, my business was steadily increasing. I was literally the only ball game in town for these guys. Additionally, I hooked up with a new source for gear that was doing the drug ordering for several large hospitals in the town I was attending college. This guy, who had been considered a complete and utter knob what with the cruel politics of World Gym, was suddenly elevated to celebrity status. He was like a kid with a new toy. He wielded his new power like a 10 year old with his first Red Ryder bb gun. I knew it was only a matter of time before this guy got popped, he was so open about his ability to acquire American steroids that we had bodybuilders from across town showing up at the gym, inquiring about this idiot. He couldn't have been less sly than if he wore a sandwich board around town with "Steroid Dealer" written in big red letters on both sides. I was buying cases of American anadrol, cypionate, propionate, and deca from this guy and selling them as fast as he could get them in. He was also selling to several other people in town, I can only imagine the huge paper trail he was leaving at his place of work.

Did I mention this guy was a total knob? Yeah, I think I did. He was charging me $80 for a vial of cypionate, $300 for a bottle of anadrol, and $15 for a 200 mg vial of deca. He had the balls to tell me he was hardly making any money off of me, that he was selling me the products very near his cost. He was smart enough to always remove the labels from the bottles, the company he was buying them from put their stickers on each and every vial to advertise their company. Unfortunately for him, he got lazy and left the stickers on a box of deca vials that I picked up. I immediately called the company, claiming I did the drug ordering for a medical group and requested a catalog. I received it in the mail about 5 days later. It turns out his cost on anadrol was about $80, his cost on the testosterone was about $7, and the decas were running about $8. Once I got the catalog in, I requested a meeting with this guy. I showed him copies of the catalog pages and told him that unless he wanted me to show the catalog to everyone in town, I 'd better start getting products at a reduced cost. Look, I'm not opposed to someone making a profit from illegal activity. This guy was taking a huge risk and should have received some kind of compensation. He also should have been upfront with everyone and not lied to us, acting like he was our friend and giving us all a sweet deal. I had no qualms about using strong-arm tactics with this tool, because he didn't have the balls to admit what he was doing. Suddenly I'm getting anadrols for $150, and 10 mg vials of test for $30. I didn't ask him to lower the price on the decas, it was the only product he had not really been making a killing off of anyway. Realistically I could have required him to sell me products at his cost, but like I said, I'm not opposed to someone making a profit when they're taking a huge risk. Besides, this guy had kids and I knew he'd probably need the money for an attorney once he got popped. I know, I know, I'm a real sweetheart.

Like I said, I knew his days were numbered. To get back at me because I won't have sex with her, the owner of the gym I'm managing tells my friend's father that we're both on steroids. This is my buddy I had mentioned earlier, the one who had the teen powerlifting records. His father was a high school counselor who, like most of "normal" society, viewed steroids with the same disdain as heroin. His brother also happened to be a state narcotics officer. The gym owner, acting as if she's a concerned friend, tells my friend's father that we're getting all of our steroids from the knob, and that I'm the reason why his son is using them in the first place. Little does this guy know that she's keeping the gym afloat buy selling coke and steroids to everyone in town, Christ, she was not only getting back at me, but she was wiping out her competition. And who says women are devious? So, my friend's Dad calls his brother and a week later, the DEA shows up at the knobs work and take him into custody. He's screwed, he's the kind of guy that would roll in a split second, but since he's at the top of the food chain, they're not interested. My friend had been living with me because his parents were going through an ugly divorce, and guess who shows up at my door? His dad, and he's not happy. After a long talk with his father, he tells me he's not going to sic the police on me. Actually, for being a high school counselor with a masters degree, his father was incredibly stupid. The guy was totally out of touch with reality, but after a lifetime in academia, how am I going to convince him that his son and I weren't drug addicts?

So, for a while, I cleaned up my act. Which isn't to say I went clean, it just means I ceased my steroid dealing. I had dodged a bullet and I wasn't about to tempt fate twice so soon. Shortly after this incident happened, I ended up moving about 3 hours away to a new city. My then girlfriend had graduated from college, and had finished up her student teaching. Yes, she was a schoolteacher. Surprised? Hey, don't get me wrong, my life wasn't one long back alley drug deal after another. I'm very intelligent. At the time, except for my extreme muscularity, I was very clean cut. I was certainly involved in more than my fair share of felonious activities, but I was also working and attending school full time. Although this may sound like a dichotomy, I'm totally anti-drug. I've never smoked, I think I've tried pot maybe 5 times in my life (much less than some of our Presidential candidates), and with the exception of GHB and steroids, I've never used any other drug. I don't drink, and never really have to any appreciable degree in the past. In my mind, steroids are in a far different category than recreational drugs. Unfortunately, I would later find out that this distinction was only in my mind, it's not a point of view shared by the criminal justice system.

One of the reasons why I moved was to get away from my past. I thought if I moved, I could get away from my previous lifestyle, and start over with a clean slate. Quite honestly, I could have. However, it wasn't too often that I was falling into my old habits. Like I said before, even though I had stopped dealing, I hadn't stopped using. I was rapidly running out of gear and I needed to replenish my stash. Now that I had stopped selling steroids, my hometown was drier than a 100 year old well. I literally had dozens of guys begging me to hook them up with cycles. So, given the fact that I needed gear and really had no way to pay for it, it was time to take a trip to Mexico, financed by my customers. Here I am, 23 years old, getting my now schoolteacher girlfriend to help me smuggle anabolic steroids across the Mexican border. Quite frankly, I think back on how selfish I was and it literally makes me sick.

Fortunately for us, we never got stopped at the border. Although I was a very muscular 265 lbs by now, I always covered up as much as possible as we drove through border checkpoints with a car stashed to the brim with juice. I would literally be pissing my pants every time, while she was so nonchalant that I really think she had no idea the trouble we would have gotten into if we were ever stopped. Goodbye teaching career, goodbye freedom. She was so bold that she even asked the border agent to take our picture during one trip through the checkpoint. Ahh, ignorance is bliss.

Six trips like this and I was well stocked. My customers were happy and so was I. I decided we had used up all of our luck in Mexico and vowed never to return. Now that I had a plethora of goods, I was ready to take my bodyweight up in preparation for national level competition. Quite honestly, I've only competed in a few shows. Once I started using steroids, I never wanted to diet down. I was constantly growing. My whole plan of attack was to win a national qualifier and place well at a national show the same year. I wanted to burst on the scene in a big way, with everyone saying, "Where the hell has this guy been?" While training in Gold's Gym one day, I ran into an individual we'll refer to as the Wop. Please don't write me and tell me I'm a racist, if he doesn't mind then you shouldn't either. For some reason, the Wop and I clicked. Normally I never talked about steroids with anyone I didn't know, but 5 minutes after meeting this guy, we're discussing cycles and strategies like we've known each other for years. He tells me I should come by his house the next day and he'll show me a few things. I agree and we shake hands.

When I arrive at his house the next day, he starts whipping out products left and right. It's obvious he's a dealer. For whatever reason, he's taken me into his confidence. Like I said, we clicked. To make a long story short, it's not too long before I'm working for this guy, both legitimately and as a steroid dealer. He's head of security at a popular nightclub and gets me a job as a bouncer. Additionally, I'm now moving steroids for him, and he's got everything. I'm going to school to finish my degree in Food Science and Dietetics, working at night at the club, and selling steroids every chance I get.

Ultimately, through nothing but our own stupidity and lack of other options (again), we climb the ladder of steroid dealing success. I start playing the vital role of transportation, driving down to Oceanside, CA once every two weeks to pick up the steroids. The Wop is just like me, totally against recreational drug use of any kind, and makes sure that any of his lower level dealers stay away from any kind of recreational dealing. We start moving an insane amount of gear, I'm picking up $50,000 dollars worth of shit every two weeks.

While all of this is going on, my bodyweight is shooting through the roof. Before I met the Wop, I ate perfectly, the chicken and brown rice 6 times a day. Additionally, I was using very small amounts of gear, probably no more than 500 mg per week. After he and I become training partners, I'm eating 8 times a day, four meals of which are probably fast food. Because we're coming into contact with a lot of top level athletes because of our ahem, "business ventures", we rapidly modify our gear programs to reflect dosages that are more realistic for our goals. These guys are buying gear from us and informing us that 500 mg a week just isn't going to cut it, it's time to get serious. I start using 2 g of testosterone per week, on top of a variety of other steroids.

Our training sessions are legendary. Quite honestly, I've seen all the top guys train. I've never seen anyone train with the intensity we did. Not only intensity, but unbelievable strength as well. Barbell curls with 225 lbs. Upright rows with 315 lbs. Bent over rows with 495 lbs. He had knee problems and couldn't really squat, but I've done singles with over 700 lbs. My bodyweight creeps toward 295 lbs at about 12% bodyfat.

During this period we met a lot of influential people in the sport of bodybuilding. One guy, in particular, was about to have a major impact on our future. He published a fairly well bodybuilding newsletter and we started corresponding with him on a regular basis. I met up with this person on a trip down south and showed him a few duffel bags filled with gear. Needless to say, his jaw dropped. As we get to know him better, he asks us to help him out. He's having serious financial difficulties and needs to make some quick cash. We enter into an agreement with him whereby he sets up a deal, and ends up with the lion's share of the profits, making about $6000. I think the Wop is making $1,500 and I'm taking payment in gear and a large cycle of growth hormone. I've got the Cal coming up in a few months and I need the gear and growth to win the show.

He sets up the deal, I think the total agreed upon price is around $35,000. When I can, I'll print the actual police report on the site, it will make you cry. The amount of gear that ends up getting seized is depressing. Whoops! The cat's out of the bag, I'm getting ahead of myself. The deal is set to go down in a parking lot. From the beginning, the Wop and I are nervous as hell. Something doesn't feel right. However, we find out that our friend has already told the parties that are paying for the drugs exactly what hotel and room we are staying in. Genius. We've got no choice but to proceed. We drive to the lot in my car, we ultimately find out we had feds following us in cars and in a helicopter. However, we don't spot a thing. We get to the lot and park the car. I hand our friend the keys and he walks the paying party over to the car. As soon as the door is open and the drugs are viewed, all hell breaks loose. Feds start coming out of everywhere in trucks and sports cars. It's like something out of a bad cop flick. The Wop and I know we're fucked. He starts laying down, I turn to run. Like at 295 lbs, I can go anywhere. Suddenly, I've got like 20 guns in my face and the running idea doesn't seem as attractive as it did a few moments ago.

As it turns out, we are part of a major investigation. We get arrested by agents from the DEA, FBI, Department of Justice, and local cops. There were probably over 50 law enforcement officers on the scene. However, after interviewing us, the cops seem to be very disappointed. We were not major drug dealers, we were a couple of dumb bodybuilders who'd gotten in way over our heads. Instead of doing the smart thing and keeping our mouths shut, we readily admitted our involvement from beginning to end. Really, I think they found our saga quite boring. We were two bodybuilders whose business grew because we gave people honest deals. We didn't carry guns, we didn't strong arm people, and we didn't have a massive underground network set up to distribute drugs. The only thing we didn't tell them was the name of our connection, I mean, he had always taken care of us, it was never an option for us to turn him in for a lighter sentence. To do so was unthinkable.

I spent seven days in jail. If you've never been to jail, make sure you're never in a situation that will send you there. People who say that jail doesn't bother them say that because they have nothing to look forward to on the outside. In there I was surrounded by people whose sole desire was to get out and get high again. "Man, I can't wait to get out so I can":

smoke crack
snort coke
shoot heroin
smoke pot
all of the above

It was like being in a nightmare. All I could think about was the fact that I just threw my life away. If I tell my mother, she's going to be crushed. If my fiancés parents find out, they're going to be crushed. Not only was my fiancé at the time a schoolteacher, but her Dad was the Superintendent of the school district she taught in and her stepmother was also a schoolteacher. Every adult male on my father's side of the family is an attorney, with one of my uncles serving as the DA to a major California city. I had thrown away 5 years of college. I knew this was going to go down as a felony, and registered dieticians generally work in hospitals. No hospital is going to hire a felon convicted on drug charges. In one fell swoop, I had effectively destroyed my life.

For the last year I was dealing, I had been working as a peace officer in the criminal justice system as a juvenile corrections officer. I can tell you that my own criminal activity gave me special insight into the ordeals a lot of these kids were facing. The last year of my life consisted of working as a CO for five days a week and traveling down to Southern California and back on my two days off in order to get the steroids up here for sale. Naturally, I was forced to quit my job after my arrest. On top of everything else, I'm now out of work.

Have you ever heard the saying that money buys justice? Nothing truer has ever been uttered. Let me tell you how the criminal justice system works. If you've got money, you can get away with murder (a la OJ), if you don't have money, you're screwed. The only way to get a deal cut with the DA is to stretch the process out for as long as possible. Usually, you get your best deal the day before you're set to go to trial, and that can take as long as a year. So, let's say you don't have any money, and can't make bail. Are you going to cool your heels in jail for a year to try and get a deal? Hell no! You're going to take whatever deal they throw at you in order to get your time over with. Fortunately, we had a little bit of money. Because there were three defendants in my case, we had three attorneys. I elected to use a public defender, I didn't think we needed three private attorneys working on the same project. In retrospect, I wish we had hired different attorneys for our case. Both of the private attorneys were from out of town and had never practiced law in this court system before. Big mistake. Deals get made because of the buddy system , and the only guy who knew anybody in that system was my PD. One of the attorneys was absolutely awful, he had just been through a major cocaine trial, you know the one where he claimed his client had actually been set up by the CIA to sell drugs to support arms sales to the contras. Since he'd gotten his face on the news and a few major talk shows, he now had a major chip of his shoulder. I can't tell you how many times this guy ended up losing his composure and acting like a petulant 3-year old, but it didn't help our case at all.

I ended up with home arrest and two felonies. I didn't care about the home arrest, but the two felonies are killers. Goodbye normal life, welcome to the world of felony probation! As a felon on probation, you have no rights. Your home can be searched at any time. In fact, any home or vehicle you step foot into immediately becomes searchable, as does everyone in that home or vehicle. You can be drug tested at any time. Your whole life becomes an open book for your probation officer to examine and scrutinize any time they so desire. It's great.

I'm totally against recreational drugs, so the drug testing never bothered me. It was tough to stop using steroids, but I wasn't about to tempt fate twice. The indignities of a probation search are almost more than I can bear. I've only been searched once while on probation, but it lasted for over two hours and it started with several large handguns being shoved in my face. My girlfriend and I were handcuffed the whole time, while I dealt with 6 police officers talking shit to me.

In the three years I've been on probation, I've totally changed my life. I own two businesses that, while not setting any financial records, do allow me to pay my bills. I own a fairly nice home. After significant write-offs, I paid over $20,000 in taxes last year. I'm about as clean as someone can possibly get. The possibilities for my future are endless.

Three months ago, I started taking steroids again after being clean since the time of my arrest. This time I'm doing so legally, I have a prescription for all the drugs I take. If I didn't, I'd be unable to ever use them again, the legal ramifications if I were to ever get caught are too severe. While you may have moral or ethical problems with my steroid use, legality is no longer a factor. My bodyweight shot up from 272 lbs to a high of 311 lbs in a very short period of time.

I love the sport of bodybuilding. I've seen every side of it, from the very best to the very worst. I don't endorse steroid use, but it is something that goes on in the sport. Realistically, I can't sit here and bury my head in the sand and hope it will go away. Athletes will always use performance-enhancing drugs, and there will always be new drugs being developed that have applications in various sports. Of course, I'm only concerned with drugs that increase muscular hypertrophy or burn off bodyfat.

You've probably noticed I take a dim view of the current crop of bodybuilding magazines. I'd like to take Anabolic Extreme to print and fill that niche. I'm also in the process of developing a line of supplements that is marketed in a totally different fashion than what you're used to seeing. Truth in advertising, imagine that!

So what makes me feel qualified to write Anabolic Extreme? Life experience. Look, I don't have an advanced degree in Pharmacology, I can't spout off an impressive list of publications I've worked for. You know what separates me from the rest of the pack? I walk the walk. During our rapid rise up the chain of steroid dealing, we met everyone. The athletes, the gurus, the coaches. You know what I realized? Most of these people were not as smart as myself. It was kind of disappointing. Meeting your idols and having them not live up to your expectations always is. I suddenly realized that if all of these people could do it, I could too. Of course, it only took me three years to act on the impulse!

I was supposed to be released from probation on February 7th, 2000. I was going to print my pictures on the website in March and tell my whole story. Trust me, this is just the half of it. However, my probation has been extended pending the outcome of a case in the county I live in. I'm not at liberty to discuss the details, I've probably already said too much.

Meuller out!

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