They wore glasses, spoke softly, and ran the largest cocaine empire on earth. The Cali Cartel was the vanity project of polite old men who mistook silk suits for innocence.
Barry Seal thought his charm could outsmart three governments and a drug empire. His white Cadillac disagreed. A savage look at the cocaine cowboy whose vanity killed him.
El Chapo built an empire on powder, paranoia, and pure vanity. Now the tiny tyrant sits in a concrete box where his golden guns and escape tunnels mean absolutely nothing.
A mass murderer in a linen shirt became the fantasy boyfriend of a continent, and the aging businessmen who see themselves in him are the funniest tragedy of all.
The Ochoa brothers built a cocaine empire and dressed it up in racehorses and ranches, mistaking expensive symbols for actual class. A darkly funny unmasking of narco vanity.
Manuel Noriega ran Panama with cocaine cash and a personal witch, froze his enemies' photos in a Buddha-shaped freezer, and surrendered not to soldiers but to a boombox blasting rock music outside a holy embassy.
Tony Montana bought the mansion, the tiger, and the golden bathtub, but forgot the one thing money never sells: an actual personality. A savage unmasking of cinema's favorite insecure screamer.
Aging American gangsters descended on 1950s Havana to build casinos and monuments to their own fading virility. The showgirls saw through them. History buried them.
Pablo Escobar had oceans of cash, a private zoo, and a hunger for respect he could never buy. The story of the kingpin who smuggled hippos and died fat on a rooftop.
The global avocado boom did not save Mexican farmers. It handed Michoacan to armed cartels who extort, burn, and murder growers while American consumers devour the profits. Here is the bloody truth behind your guacamole.
Meyer Lansky and the American mob turned 1950s Havana into a gambling and nightlife boom with Batista’s blessing. The casinos paid handsomely until Castro’s revolution seized the assets and shut the operation down.