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Never do drugs. Sell drugs? Yes. Colin will happily do that. Sell drugs and let the people who take them be screwed over, but not him. Even offering him something of that nature is a good way to receive a beatdown and a temporary ban from his presence and premises, and very few are aware why a pimp, gangster, drug dealer, should abhor a slice of his own empire. There's no peddlers who don't partake, but Moriarty has killed men and women for slipping him something without asking. Beaten them to death with his own hands, as if his preferred method.
He, believe it or not, was once a youngster, though his naivety left him at a much younger age than normal, partly because of drugs. By the time he was eight years old he was aware that weird, painful things could happen to him outside of the playground or the barroom of his father and grandfather’s saloon. Well aware that his body was a stress ball, there to be squeezed and rubbed when someone needed relief from whatever ailed him. That's what he thought of it until testosterone began to rev the engine of his rage, and it began doing that early, hardening him, igniting a killer instinct that allowed him to beat such hell out of his grandfather that his father became the new head of the family. That mildly improved matters for Colin, since his father was just as strong as his grandfather, but less vicious. He demanded less of his son, and he was also Colin's father, so he couldn't help but love him.
Still, he'd be out of the house at night whenever he could, ruling the streets at thirteen, making ‘friends’ and connections that would serve him for the rest of his life. But that was also how he learnt some of the more subtle tricks he would soon employ in his own trade. Drugs. Drug a whore and mess her up until she calls you daddy. It only worked on women.
Moriarty learnt the second half of this lesson at a party full of drugs. So far so normal. He'd done plenty of drugs before, using them to escape, just like everyone else. But that night some asshole came along with a blend stronger than usual, or at least it was stronger for Colin. Either that or they'd laced it.
It was likely the latter, as he'd discover that once someone has forced their way into your bed once, it tends to happen again and again and again till you put the muzzle of a gun to your temple and pull the trigger. He did that once, not pull the trigger obviously, but he put the cold metal mouth of his pistol to his temple, a cool steel kiss. He himself could tell when he saw a lass or lad whether they'd been under duress, but it made him sick to think the same tell hung around him. Later he'd go to great lengths to obscure the flicker of the eyes, the tight and fearful cast of the features, the twitchiness in himself, with zero success. That being said, once he'd filled out and become a real man’s man, everyone put down the tell tale signs to paranoia, which suited him just fine.
So he, a sad young boy full of the rage of a bitter old man, did that weed, laughing with the rest, never imagining such a soft drug could do anything to him. Yes, sometimes people went mad and died, but that could never-
The boy, not a speck of hair on his face yet, sat down on a ratty sofa, fell down really, collapsing sideways into catatonia, his eyes remaining open. He remained unresponsive even when picked up and taken to a dark room, where he was tossed onto a bed covered in coats, his shirt pulled up, his pants pulled down. Up till then his grandfather and father had confined themselves to abuse that did not penetrate him anywhere but his mouth, but he wasn't so lucky that night, awake and aware but unable to make the slightest sound or move, his nose pressed to a cheap and nasty nylon sleeve. In a moment of consideration, someone moved it away.
Multiple men took their turn with him and he couldn't even cry. And neither did he after, not till many years later, when he'd forgotten the songs playing in the background and one came on over the radio while he was working in his office, reducing him in an instant to a shivering, sobbing wreck, tears rushing to hide themselves in his beard. If someone had come in then, he would have shot them dead, whoever they might have been.
Eventually everyone who wanted a piece of him had had it, and he was left alone, in pain and still catatonic. A deadly condition if left untreated, Moriarty survived it because everyone left him the hell alone, allowing him to calm down while the terrible drug mangled his brain, until it let go all at once, and he found himself able to twitch his fingers, and then to pull up his underwear. ‘Calm down' - he'd never be calm again, and when he in turn inherited the family business the next year, along with all the wealth and power that came with it, he'd have everyone who he recognised as having participated in the...incident, pulled off the streets and tortured to death. He would have done the deeds himself, but he didn't dare, didn't dare give them the chance to mock him, mock him like he mocked his girls for succumbing to his own tricks and traps.