 
**The Antisocial Manifesto:  
** A Bipolar Perspective on Dissent from Society

 _A Novel  
_ Volume 1

### Bill Mehalus

Copyright © 2013 by Bill Mehalus

Smashwords Edition  
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### CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19

Endnote

Special Thanks:  
To my ex-wife. To my most loyal dog, Max. To my other dogs: Sigmund "Siggy", Nero, and Tutter. To my family & fiends, and to the good people of Taiwan

Thanks:  
To Galileo and your character, Simplicio who demonstrated the ignorance of the Faith. To Thomas Paine for suffering incarceration by speaking out against organized religion. To America's Founding Fathers: John Coles, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Ethan Allen, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison for your adamant disapproval of the incorporation of Jesus into the U.S. Constitution. To Friedrich Nietzsche for your blatant attacks upon the Church. To Richard Dawkins for all your witty quips against religion in your books and your outright attack in The God Delusion. To Sam Harris for your caustic approach towards the religious minded, to Robin Morgan for exploration of the U.S. Constitution and creating Fighting Words in defense. To Dan Brown for your piece of faction that raised so much hell. To Dr. Jack Kessler for actively combating the Monotheists in pursuit of stem cell research. To Korn for the wild fury and energy in your music. Finally, to Dr. Jacob "Jack" Kevorkian, you are a martyr for the cause of modern humanity.

Now, if you all will allow me among you, I'll gladly bring man's first weapon and tool to the party with a desire to focus it upon my religious enemies: I am Prometheus and I bring the gift of fire!

INTRODUCTION

The Antisocial Manifesto: A Novel is the modern day perspective of a prophet. Much like the minions of the Old Testament-God (Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad), The Son is the author/ biographer of the anti-god, the anti-prophet, the Antitheist (the Adversary). The account herein is true and the mission of the Antitheist is very real. As documented herein, the apparent "delusions" of the Antitheist are no different than the prophets that came before him; however, they are polar opposites. His gradual, incessant, and progressive attacks upon the Monotheist's are unprecedented. He has no time for the lazy and cowardly Atheist. According to The Son, they are as disposable as the Believers. And he will stop at nothing until his mission is accomplished!

My mission is as follows: I intend to dismantle over 6,000 years of organized human ignorance....or at least, insult it to the best of my abilities. This is an inflammatory book designed to tease out that frothing, raving, hypocritical, hateful God-fearing animal which hides behind a peaceful, loving, tolerant and forgiving façade. I do this intentionally so that he may fall short of the glory of his ridiculous god and directly upon his face. I do this so that he may behave adversely in the name of his god and therefore, use his god's name in vain, and consequently, fulfill the blatant hypocrisy of his faith. I do this because I am the embodiment of the teachings of your faith. I am Hate and Intolerance just like you! I intend to divide in order to unite!

I am Syphilis, the Great Masquerader!....or perhaps, I'm merely a pile of dog shit in the high grass.....I live happily, peacefully, unnoticed, untouched, without judgment...because I am unnoticed, untouched and quietly minding my own business. I have no intentions but to live out my life in the high grass, snoozing in the semi-shaded sun, providing a little nitrogen for the grass that has provided me with a soft bed. I didn't ask to be here, but this is where I was dropped. I am the product of your Best Friend or someone else's. Then you came along and stepped on me. As a result, I oozed between your toes or the tread of your shoe. Only then did you know me and call me by my name, "SHIT!" The moral: you stepped on me and I responded! Religious buffoons, I am talking to you! You wanted an 'End of Days'? You wanted a Monster? You got it! This is the Bible of the New Era...a book written for Generations X, Y and Z. We are Modern Religion!

This book is dedicated to that which is called "God." May this war finally begin so that I may take from "it" what is rightfully mine! I am no Atheist, because I see no reason to argue God's existence or non-existence. I am no Communist because I believe in the common good for all humankind. In this modern era of understanding, gods are highly unlikely and not worth argument. Therefore, I am an Anti-theist and this is a book about destroying the empire that has spawned from the cornucopia of ancient ideals! This book is dedicated to the living, breathing human beings who harbor mysticism. The wolf is upon your doorstep. Jews, Christians, Muslims...beware. I'm coming for you! I propose the greatest holocaust for you all!

This book is an unconventional fictional autobiographical rant on the satire of anti-life and self-alienation in America. And contained within this book is a semi-conscious collection of letters, words, oxymoronic phrases, misinterpretations, ideologies, philosophies, theories, facts, lies and laws.

"All I want in life is to be happy."

-Korn

CHAPTER 0-1

(My Birth – 1974: Year of the tiger)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS RELEASED, PATRICIA HEARST KIDNAPPED, SOCCER STAMPEDE IN CAIRO-49 DEAD, WATERGATE TAPES RELEASED, BRADY BUNCH IS CANCELLED, MARINER 10 APPROACES MERCURY, OUTBREAK OF TORNADOES HIT 13 U.S. STATES-315 DEAD, BOMB EXPLODES IN HOUSE OF PARLIAMENT, ASSASINATION OF THE MOTHER OF MLK JR, RICHARD NIXON ANNOUNCES RESIGNATION, DEFEO MURDERS FAMILY IN AMITYVILLE HOUSE, "LUCY"IS DISCOVERED, OPEC RAISES PRICE OF CRUDE OIL BY 10%, COLOR TV INTRODUCED IN AUSTRALIA, OPENING OF ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW, FALL OF SAIGON, JIMMY HOFFA DECLARED MISSING, DAM BREAKS IN CHINA-200,000 DEAD, SQEAKY FROMME ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE GERALD FORD, GERALD FORD SURVIVES SECOND ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT, SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE IS AIRED, SPAIN ABANDONS WESTERN SAHARA, TERM "MICROSOFT" IS FIRST USED BY BILL GATES, WORLD POPULATION REACHES 4,068,109,000. STOP.

"A people content with the thoughts made for them by the priests of a church will be content with Royalty by Divine Right, -the Church and the Throne mutually sustaining each other."

-Albert Pike, Morals and Dogma, 1809-1891

I can't say I remember too much regarding the entirety of the 40 weeks post conception, nor can I regarding the following 18 months post-partum, which encompassed the first year-and-some-change of my life. So as you can imagine, I don't remember any of these-"Where were you when this happened"- moments listed above. In fact, I can't remember anything; not so much as a scent, sound, image, or sensation of any sort. With that said, ask yourself the same question. What is your earliest memory? That is to say, what was the age in which your first sensation occurred and was later committed to long-term memory? What was the memory? It doesn't have to make any sense. It could have been as simple as any sensorial blurp in time that, now in retrospect, appears completely disconnected from all, if any, surrounding memories. It could be a memory of sitting in a movie theatre with your parents watching the debut of Star Wars or Tootsie, but you having no real recollection of the plot or the actor's facial characteristics. It could be your first bloody nose, broken arm or leg. It was just data. And while all sequences of events do not perfectly connect, the only associated memory was somehow, without sensible explanation; for example, falling from your dad's shoulders, laughing at you uncle's silly faces, or watching your grandpa fish.

Some may believe, the more tragic the memory the more permanent. I disagree. I have witnessed a few, yet each memory, as a memory in and of itself, is stored for content, and not for the subjective and existential values which I place upon it; for example, watching a grown man tumble from a moving vehicle head first, followed by the auditory "flop" of his body hitting the pavement, running back to his motionless body, examining his wounds, and watching the blood gradually appear in all the areas of road skid along his broken legs, torso, and face. This memory induced a more traumatic response in others than it did in me.

I was indifferent whereas others were crying or in a state of shock. Therefore, although I have "patches" of indifferent memory, others have a more detailed and consecutive account of the event with subsequent allied sensorial memories. That is, not only do they have an accurate "play-by-play" of the event, they also have distinct scent, visual, and/or auditory memories associated with the event that resulted in their own shock, self-induced mental trauma, and suffering. Regardless, memory is data. Data itself, for itself, is objective and free of our individual and subjective "value" placed upon it; e.g. good, evil, or what is painful to you may be relatively painless to me. Regardless, this objective data is stored within the neurons of the cortex. And depending how much value one places upon a particular memory, to include how "often" these memories are induced into replay of the event, will subsequently determine how many additional axons are utilized to recruit even more neurons for storing a greater quantity of that memory, thus contributing to more obsessive thought and significance to the event.

Let us consider the birthing process. The level of physical trauma experienced therein, for both mother and child, when squeezing and shifting the child's cranial bones and rib cage as s/he passes through the canal, is a painful event for both. [Note to Self: Are our senses flooded by "incoming" data which contains a force that drives itself into a sensorial being or does the sensorial being actively and/or passively abstract data from the world around it?] But, even in the midst of the trauma of childbirth, does the newborn remember it? Do you remember yours?

When I was a few months old, my mother had a strange encounter, although I remember nothing of it. While sitting on a bench outside JC Penny with me on her lap, wrapped in my "swaddling clothes" waiting for transportation, a transient, who my mother refers to as a "gypsy," approached, grabbed me by the head, starred into my eyes, then into my mother's and exclaimed with a Germanic, or alcohol induced, accent, "Scientist!" Who was this Angel, this Prophet, this Soothsayer, or Drunk?

In summary of my first year as a worm, I have no summary as I have no memories during this time, nor do I have memories from the womb; not even a single sensation of touch or smell. And although I have seen several pictures of myself during my infancy, there is simply no recollection. It is as if I was the equivalent of a functionless sponge as I absorbed nothing of conscious value or memorable keepsake. I was the unconscious and living dead! And outside of parental love, the street market value for my body parts or as a suture dummy for a medical student's practice, my value was null. In fact, by nature's law, I was nothing more than a parasite to my mother and the community. I had nothing to offer, but needed everything in return. However, I could provide one good meal for the coyotes! One delicious meal! "AAhhhhoooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!"

### CHAPTER 2

(1976)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: UN COUNCIL ADMITS PLO, EARTHQUAKE IN GUATEMALA AND HONDURAS-22,000 DEAD, APPLE COMPUTER COMPANY IS FORMED, POPULATION CONTROL INTRODUCED IN INDIA, US BICENTENNIAL CELEBRATED, JIMMY CARTER NOMINATED FOR PRESIDENT, VIKING I LANDS ON MARS, EARTHQUAKE IN CHINA-242,769 DEAD, SON OF SAM EMERGES, FACE ON MARS RELEASED BY NASA, LEGIONNAIR'S DISEASE OUTBREAK OCCURS IN PHILIDELPHIA, BIRTH OF PUNK ROCK, IBM RELEASES LASER PRINTER, RELEASE OF THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME by LED ZEPPELIN, POPULATION REACHES 4,159,100,000. STOP

"A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on."

-Sir Winston Churchill, 1874-1965

My lungs stopped growing! And so did yours unless you were a premature baby and needed steroid injections in your first month of life in order to develop your lungs to survive. So as you could imagine, by self-evident implication, you were not meant to live. But it was merely by way of Man's god-like intervention that you survived.

My Head/Body ratio continued decreasing. In short, I grew into my noggin and my anterior fontanels were almost closed. But yet, still no memories. Maybe they were leaking out of the fontanels all this time? Or maybe there was still some form of continuous neurological pruning going on?

My natural flora was still developing as well was my complimentary immune system. This was Pseudo-Newtonian Law at work insofar as every bacterial action against the body was countered by a reaction by the immune system. Although not necessarily equal and opposite, it truly was a version of cause and effect as I crawled around the ground, putting my fingers into everything from the ground to my ass and/or someone else's ass and finally back into my mouth. There was a lot of flora trading in the hand-ass-mouth market for 2 year olds. It's big business. The oil trade dulls in comparison.

And although I personally don't remember this either, my father recalls one of my first devious episodes. While posing on my elbows on the edge of a hotel pool, my dad said, "Okay now hold on, don't let go," as he backed up for this picture which still exist somewhere in a box of old photos. After snapping my image and lowering the camera, he claimed, "A new and mischievous grin" covered my face. "Don't let go?" he said. Why not? What would happen if I did? And with a mighty push, I launched myself into the depths of the pool. Frantically, my dad jumped in after me and once I surfaced, I only laughed.

Regardless, my mind was still a dripping sponge. Life sure was interesting then, although during this era, I recall none of these events that changed history in a chaotic butterfly effect. In my recollection, they had no apparent affect upon me although they did all the same and without my permission. However, in the utilitarian world, I still remained useless, so maybe I didn't deserve a choice. And relative to biological utilitarian standards I remained a parasite upon my mother, i.e. attached to the nipple, metaphorically speaking, of course. I think. And as far as nature and the surrounding community of coyotes were concerned, I think I graduated into veal!

### CHAPTER 3

(1977)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: SNOW FALLS IN MIAMI, FL, ARMED HANAFI MUSLIMS TAKE OVER THREE BUILDINGS IN WASHINGTON, D.C., SARA DYLAN DIVORCES BOB DYLAN, SCIENTISTS IDENTIFY BACTERIA RESPONSIBLE FOR LEGIONNAIRE'S DISEASE, THE CLASH DEBUTS IN UK, DEBUT OF STAR WARS EPISODE IV, AJ FOYT WINS 4TH INDI 500, DEBUT OF APPLE II COMPUTERS, SPAIN HAS FIRST DEMOCRATIC ELECTIONS IN 41 YEARS, ROY SULLIVAN IS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING FOR THE 7TH TIME, 200,000 HOMOSEXUALS MARCH THROUGH SAN FRANCISCO, 25-HOUR BLACKOUT IN NEW YORK CITY, DENG XIAOPING IS RESTORED TO POWER, FIRST OIL THROUGH TRANS-ALASKA PIPELINE REACHES VALDEZ, SON OF SAM CAPTURED, TSUNAMI IN INDONESIA, LAST GUILLOTINE EXECUTION IN FRANCE, LAST REPORT OF SMALLPOX FOUND IN SOMALIA, THREE MEMBERS FROM LYNARD SKYNARD KILLED IN PLANE CRASH, FIRST ARAB DIPLOMAT TO VISIT ISREAL, POPULATION REACHES 4,231,400,000. STOP.

"Each problem that I solved became a rule which served afterwards to solve other problems."

-Rene Descartes, 1596-1650

I still can't recall any personal events in my life as of yet and I certainly don't remember any of the above events occurring around the world. But as snow fell in Miami, as the Muslims terrorized D.C., as Sara Dylan signed divorce papers, as scientists stained, scrutinized, and guessed, as The Clash screamed, as Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star, as AJ crossed the finish line, first, once again, as the first Apple II booted up, as Sullivan shit his pants the seventh time, as the ostracized homosexuals marched through the streets, as a city fucked during a 25- hour blackout, as a dictator resumed power, as oil ran like blood through arteries across Alaska, as a madman lost his freedom, as a wave sent thousands swimming, as France cut heads, as the last bit of the smallpox was wiped from the Earth, as a great southern rock group died, and as an ass of a man visited the vain and self-righteous, the world waited patiently for my connection, understanding, and experience of the world around me. Or so I'd like to believe. But my delusions were yet to come. So the coyotes sat drooling, the sponge sat leaking, time continued racing by, waiting for no one and affecting all within its path.

Regardless, at the age of three years, I was still nothing outside of recruiting neurons, saltatory conductions, and myelination. However, one thing was true then, is true now, and will be true forever and that is that the majority of the world is ignorant. The majority of the population is too lazy to question the tangible and environmental factors that have resulted in neuronal recruitment and increased synapses within their own brains. They just accept it as if it was their lot in life. And over time, the results of those environmental factors that were never scrutinized, become law and go unquestioned and unanswered. Neurons are recruited and things "appear" so "logical" and obvious. So in closing, instead of using the obvious example of religion, I'll use another one.

If the media claims over and over that a president is to blame for a war and to be disliked as a result, eventually the public will do just that, even if they initially elected him to office. After all, years of neuronal recruitment has taught them that it is better to be accepted, without opinions, and to be a coward rather than be alienated, full of doubts and questions. Hence, constant thought and apparent logic results in recruitment and increased myelination in the brain as the old thoughts and apparent logic are pruned and replaced with more likely answers. And so too were the gods of yester-year gradually replaced by the gods of today. And so was the level of ignorance surrounding the days of my early development.

### CHAPTER 4

(1978)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: COPYRIGHT ACT TAKES EFFECT, SWEEDEN BANS AEROSOL SPRAYS, TED BUNDY CAPTURED IN FLORIDA, AZTEC MONOLITH FOUND IN MEXICO CITY, DAVID RORVIK WROTE IN HIS IMAGE: THE CLONING OF MAN, LARRY FLINT IS SHOT AND PARALYZED, BIRTH OF BETTER HALF, UNABOMBER STRIKES NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY, COMIC STRIP-GARFIELD DEBUTS, FIRST HUMAN BORN FROM IN VITRO FERTILIZATION, POPE PAUL VI DIES AND POPE JOHN PAUL I SUCCEEDS, PEACE AGREEMENT SIGNED BETWEEN ISRAEL AND EGYPT, POPE JOHN PAUL I DIES AFTER 31 DAYS, 913 DEAD IN JONESTOWN MASS SUICIDE, VIETNAM LAUNCHES OFFENSIVE AGAINST KHMER ROUGE, ARTIFICIAL INSULIN IS CREATED, HILLSIDE STRANGLER ON PROWL, POPULATION REACHES 4,303,500,000. STOP.

"Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried."

-William Shakespeare, 1564-1616

And then, there was light! Behold the real Son of Man! He was no god, but merely god-like relative to the religious buffoons whom surrounded him throughout his life! His future vengeance upon man would be swift but painful! No more would genuine enlightenment be obscured by the hypocrisy of the conditioned and collective mind!

Sensation took hold of me like a pseudo-guardian angel and guiding light. She not only adorned me with a sense of sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell, but also with something much more unique. She gave unto me a special sense of perception. She provided an ability or an instinct, which had yet to be determined. With this ability, I could perceive another's threat, while manipulating the weak if necessary. It was called "instinct."

However, it became apparent time and again, that my temper, my anger, my white phosphoric hatred, interfered with my regular ability to manipulate to my advantage. But on those few occasions, when I wanted something bad enough, my level of deception, my performance, my degree of theatrics, was award winning. And my secret was simple, but before I tell you, I want you to think.

Try to imagine what quality or ability in a person would cause or result in a level of your immediate trust, i.e. what must I do in order to persuade you to lay down your guard and trust me. How might I convince you to invite me in...into your mind? After all, the mind is both the most secure and vulnerable place of the body. It is your command station. It is your brain. Capture it, and you will have captured the whole.

### CHAPTER 5

(1979)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: SCHOOL SHOOTING IN SAN DIEGO KILLS TWO AND WOUNDS EIGHT, YMCA SUES VILLAGE PEOPLE FOR LIBEL, PATTY HEARST RELEASED FROM PRISON BY JIMMY CARTER, KHOMEINI SIEZES POWER OF IRAN, SAHARA DESERT EXPERIENCES SNOW FOR 30 MINUTES, NUCLEAR POWER PLANT ACCIDENT AT THREE MILE ISLAND, ANTHRAX SPORES ACCIDENTALLY RELEASED FROM BIOWARFARE LAB IN SOVIET UNION, SCHOOLCHILDREN IN AFRICA ARRESTED AND EXECUTED FOR PROTESTING SCHOOL UNIFORMS, UNABOMBER STRIKES AGAIN, SKYLAB RETURNS TO EARTH AFTER SIX YEARS IN ORBIT, CHRYSLER BORROWS ONE BILLION DOLLARS FROM U.S. GOVERNMENT TO AVOID BANCKRUPCY, KHOMEINI PROMOTES ATTACKS ON UNITED STATES, U.S. EMBASSY IN TEHRAN INVADED AND PRISONERS TAKEN, JIMMY CARTER FREEZES ALL IRANIAN ASSESTS AND HALTS OIL IMPORTS FROM IRAN, SOVIET UNION INVADES AFGHANISTAN, 11 FANS KILLED IN STAMPEDE AT THE WHO CONCERT, POPULATION REACHES 4,378,600,000. STOP.

"Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion."

-G.W.F. Hegel,1770-1831

I remember it like it was yesterday, a thousand years ago today. Searing overhead, burned a white and pulsating sun like an island amid a vast blue ocean. By this age I had not learned to think sequentially; instead, all current memory of this period exists as scattered and misplaced events like miscellaneous scenes separated by fades to darkness. Fade in life-fade out.

I was still quite a young grasshopper at the time, but just old enough for my mother to return to the workforce while leaving me in the care of an old southern Presbyterian church and in the hands of, their even-older, day care provider. I can still faintly smell the mustiness of that dank Christian environment amidst a dimly lit and heavily curtained foyer. I didn't like that place.

"Okay kids, let's go," said the elderly tyrant, "put all the toys away and let's go outside." I did as I was told. Or at least I partially did. Oh, I went outside like the rest, but my hands refused to part with the Hot Wheel motorcycle within their clutches. What a machine it was. It was metal, all white, five-gallon fatbob, spokes, extended pipes, and straight bars. Although it was only the size of my five-year-old palm, like an infectious vector, it contaminated me with a lifelong love affair of Harley Davidson from that day forward. However, my first Harley was merely clothespins and playing cards within the spokes of my bicycle, used to mimic the roar of the beast. But this age was yet to come as I was still breaking in my training wheels at the time.

Walking out into the daylight, cycle in hand, trying to keep it concealed, trying my best not to stand out. (Of course this was, in fact, what must have given me away.) I was overtly obvious. [Note: I suspect this condition of hiding to be a remnant of our predator/prey mechanisms. It is a sense which recognizes predators and the prey's ability to confuse/block their identity to any predators, as being prey. However, mine was not too developed yet.]

"Hey there, come over here," I heard the old hag say. "Open your hand." Knowing she meant my left, I eagerly presented my right with all its innocence and emptiness (Of course, I really believed this to be an effective and ingenious evasive maneuver on my part. After all, I was revealing my hand as commanded.)

"The other one, smart guy," she claimed with hands on hips. Bitch......she can read my thoughts! Plan B! So I blatantly shifted my contraband behind my back to its innocent cohort, the left hand, to reveal, yet, another innocent hand; Damn, man, you are good!!! However, this time, I provided a dumbfounded look of curiosity and a slight tilt of the head much like a dog does when it doesn't understand, but to no avail.

"I said to put the toys away, now go put it back and get back out here immediately." As I turned and headed back inside, the wheels were already turning.

What a fool she was to trust me to do as I was told now after I was told to do it before. But her miscalculation of my integrity would be used to my advantage. Just as in nature, exploitation of resources enables comfort and survival, so too does it in human nature. It is the exploitation of trust that has the same outcome; however, it is pertinent never to enable the deception to be unmasked as this is the best weapon in our arsenal. As I approached the toy chest, I turned one last time to see if I was being watched. Do it!

I smiled, turned back to the toy chest, bent down, arm extended to simulate deposition of contraband, and while in mid turn back to face her, I slipped the beloved into my pocket. I returned outside and blended in with all the other fishes to escape predation. Damn I'm good!!

I was officially baptized with my first criminal act of Sociopathology. At church, no less. Amen! But this was merely my beginning as it was for many children...or not.

My next memory of this year was at another day care, but this time at a Baptist church that I would be forced to visit for years to come. My only friend was a black kid. I guess I found him to be so different from the rest of us that I sought him out to learn more. I don't remember much about him, except his name was John, a.k.a. "Soft Hair." So intrigued by the softness of his hair, I found it necessary to share this most interesting find with others. So when our mothers came to claim us, I stood there patting his head saying, "Look Mom, 'soft hair.'" I can only imagine what split-second thoughts and embarrassment my mother had as I was patting this kid like a dog before his own mother calling him "Soft Hair." But I think internally, she breathed a sigh of relief that my words were only "Soft Hair" and not, "Look mom, Nigger." But I hadn't become that sort of person yet. He really did have soft hair and he and I became as good of friends that one can become at that age; however, one day marked an occasion when Soft Hair was no longer able to play with me. I would become a bad influence which his mother did not approve of.

Organized day care was to blame. Once again, these dictators decided it was necessary to impose their will upon mine. The order came down to stop whatever joyous activity I was currently involved in to partake in one, in which, I had no interest. This time, instead of deceiving, I decided to blatantly revolt.

"No," I said as I stood there in utter defiance. After all "No" is a term every four and five-year-old has down perfectly and utilizes regularly; however, not with as much vehemence as I demonstrated that day.

"You'd better come here right now, Mister," she said with the mighty finger cocked and pointed. She started for me in a straight and determined path. So I did what God would do, I ran. Round and round we went in that room, high crawl and low crawl under chairs and tables, but I would not be captured. When I realized she was finally closing in, I knew I had to turn up the heat a little and take this war to the next level. Hostages were now necessary.

I grabbed a pair of scissors from a tabletop and ran to the class projector that was currently loaded with the class favorite of Looney Tunes. I opened my weapon around the exposed tape and with my blue devilish eyes, I turned to the tyrant and with a smile I said a thousand words while saying nothing at all. I'm in control. This is power.

But the power I had for these mere seconds was tantalizing enough to last a lifetime. She stopped dead in her tracks. With palms out and a soft spoken voice like a negotiator she said, "Okay, okay, it's okay, just put the scissors down."

I realized I had already broken two cardinal rules: (1) I defied authority, and (2) I ran with scissors. But I also realized one other thing. Everything was not "okay" as she said they were, and furthermore, she had no intention of allowing me to return to my previous activities. I knew that when my mother caught wind of this (as the negotiator threatened me with), it would be over. [Note to reader: herein lies one commonality between white boys and black boys, and that is a fear of a "Mama," especially one who did not "spare the rod."]

Ahhh, touché bitch! The power struggle was at hand. I now knew there was no turning back. The point of no return had been crossed. Nothing mattered any longer. I also realized that she believed I was bluffing and wouldn't actually carry through with my destruction. She took another step towards me. Snip! Death of the reel-to-reel! And off to the races we went again.

About this time, my mother arrived and witnessed her beloved Christ-child in all his glory. I only remember hearing a painful screech of my full name coming from the doorway. Like being exposed to kryptonite or shot straight in the back, I froze dead in my tracks. Being addressed by your full name meant only one thing: trouble. The scissors slipped gently from my limp fingers. I turned slowly on my heels to face my Maker, the

Mighty Womb and Life Giving Bosom: Mama!!

"WHAT...ARE...YOU...DOING?" Uhhhh, oh shit!

There was only one weapon I had against her might and punishment. And it was the lowliest and most pride-less in my arsenal, but it was all that was left. I would wield it with such force as a miracle was never so needed more than now. Overwhelmed by fear of the near and possible future in her grips...my weapon: I began crying. After all, what mother could spank her child when he was already crying? [Note to reader: don't ask stupid questions.] And once again I met the rod in the form of a mom's wild, swinging, open hand against my butt, back, legs and wherever else they landed. Her aim was terrible. [Note to self: try to create more effective weapons.]

I was never welcomed back to that day care. Good riddance! However, since this was my mother's church, the church was not finished with me, nor was I with them. I would terrorize this "Den of Hypocrites" in the years to come.

Julie was her name. She was my first girlfriend. Before the time of asking a girl to "go with you" there was a period when two beings were just drawn to each other and accepted that as passage enough, and I still don't know where I was supposed to take these girls whom were to "go with me." What a wonderful feeling it was though. I only remember standing beside her in front of our classroom locker/covey holes as we exchanged pictures of each other posing in our best duds, recently taken by the school. I'm nervous. Don't pee your pants.

It was so empowering since there were no other couples in the class. Julie and I broke the "Cootie Barrier." However, I don't ever remember talking to her after that. Hell, were we even a couple or did she just need a picture to draw a mustache on? Who knows? Maybe I should have asked her to "go with me," wherever that was. My memory fades yet again...for better upgrades.

### CHAPTER 6

(1980)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: NATIONAL STEEL STRIKE IN U.K., PRESIDENT OF SICILY ASSASINATED BY MAFIA, RIOT IN NEW MEXICO STATE PENITENTIARY, COUP D'ETAT IN LIBERIA, RACE RIOTS IN MIAMI FLORIDA, MT. ST. HELENS EXPLODES, ACTOR RONALD REAGAN NOMINATED FOR PRESIDENT, AC/DC RELEASES BACK IN BLACK, TERRORIST BOMBING IN BOLOGNA, MILITARY COUP IN TURKEY, MGM GRAND HOTEL FIRE, WHO SHOT J.R. EWING?, JOHN LENNON ASSASINATED, WORLD POPULATION REACHES 4,434,682,000. STOP.

"A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort."

-Herm Albright, 1876-1944

It is very sad that I must admit the following, but look at it as a good reflection of modern American society. Out of all the previously mentioned events of the year and besides watching ashes fall from Mt. St. Helens in my backyard in Houston, the only event I distinctly remember is J.R. Ewing being shot in the gut with a little snub nose .38 caliber pistol during an episode of one of America's greatest love affairs, DALLAS. How pathetic is that? In the thirty two years since, I can't say much has changed. What a vicarious nation we are. So comfortable and dead in our ways that we must create drama to remind us we're still alive. All the same, I was sitting in my first grade classroom the following morning, happily drifting away in my dream world, ignoring the teacher while drawing pictures of the General Lee jumping ten story gorges from the popular sitcom, The Dukes of Hazzard. After all, if J.R. could survive his wounds, the General Lee could land these incredible jumps and drive off to do another without repair. I had to have one of those cars one day.

However, my teacher did not appreciate my lack of attention to her boring lectures on "How to Write Upper and Lower Case" on our Chief writing pads with our oversized pencils. Consequently, while caught in the act of adding my last detail to the General Lee and thinking about what was under Daisy Dukes' Daisy Duke's, I felt multiple and swift, shearing strings from a ruler across my forearms as my dream work was ripped from my clutches and into the hands of a decaying, grey-haired bitch. She should die!

She was the same bitch who refused to let a fellow student go to the restroom during class and unfortunately he relieved himself in his pants beside me while sitting at his desk. And while he cried in all his embarrassment, she simply scolded him and made him sit in it until class was over. I think she really loved her class and refused to allow it to be disrupted. I will refer to her as Ms. H. And for the first time in my life I had homicidal thoughts of revolt and burning. However, as luck would have it, Mother Nature had her instead, in the form of a heart attack in the years that followed. Good riddance! But speaking of burning...........

Around this age I took up one of Man's most ancient hobbies, fire. In my home, restrooms were not equipped with candles, aerosols, or potpourris. No sir, we utilized the most efficient, cost effective, and blatant "I just took a shit" method to mask odors, the old fashioned "match." Therefore, our restroom was a repository of my art supplies. Why fire you ask? Have you seen what it can do? With the strike of a match, a blaze of life comes into being, devours almost all it comes into contact with as it dances brilliantly, independently, and uncontrollably across its victim in yellows, oranges, and reds.

One evening I decided that I wanted to recreate a violent car wreck (with fire of course). So I took my all-metal (with plastic interior) replica of Herbie, the 1953 Volkswagen, and stuffed it full of toilet paper. My second oldest brother was babysitting me (albeit, not too well obviously). In order to pull this off (that is, have enough time without supervision) I casually got up to go to the bathroom (where the matches were). I closed the door (however, failed to lock it). Set my loaded Herbie down, called upon the gods of fire with the strike of a match, lit the paper and gave it a push. Look at those flames. They are so,...so beautiful!

In a blaze, it rammed into the toilet and burst into even greater flames while emitting a pungent black smoke. Damn plastic, I must have miscalculated that. Unbeknownst to me, a burning cinder lifted out into the air and landed on my bare foot. At that same time, my brother burst in with a vengeance as he knew he had been fooled (and, of course, also due to the smell of smoke throughout the house). Throwing a towel over my experiment to smother it and yelling at me, he sent me straight to bed. Needless to say, Mom and Dad heard everything when they came home from Square-Dancing.

I learned a valuable lesson. Fire cannot be bought. It has an allegiance to no one. It kills and destroys indiscriminately. Although it appreciates being invoked into existence, it functions how it wants, upon who or what it wants, when it wants. I was Fire!

And shall I discuss my first sexual experiences? Annette was her name. As I was only six, she was approximately twelve. There were two incidences. In the bushes beside my neighbor's house, with both hands providing an overhand grip at the base of her shirt, she forcefully ripped the front of her elastic tank-top up to the base of her chin exposing two pubescent mounds topped with two peach colored peaks. "Touch them," she said with a look of pleasure on her blushed face. They weren't very big, but there was enough fat in them to constitute them as official "Boobies." Her nipples were hard and protruding, and as I sat there in my premature erected state, dialing in on her knobs, I believe I began to hear Japanese music coming straight out of Tokyo.

I guess she was pleased with my caress, for shortly afterwards I was invited into her room; however, I do not remember if it was that day or another. In either case, I remember sitting upon her bed with my shirt off in an anxiolytic state of premature ejaculation as she pranced towards me with only a bedspread draped across her shoulders. Like a performer, she spread her cape and exposed her nakedness to me in the dimness of her room. Wow! I'm fascinated! I want to touch.

Even at her young age, her pubic hairs were so stimulating; however, and unfortunately, at that very moment, I saw my older brother and hers through the window pulling up on their bicycles. DAMN IT!!!!

The gods were not with me. How many six year-olds do you know with so much luck as to have the privy to engage in unforced sexual activity at such an early age? Although I would have merely been shooting blanks, one must start somewhere. And like that, it was over, and I never played with her again. However, my time had just begun.

That same year, I began to experiment with my third girlfriend. Both of us were first graders and both of us under the reign of the evil empire of Ms. H. Our hyper-sexuality must have been our outlet from the stress induced by rigorous exams taken within our Chief Notepads. Writing and re-writing lower case and capital letters with our fat pencils while later subjected to the Almighty-Red Pen.

Anyhow, as we sat squished into a recliner, watching Close Encounters (although, we really weren't watching) and covered in a blanket, we began to "play." I pulled the blanket up over our heads and we started kissing. Her breasts were nothing like Annette's, but what could she say, she was only six. And I guess I didn't have much to offer either (outside of my charm and good looks, that is). It began to get pretty warm as the anxiety accumulated.

How far would we go? Not very. As luck would have it, her mother decided to check up on us at that very moment of our prepubescent explorations. The expedition ended with me rolling off the far side of the recliner pretending to appear as if we were sitting separately. However, her mother's laugh revealed to me that she wasn't that easily fooled. I guess she found it more cute than threatening as nothing ever came of it. I don't think she even said anything to my own mom when she came to pick me up. Although another loss, this would not be the end of my sexual endeavors.

And finally I will close with my first concussion. It was a Saturday afternoon. My dad, older brother, and little sister walked over to the neighborhood park as we did many times. I still remember our path for every adventure. We traveled by foot, down the railroad tracks, under the freeway, past the library and into the shade of the tree-topped Village Park. As always, I climbed to the top of their tallest slide. Upon sitting and preparing myself for takeoff, I looked out over the world (or so it appeared to be in my six-year-old eyes). I pushed off to begin my downward descent when, for some reason, I lost my balance (or was I experimenting again with gravity?) Regardless, instead of moving down the slide against significant friction at a thirty-degree angle, I accelerated at a ninety-degree angle, nearly frictionless and head first, through the air. And the last thing I remember is falling over the side. Was this really an accident or did you really want to see what it was like? I can't remember.

My next memory was lying in my underwear in my parent's bed in the cool darkness with the shutters closed. Whether I walked home or was carried is beyond my memories. I saw my dad walk by and I felt cozy. But something was strange. I began to question "Trust." (I had memories of him removing my underwear and rubbing his wiener on me after I crawled into bed between my parents at night because I was scared of the "Gut-te-da" hiding in my closet or within the darkness under my bed? Or was this all just a dream?)

### CHAPTER 7

(1981)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: YORKSHIRE RIPPER ARRESTED, DE LOREAN DMC-12 INTRODUCED, EARTHQUAKE IN ATHENS KILLS SEVERAL BY HEART ATTACK, REAGAN SHOT BY HINCKLEY, ROCK BAND YES SPLITS UP, POPE JOHN PAUL II SHOT, RARE FORM OF PNEUMONIA DISCOVERED IN 5 HOMOSEXUAL MALES, ISRAELI BOMBERS DESTROY PLO HQ IN BERUIT, MTV IS LAUNCHED, FRANCE ABOLISHES CAPITAL PUNISHMENT, EGYPTIAN PRESIDENT ASSASSINATED, METALLICA FORMS, IRAN-CONTRA SCANDAL, HIV DISCOVERED, FIRST TEST-TUBE BABY BORN, POPULATION REACHES 4,530,100,000. STOP.

"The furious human passions, the sleeping human indolence, the stolid human ignorance, the rivalry of human castes, are as good for the kings as the swords of the Paladins."

-Albert Pike, Morals and Dogma, 1809-1891

Flittering and blurry, my memory skips like a scratched DVD; however, they still exist as more defining than a series of still-shot photos within my mind. Vaguely, the images of a black limousine, the president waving, sudden sequential and disconnected "pops"' followed by commotion, interrupted by screams, anxious voices and the narration of a confused reporter. How could we be safe anymore when our leaders such as Ronald Regan and J.R. Ewing are being shot on television? The world was becoming scary. I realized then, I needed a weapon to protect myself. So I managed to smuggle a few Chinese Stars into my home. (Actually they weren't really smuggled since the Chinese Star was the only compromise my mom made insofar as having weapons in the house, and not to mention the fact that she actually purchased it.)

Knives were out because I could fall on it or accidentally hurt someone else. Pellet and BB guns were also out since, "You could put an eye out." Taking Karate was out because this Far Eastern practice utilized meditation which was considered Evil/Satanic according to my Baptist mother. Handguns or rifles of any caliber were just simply out of the question. But for some odd reason, the Chinese Star was okay? It was sharp with multiple points. It was thrown and always stuck. I guess my mom believed I couldn't throw with precision, intent, and purpose in order to save my life from the Russians. So maybe that was her reasoning. So be it. Regardless, I was now dangerous; a seven year-old, four-foot one-inch tall, 70 pound, killer. What? Are you talking to me?

I even had my own theme band that marched behind my mind's eye everywhere I went, playing a dangerous Texas desert-heat slide-guitar with the Old West whistle and rattlesnake rattle accompaniment. Yep, I was quite the outlaw now with my Chinese Star secretly tucked within my name-engraved leather western belt and matching brass buckle. No one could touch me, no sir, I was officially dangerous. The girls in their plastic headbands and berets, ribbon-tied and rubber band-held pig and ponytails with matching kitchen-curtain dresses were driven absolutely and unconsciously mad by this image. I think I even reached some of the older women (third graders) as they too knew I was......dangerous. I was like Krull with this thing.

However, my fantastic mind-parade came to a screeching halt. My Chinese Star was dulled of all its luster and subsequent power, my western belt and buckle were reduced to mere pant suspenders, and my theme band was quietly retired of their guitar, whistle, and rattlesnake rattle as the vision of a single tumbleweed rolled aimlessly and quietly by. All that was left was the dull, continuous and deafening drone of the wind. Once again I was shown just how vulnerable I was. I'll get used to it. Some people have it much worse than me, but this is mine.

My one and only school-hood pal was absent from school that day. He must have been ill as this was around the age in which everyone really established an immune system. I went about my school day as every good second-grader did and waited for my mom to pick me up. When she arrived and I got situated in the car, I could tell something was abnormal.

"How was your day?" she asked with that strange and abnormally caring demeanor.

"Fine," I said, "but Robert was sick."

"No Honey, Robert wasn't sick today." she said as she peered through the windshield and drove away from the school. And that's when she proceeded with the details.

"Yesterday, after school, Robert was playing soccer when his ball went into the road. He was hit by a car. He died last night, Son. I'm so sorry. But it's okay. He's in Heaven now, with Jesus."

But it wasn't okay. God already owned the universe. Can't I have just one friend? And just like that, I was privileged enough for the first time to experience that cold, discombobulating sense of loss, disbelief and helplessness. How does it feel? Don't worry, go void of feeling, void of emotion. We'll overcome. One day.

I was at a total loss. All I could think to do at this time was to cry, but for once, my crying brought no comfort, but by doing so, I induced sleep. I learned at this early age that sleep was a true friend and cure-all for everything. Because when you slept, you were able to escape everything painful in reality. It's for the best. However, sometimes a nightmare manages to seep in just to awaken you back into a painful reality.

So cry and sleep is what I did from the moment I got home that day. I crawled up into my bunk bed, curled up with my sock monkey, cried while my mom rubbed my back and gently sang me to sleep with "Jesus, loves me, this I know." When I awoke the next morning, it all just felt like a bad dream. You are desensitizing.

That day at school, I brought with me a little column from the local newspaper that my mom cut out regarding the accidental and untimely death of a seven year old, struck by a car the previous day. I carried it with me all day. It was all I had left of him. I would pull it out periodically and read all the words I could. To this day, I can only dimly see his name, the words "struck by car" and something about being tossed several feet into the air. In the end, it all meant the same, and that was, I no longer had my school buddy. I also remember wondering how his parents must have felt. Even at this young age, I don't think I found his death too welcoming. I also don't remember finding too much comfort anywhere. Anger became my comfort.

Winter came and I remember seeing my first snowfall. It was the only beautiful event that year. And one highlight of this year was hearing a song on the radio, AM radio to be precise, as I don't believe FM existed or perhaps it was not prevalent. It was already about 8 years old, but it sure was funny and still popular according to the pop charts. It was a song about My-Ding-A-Ling. Even at this age, I knew this song was about my wiener.

### CHAPTER 8

(1982)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: FREEWAY KILLER CONVICTED, HAMAS MASSACRE IN SYRIA, WAYNE WILLIAMS CONVICTED, FALKLANDS WAR BEGINS, UNABOMBER STRIKES VANDERBUILT UNIVERSITY, LACED TYLENOL KILLS 7, THRILLER ALBUM RELEASED, POPULATION REACHES 4,610,200,000. STOP.

"By the skillful and sustained use of propaganda, one can make a people see even heaven as hell or an extremely wretched life as paradise."

-Adolf Hitler, 1889-1945

When it comes to making new friends, children are like dogs. Typically, as a child, you encounter one individual like yourself with whom, you become acquainted with over a brief period of time. And usually, that new acquaintance also has a group of friends with whom s/he is already associated (At this age, they are typically all of the same sex.) Robert and I had no group; instead, we had each other or no one at all. But Robert was dead so it was time to venture out again. And quite honestly, I don't remember mourning too long. Therefore, between yourself and your new acquaintance, there is no hierarchy, essentially you are equals. But the time comes when your new acquaintance decides to introduce you to the group (the pack). And thus begins the child's first experience with genuine group socialization, which may influence future community socialization.

However, the difference between a two party relationship and pack relations is, within the pack, there exists the boss, the coolest, the biggest, the strongest, the fastest, the prettiest, the most popular, the "Alpha." This meant there were only three ways to win acceptance within the pack: (1) win the favor of the alpha, (2) conquer the alpha, or (3) win majority favor of the group (which essentially diminishes the power of the alpha resulting in alpha resentment.) Clearly, if you were satisfied with being a "Beta," then you did not challenge the alpha, meaning, neither did you attempt to seek total group popularity as this was "stealing from the alpha." I am no beta. I am no disciple.

For whatever reason, one day at recess I was challenged by one of the disciples. I no longer remember much about him, except that his name was Juan. I remember the playground, a shove, the formation of the circle of jeering kids and on-lookers, eye-to-eye contact with opponent while pivoting around a central axis with inflated lats, awaiting the first swing or counter-swing, while hurling insults like, "Yo Mama!" I think there were a few blows before a teacher broke it up and I don't recall any repercussions later. The time was now right to test my limits.

His name was David and he was taller and fatter than I was. He was big game. Because of his size, he was an alpha by default until proven otherwise. This is the unfair side of nature, but true all the same. Call him out! And so I did.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, the tale of Romeo and Juliet was popular in my mind. Or maybe I knew nothing of this tale at all outside of the fact that Juliet was a girl. With that said and from across the playground, I threw down the gauntlet.

"Hey David, Juliet, Juliet, you're Juliet!" I yelled as I devilishly taunted him with much laughter and watched his head turn in my direction, eyes widen and then narrow to focus on his prey. I think he may have even growled and huffed his jowls as he began to give chase. Oh shit, RUUNNNN!!!! Hahahahahaha.

"Oh, shit!" I said to myself as I took off running and laughing across the playground while gazing upon the astonished faces of my prepubescent colleagues. He must be crazy, they thought. (Or so I thought for them as they probably thought, "He's fucking stupid!") But run I did, as I knew I could run circles around this fat bastard, wear him down and then attack him head-on in his weakened condition and steal "The Conch" while severing his testicles. But this did not happen. This fantasy would not come to pass. As soon as I turned my head in the direction of my forward movement, I saw precisely what the tree bark of a Mighty Pine looks like up close and personal.

My next memory was rather blurry. I was lying in a bed in my Fruit of the Looms underwear in what appeared to be a darkened nurse's office, I looked around. Where am I?

I heard the door open and to my surprise, my teacher paraded the class through to view me like some kind of zoo exhibit. (Look, it's a silly monkey in his underwear with a bloody nose and a really confused look on his face. Come now children, back to class. Leave the monkey alone.)

Damn, I had a headache. Did that just happen? All I knew was that I couldn't raise my left arm because it hurt too much and that my mom was on her way to pick me up to take me to the doctor. Whatever, I'm wounded. Certainly I wasn't in trouble. And I wasn't, as Mom was too concerned about my condition to punish me for picking a fight. (Note to Self: when partaking in "No-No" behavior, be sure to hurt self in the process in order to prevent follow-up parental punishment.) This would hold true.

My memory remained splotchy that day, but the culmination of my day was a loss of consciousness, some amnesia, a broken collarbone, and a bloody nose. All in a day's work, I guess.

I returned to school as a rare gem. I wore some ridiculous shoulder strap shaped much like the straps of a backpack. I don't see where it did much good outside of providing me with sympathy points from the teacher and students. After all, I was the "poor, poor, wounded puppy" with combat shoulder strap. I was waited on hand-and-foot. Even my prepubescent female colleagues helped me with my book bag as we were paraded to the playground or cafeteria. Life was good. I think they want to go to first base with me.

One day, while sitting in the cafeteria and rummaging through my Clash of the Titans, solid metal lunchbox, I came to the conclusion that my lunches were rather boring. I was sitting next to a newfound friend, Carlos. He was a fat kid and was teased by the others from time to time (and would have been by me, as well, if I didn't kind of like him).

Before opening my lunchbox, I hoped something magical had occurred from the time my mom packed its boring contents until now. I hoped the "Lunchbox Elves" had met and determined my lunch a travesty and converted its contents into what normal kids eat. The elves failed again. It was depressing: warm bologna/mayonnaise sandwich, plain chips, bruised banana, and a tap-water filled Clash of the Titans thermos. I lost my magical appetite.

Carlos too, had a rather "limited" meal as well. Of course, at the time, I didn't realize that it was because he was fat. I just assumed the lunchbox elves failed him as well. Regardless, he devoured every morsel. Since I didn't want mine, I decided, "Why not give it to him?" So I reached over and passed him my sandwich. And like a freight train, our teacher roared over at break-neck speed and snatched the sandwich from his fat little fingers.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOOOINGG,??!!!!" she said as she shouted at me with a profound look of astonishment in her eyes, "CAN'T YOU SEE HE'S ALREADY AS BIG AS A HOUSE?!!!!"

I think Carlos just hunkered down with his eyes on the table as most of the kids pretended not to notice since the teacher appeared to be so upset, but still others giggled. I think I felt sorry for him. Regardless, I know I grew to resent the teacher. They would be the next set of alphas to conquer.

One day, while rubbing the semi-raw spot where my shoulder harness used to rest, I noticed one of my classmates carrying a most interesting Hot Wheel. I asked him where he acquired such a magnificent piece of machinery. He claimed it came from his Speech Therapy Class. I asked him how one gets into such a class. He claimed, "You hab to hab a s-s-spleech impediment."

What tha fuck? What's tha matter with him? He talks funny. So a speech impediment it was! Almost overnight I began to slur my 's's. It was really quite simple. I merely needed to pretend my tongue was too big for my mouth and spit everywhere. Within a few days, my teacher decided I should go and see the therapist as well. After a week I had my very own "Achievement Hot Wheel." After week two, I earned another one for my "great strides." This was too easy and eventually the therapist thought so as well. In fact, if I remember correctly, she shit-canned my therapy soon thereafter. Bitch! But it sure was fun while it lasted (And I didn't give the Hot Wheels back either!) When my mom and dad heard about it, they whipped the shit out of me. Dad used the belt or a handy board and Mom used the hand.

Somewhere towards the end of this year, I acquired a friend whose name was Bill. I don't know why he latched on to me, but he did. He latched on so much so, that I believe I came to find him annoying, but he hung around all the same.

One day in his hyper-excited state, he went on a kissing rampage. He was running up to everyone and kissing their faces and, in some cases, lips, both male and female alike, without discrimination. The overall response by my classmates was, "UUgghh, ooohhh, stop it" etc., etc. Then he came for me. But I really wanted him to stop. So stop him! With my Clash of the Titans, solid metal lunch box in hand, I swung full force at his head, cracked him just above the left eye and knocked him to the ground. He bled everywhere. It was beautiful. And he never tried to kiss me again. It didn't pay to be gay in the eighties. And my parents whipped the shit out of me again.

The eighties were quite an era. So much tension and such little relief (for the rest of the world, I guess). Ronald Reagan referred to the Soviet Union as the Evil Empire and several Hollywood productions would reinforced this belief; e.g. Firefox, Red Dawn, Rocky IV, and War Games. Even I, as a young kid, believed the depictions of these movie productions to be an accurate account of the Soviets, so much so, that every battle scene sketch I drew as a hobby, depicted the enemy in uniform with a bold "U.S.S.R." stenciled somewhere, complimented with a Swastika and German helmet. I was very confused about history. I still remember my dad trying to explain the difference between the Russians and the Germans and furthermore attempted to convince me they were enemies. But it made no sense and my sketches remained the same: the enemies were always Russian Nazis.

But this school year also marked another big transition. My mother was an out-of-work teacher who wanted me to attend better schools. Since she couldn't find a job at any private/Christian school, she took on the position of Crossing Guard at a public school on the "right" side of the tracks. This position enabled her to place me at that school as well, while clearly living out of the required school zone. It was here that I experienced alienation for the first time.

I guess I just didn't fit in too well with these people. They all wore the newest and best Return of the Jedi shirts and would carelessly ruin them as they could simply be replaced the following day with another new one. They rode the best bikes (Mongooses and Diamond Backs) and stowed them without regard. Some were even beginning to experiment with motorized vehicles, like dirt bikes and scooters. But my parents did what they could considering I was the second youngest of five kids. Regardless, I still rode an old 1970's Schwinn passed down to me from oldest brother to next oldest, to next oldest, and then, to me. In fact, as I recall, there was no tread left on the back tire. It wasn't a slick ride because this bike came from the era absent of "free-wheel." That is, your rear brake was initiated when you applied a reverse peddle.

There were no "hand brakes" which clamped the rim of the wheel to induce a stop, no sir. With this mighty Schwinn, one merely conducted a hard reverse peddle, therefore seizing the front flywheel of the crank, catching the chain upon the rear sprocket and stopping the whole wheel at the expense of the rubber on the tire. What's more, this archaic remnant lacked the straight angled support bar, which ran posteriorly/inferiorly from the superior portion of the front forks to the anterior portion of the crankshaft. Specifically, my support bar had the unique 1970's hallmark, a semi-sleek "curve." My bike was an antiquated, exceptionally heavy, relic. Sadly enough, I had spray-painted it with a can of silver in order to get the "chrome" look that came standard on the Diamond Backs and Mongooses of the day. I remember once, feeling thoroughly embarrassed as my mother pulled it from the trunk of the car for me so I could ride off with one of the kids in their neighborhood. I remember the smirks by the others. I hate them for their smirks. Mom loves me. She would buy a hundred Diamond Backs for you if she could. Their smirks and body language reveals the 'real' them! One day...

And somehow, the words of this compassionate, guilt-giving inner voice had a way of causing my anger to burn itself out. Or perhaps I smothered it in guilt? Regardless, I still had my church, which I hated. But as a young kid, twice a week I had to go. On Wednesdays, until I reached junior high, I was a Royal Ambassador and a good Baptist. Or so I appeared. I wore a white short-sleeved shirt, with my big Royal Ambassador emblem sewn onto the shoulder of one side and the Christian flag on the other. I was an ambassador for JEEEEZUS!

We wore this crap so that everywhere we went, people would know we represented Christ and perhaps we could "spread the (poison) news" of some prick named, Jesus. Brainwashing from such an early age was commonplace when I grew up. But I guess, when I ran around with this shirt on, spitting down the latter-wells onto people's hands or stealing Hot Wheels, they too would know that I represented Christ. Amen! And when I was caught for this, after arriving home, I would receive the belt...again. But most importantly, before my punishment, I was told this was done to me because they "loved me" and that it "hurt them more than it hurt me." Of course, after the first swat, I begged to differ.

There was one last memory of this year. I couldn't find my cat. After several days of searching, he still remained lost. I became very anxious. Finally, my mom broke the news to me. She found it by the railroad tracks. It had been hit by a train. But it was okay because he was in heaven with Jesus (just like Robert). This dude, Jesus, sure takes a lot from me.

I remember being at home alone with my sister while still mourning the death of my cat. I became so overwhelmed with sadness that I only knew of one solution. I needed to die too so that I could be with my cat in Heaven. So I grabbed a steak knife from the drawer and laid it against my wrist. I still don't know how I knew, at this age, that this was a way to die. But I did it all the same. I remember my sister crying as a result of what she was about to witness. But Not yet!

### CHAPTER 9

(1983)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: RIOTS IN SING-SING, NAZI WAR CRIMINAL ARRESTED IN BOLIVIA, SOVIET UNION LABLED EVIL EMPIRE, U.S. EMBASSY IN BERUIT BOMBED, RETURN OF THE JEDI OPENS IN U.S., JOHN PAUL II RETRACTS BAN ON GALILEO, ETHNIC CLEANSING IN SRI LANKA, HURRICANE ALICIA HITS TEXAS, HOOTERS OPENS IN FLORIDA, MARINE CORPS BARRACKS BOMBED IN BEIRUT, MICROSOFT WORD IS RELEASED, POPULATION REACHES 4,690,500,000. STOP.

"When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace."

\- William Gladstone, 1809-1898

My third grade year went on and I failed to make friends. A rich and popular girl was sent home for head lice and for the first time, I saw a brochure for the Boy Scouts. It contained some third-grade level reading and depicted an animated boy my own age in a blue uniform who stood there with his right arm up and bent at a ninety degree angle with thumb and pinky clasped around an extended three fingers. In the caption above, read "Scouts Honor." Look at that faggot!

I was not interested. More importantly, I couldn't understand why some of the boys in the class were. This was the gayest display of manhood I had ever witnessed by the ripe age of nine. And just as easily as the brochure was placed in my hands it was placed in the trash. The Boy Scouts, like my Schwinn, were antiquated relics of another era.

At some point around this year, the movie Splash was released. From which, I learned a new trade: how to look up the skirt of a girl. In the movie, the boy uses the "dropping of coins" near a relatively uncovered female wearing a dress or skirt. Consequently, as he bends down beside her to pick up the coins, he glances up her skirt for a peek at her crease (and hopefully, unbeknownst to her). My victim would be my third grade teacher. She was young as far as teachers went, but old compared to us. She must have been twenty-three, but she was hot. Knowing that she would merely think of us as "innocent" kids, during some sort of in-class recess, I, like many of the kids, would lie on my belly and color something as our teacher, Ms. Smith would walk around and/or over us. She too wore a skirt (although down to her mid shin or ankles). Therefore, the opportune time to catch a glimpse of her crease was when she stepped over me. This required teamwork. Tell What's-His-Face over there to call the teacher over and when she crosses over your path, LOOK UP!"

"Psssst, hey you," I whispered over to What's-His-Face, "call Ms. Smith over to you."

"Why?" He asked with much confusion and a hint of distrust. What's the matter with this Boy Scout, can't he read my mind? I guess not.

"I'll tell you later, just do it." I said with a convincing and curiosity-invoking grin. (My grin was my only bargaining chip and quite useful.)

"Okay," he replied with a hint of curiosity seeping outward, "Ms. Smith, can you help me, please." Underway! Stand By!

Ms. Smith turned and moved in my direction like a temptress down a catwalk. In my mind's eye, she was losing an article of clothing with every step. My anxiety rocketed exponentially and at that fateful moment as her legs spread to step over me, I rolled half up on my shoulder with head twisted up, and witnessed the glory! Behold................ "The Crease!"

I think I heard angels singing. I think I may have even seen a little bush poking out the sides of her panties. I may have seen the universe if I thought about it longer. Once again, I experienced the "older woman." And it was good. And by the way, ole' What's-His-Face caught on and wanted in on the goods. Together we formed a team of "peepers." This lasted for several months, but then withered away. And I still don't recall his name.

I never rode the bus home like all the other kids because the bus didn't travel to my side of the tracks. Furthermore, due to the nature of my mother's job as a crossing guard, she had to stay after school to "guard" all the "little chit'lens" as they crossed the road. So I began my own after-school curriculum of running the red dirt track located behind the building. All by myself, I ran in circles like a bored fucking hamster in a wheel. And as I circled the track, time and again, I convinced myself that I no longer cared whether I fit in with these people or not and every day I watched their yellow buses pull out and heard their screaming laughter as they socialized with each other and planned their own after-school curriculum. Third grade came and went. But that summer, I experienced a most beautiful display of Chaos and Power.

That summer/autumn, while hunkered in my living room in front of the big window (exactly what one is not to do), my family sat and watched the almighty power of Hurricane Alicia as it rolled into Houston. The sky transitioned from clear, humid and seemingly peaceful to black, tumultuous, and war-like. Eventually, my parents ordered us away from the windows. At which time, I slinked into my room, and to the window, in order to watch this "devil" I was instructed to turn my back on. The trees stood helplessly as their branches ripped back and forth like flailing arms. Debris flew past like aimless birds. A mixture of rain and sleet pounded our already leaking roof. And in a crescendo of ecstasy, a flash of green lightning stabbed the neighbors tree, bringing it down with a loud thud and against the pavement as the waves of thunder rattled the windowpanes. It was, in fact, beautiful. This was power, true, genuine unadulterated power.

I wished I could have controlled something like this on command. I could throw away my enemies with this. But this was magical thinking. When the eye passed over, we all went outside to see the destruction. This lasted about an hour. At which time, the other end of this beautiful beast came and went and onward it travelled.

If I remember correctly, this even delayed the beginning of the next school year. I was going to, yet, another school. My mom finally received a teaching position at a private Baptist school of her liking. Oh, joy! However, it was here that I met a friend that I would associate with until the end of my life. It was here that my life began to take shape. And it was at this time that watermarks and mildew began to appear on our ceiling at home since the roof continually leaked.

Practiced here, as with many private schools, was the use of uniforms. The boys wore blue slacks and a yellow or white collared, button-down or polo and the girls wore some hideous, green, plaid skirt with matching green or white shirt. This was my first Baptist school. And it sucked.

But I guess things could be worse. I needed to look at the bright side. After over three hundred years, the Catholic Empire finally realized that Galileo was right so they lifted banishment of him and his brilliance. My house survived a beautiful hurricane. Hooters introduced the adult/adolescent, "peek-a-boo, have-a-wing or two, go-home and spank your monkey, soft-core, sex-biased, living, walking, breathing, bra and panty section of Mom's JC Penney catalogue... dining facility" (which women's liberation groups fell in love with immediately). And by God, Luke Skywalker, Han-Solo and Princess Lay-me saved the unknown universe with the help of Ewoks! The world was great! The world was safe! But most importantly, I was finally able to add to my education by taking courses called "Bible."

In Bible class, I learned to mindlessly memorize scripture. At the age of 9/10, I learned how to re-interpret the context of these verses from their ancient forms once written in Hebrew- Greek, Latin and finally into English. Finally, I was blessed and brainwashed with the ability to righteously judge my fellow man and if, at any time, I forgot how to do this, I could whip out my "trump" verse and recover my divine abilities and quote, "For God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten Son, that...blah, blah, blah.....whatever, Jesus Rules, I'm right, you're wrong, Amen!" I was invincible with my weapons and guardian angels. You can't get that in public schools.

Strangely enough, in this dire setting, I managed to run into an interesting collection of guys. And we formed a clique. The measure of your status within the clique was measured relative to how many "tally's" you could earn in a week. What is a "tally," you ask? A tally was a mark of misconduct and every student kept a "tally sheet" taped and inverted at the front of their desk, which one would flip up upon the desk and amend as commanded by the dictator (teacher).

There were different types of tally's. There was a "talking" tally when you talked out of turn or failed to raise your hand.

There was the "deliberate disobedience" tally when you. well....knowingly disobeyed a previous command like talked out of turn three times in a setting. There were few other smaller tally's which I can't remember because I rarely received them. But when there was no name for your form of misconduct, there was the catchall, "hullabaloo" tally. I loved this one so much that I became the "Hullabaloo Maestro." I learned that this tally encompassed many forms of behavior. A loud and raunchy fart in a quiet classroom while the teacher was talking was a hullabaloo (and very entertaining for everyone, except those in smelling distance, but this is what "finger pointing" was for). Shooting spitballs was typically a hullabaloo for both the "spitter" and the "receiver" as certainly the receiver would burst out with a loud, hullabalooic, "AHHH!" However, this could be disadvantageous in the sport of "Tally Competition" as it gave points to your competitors.

Regardless, every week I was a leading contender, with a slew of hullabaloo's exceeding the check box available for marks, multiple "talking's" and a few "deliberate disobedience's." Every week I would take my licks with a belt at home and every week I would come home with more tallies. And yet, it was not enough. But I tried all the same. It was clear that this was a clean cut case of "The Establishment" trying to keep a white boy down. It was the "They's."

I began to establish quite a friendship with a few of the guys. There was Cole, who was the lady charmer/vain bad-boy and all the girls thought he was so cute. There was Marcello, who was not a girl magnet, but he was wealthy and had all the Legos and G.I. Joes ever made to date. There was Jason, who was the instigator and manipulator much like me, but better. There was Trevor, who was...just Trevor, but he could ride a bike. And then there was Darren, who feared the wrath of his mother and father so much that he never accumulated much Tally Wealth, but he tried. But I'm certain it was more difficult for him as he was raised as a good Christian to love "Jesus" and hate "Niggers" (classic Southern Baptist training). Never mind, "Love thy brother as thyself!" If the bible didn't fit your belief system, then re-interpret it until it did. C'mon, this is "Bible 101." Amen! Regardless, we liked him all the same and he always had a jar of pickles in the garage refrigerator for us to dig into.

But it wouldn't be too long before many of our personalities played out. At the time, something new and perverse to all of us was something known as "doing it." A simple term, a subtle phrase, which meant, by today's lingo, "having sex," "bumping uglies," "humping." "Doing it" became the quest of all of us and the girls in our class became our subjects. "IT" was on our minds. Like a god in its own rite, the true name of "IT" was never spoken. It was simply referred to as "IT." Some of the uninformed would ask, "Doing 'what?'" Those poor souls. There was no help for them as the only reply was merely, "You know... 'IT!'" And if one was really lucky, such as a friend with cable and sleeping parents, one was able to witness "IT" in movies like Risky Business. A moment of silence, please. Amen. However, it was Cole who beat everyone in this quest (or so he claimed). His subject was a girl by the name of Shelly.

Shelly was one of the more popular girls. She was a little more outgoing, not too nerdy, not bad looking, and conversant with everyone; hence, her popularity was her ability to cross-clique with several personality types and relate to all. And since her mother and Cole's mother were well acquainted, Shelly and Cole spent many unsupervised hours together and there was no other better game to play than to play "Doctor." The beauty of this game was that it didn't matter how little clothing you had on or how much "heavy petting and touching" occurred. In fact, the lack of clothing with supplemental touching was the name of the game. Both would re-enact their visits to the doctor (however, in this case, the doctor was lacking the expertise, reason for visit, examination protocol or standard of care, tentative diagnosis and plan, or anything else with a medicinal purpose.) Instead, it was all about the boner with a false and "innocent" façade of, "We were just playing."

The next day, while Shelly remained quiet about her recent endeavor (at least, she never said anything to the boys), Cole ensured we were all well versed in female anatomy (at least, Shelly's female anatomy). After we fed on every erotic detail, we cumulatively had one question: did she have bush? This was very important as we were still easily counting our own individual blonde/brown pubes and comparing notes as to who had the most machismo. But the answer to this heated question was: Yes! She had a bush! She had many hairs. And this was so unfair to our young machismo. The only thing we wanted, the only thing we held dear was the luxury of the bragging rights for having a few brown ticklers in our underwear and these girls, who cared so little for it, had rows of grass on their fields already! It was so unjust! So we simply did what came natural, we lied to each other and said we did. And to each other, we always wondered who was exaggerating, just plain lying, or really telling the truth about their manhood.

Regardless, Cole made a grave mistake by telling us because, of course, we couldn't keep a secret. Not a secret like this. This was freakin' headline news. The world needed to know that Cole "did it" and who he did it with. And like good disciples, we "proclaimed" to the country sides the successful quest of our young adventurer and heralded him a "King." He was greater than Columbus because of his discovery of the bush from the Land of Shelly. But I think at some point, Shelly ran out of the class crying about this due to embarrassment and we all received our first sex education class from our own mothers that night.

There was nothing more disgusting than talking about sex with your mother. To compound matters, due to Cole's "quest," he and Shelly were never left alone again and Shelly no longer wanted to "play doctor" with him ever again. So not only was Cole the first to get laid, he was also the first to be "cut off," all in two days-time. That's some luck. But he would have his revenge.

Very soon after this scandalous affair, Shelly returned to class with a whole new look. Like many, if not all girls who feel "wronged" when a relationship fails, she altered her hair. Most girls just try a new style; e.g. they comb it straight, pull it back into a ponytail, apply some sticky compound-like gel or mousse. Others go a little further and do things more permanent and apply dye's or bleaches. And then there are those who go as far as cutting it all off. But they all wreak of the same thing: "I got hurt. But I'm better now, so here's the new me." But Shelly took it a step further (or perhaps her mother still played with dolls and considered her child to be a "Little Miss Make-Up") and she not only cut off her hair, but curled it as well. Like the "out-of-touch" mullet worn well into the new millennium, the "Perm" was a forgotten remnant of the late seventies/early eighties. This was 1984. The perm was officially declared "un-cool". "Bangs" and "wings" were in now. But in our eyes, this was no perm. What Shelly wore on her head was nothing other than, "A Fro."

At the time, this was equivalent to the current day white girl who goes out and gets "Corn Rolls" in an effort to demonstrate that she is a "Sista." This is also equivalent to the bald man who wears false hair or a "comb-over." One looks at these people and thinks, "Dude, you're bald. Everyone knows it. The part in your hair-line is on the side of your head and your side hairs are nine inches long. When the wind blows, we see it." Or with the false hair, one thinks, "Dude, that rat nest on your head is not your hair. What species of bird do you harbor in there?" And with the white boys and girls who try to be black (or Michael Jacksons who try to be white), one thinks, "Dude.....look at yourself! You are what you are. Love it."

Furthermore and even more embarrassing are the "Whities" who speak completely clear and normal/proper English among each other, but feel compelled to "Jive" when they speak to black folks. They feel they need to speak a different language with Blacks as if the Blacks were a completely different species than their own, as if they grew up in another world and wouldn't understand proper English. And strangely enough, these same "Whities" also proclaim blacks to be no different than themselves and "defend their rights." My question is why the blacks don't find this insulting? Shit, I would, but I guess that's not saying much. Anyhow, Shelly got a fro and damn, it stood out!

Of course, no one said anything to Shelly, outside of the standard lies: "Heeeyyy, your hair looks great!!" Or they would ask with a big heart-warming smile, "Did you do something with your hair?" But oh, if only their thoughts had voice boxes, what would escape from behind those lying eyes? The honest people just "failed to recognize" her change in appearance and pretended not to notice this catastrophe. But I believe Shelly began to see the false compliments by way of the overwhelming "silent option," but it was too late. That fro was there to stay for a while. Best buy a "fro-pick" and get comfortable. But Cole would not stand for this silence. He felt compelled to let it be known by way of an audience. And there was no better audience, no better place for the juvenile voice to be heard, than the vocal "Prayer Request."

Silently we stood in a cultish circle like remnants of ancient Celts, holding hands. Around the circle we went, offering up our prayer requests to the High Priestess (the Bible teacher who acted as our passage to god). Some would pray for the newest G.I. Joe. Some would pray for sick family members. And around the circle we went. But it all came to a screeching halt when it reached Cole. Cole had something more sinister in mind.

With his head bowed and eyes closed (of course mine were open as always, watching everyone else), he said, "I pray that Shelly shave off her fro.....Amen!" Oh my, it was classic! Shelly, of course, took off running to the girls restroom to cry (the circle was broken and the passage to The Almighty was severed) and Cole didn't even crack a smile. Marcello burst out laughing so hard he spit on the person in front of him. I stood there in amazement (while desperately grasping the hands beside me in an effort to keep the circle intact and our communications alive with The Almighty as this message needed to get to him. After all, that Fro did need to go and Cole did have the conch at the time of his request, so it was legitimate.) However, the High Priestess didn't see it that way and unfortunately for Cole, his behavior was considered to be beyond "hullabaloo." Also unfortunately for him, he was awarded a visit to the principal. And although visiting the principal was never really all that bad, for Cole and me, it was a little worse because both of our mothers were teachers there as well. So I guess things became a bit more personal (and a bit more personally embarrassing for our mothers when we were awarded visits).

With the advent of the festive season, beginning with Halloween, some new activities began to take shape. For starters, I, along with all the other guys, needed a girlfriend. It was pertinent that we all "do it" or at least establish some form of relationship with a female in order to prepare for the act of "doing it." Strangely enough, I found myself attracted to a coke-bottled glasses girl with terrible allergies. You know, the nasally sounding girl with a self-perpetuating tissue in hand that never died and seemed to hold an infinite supply of snot. But even with these supplies on hand, she would wipe her nose with the base of her palm in an upward direction towards her hairline while sniffing. SLLRRRRRPPP! Yummy!

But I don't know, there was just something about her. Perhaps it was her big eyes, but then again, when she removed her coke bottles, her eyes were actually tiny and beady. Regardless, we didn't last. If I recall correctly, after Christmas break, we never "dated" again, although we still had the same classes. Relationships at this age are so fragile. They are infinitely susceptible to decay by lack of proximity for brief periods, like a two-week Christmas vacation. Weird. But more importantly, while leading up to the Christmas break was our class play. It was the standard fun. Some classes were cancelled and replaced with play practice.

My dad taught me a form of sketching called "perspective drawing." So on a 2-dimensional piece of paper, one could depict 3-dimensions. So for one of our art projects, I drew a train coming out of the paper while my fellow "artists" and "colleagues" were still trying to draw G.I Joe and Destro. Consequently, my picture was blown up and colored to use as an overhead projection for the part in the play, where we all "got aboard" the "time travelling train" that went through the "Tiiiiiiime Tunnel" and took us from modern day America back to the Baby Jesus-Manger scene. It was the gayest thing I ever participated in or witnessed. But my picture was up for the world to see (or just the world of parents of my classmates). And I became famous in my own mind. Jason refused to do the gay "chug-a-lug" and was made into a tree as a stage prop.

Soon after our "theatrical display" we were released for the Christmas break. I believe this lasted for about two weeks. At which time, before Christmas, we would spend the night at each other's houses and after Christmas, we'd do the same and compare gifts. But this Christmas break would be different.

During this period of my life, I had developed a habit, a skill, a technique called stealth. While my parents were still up in the forward part of the house, I would low-crawl down the hallway to my little sister's room. Quietly slithering like a broken snake, left elbow- right knee forward while pushing off the right elbow-left knee. And inch by precious inch, I would crawl into her room and under her bed as she slept. I, and my technique, were right out of a Lee Marvin, WWII movie (Lee would have been so proud.) And all this stealth was conducted under minimal light and the hum of the air conditioner. With that said, when the air conditioner stopped, so did I as my breathing, heartbeat, and clothing-drag could become audible to my unsuspecting victim. However, once in place under the bed and absolutely certain I could hear the deep and interspersed breathing of sleep, I would lunge up beside the bed, grab her shoulders and yell, "BOOOOOO!"

Of course she would scream and perhaps pee herself. It was all good. Mom would yell, "I thought I told you to go to bed!!! You'd better get back to bed or I'm gonna lambast you." Lambast...my mother's most signature spanking. None of us knew what it meant, but it always came with "the hand" or an "ill-guided" belt. Ill guided, insofar as, my mother could only bat a hundred at T-ball, so finding a butt with a belt was very difficult for her and the belt would unfortunately find our lower legs, lower backs, or our brave and defensive hands.

But this night was different. Once I was set in place under her bed and prepared to pounce, I saw the shins of my dad come in the room and move to the side of the bed. Damn it! We're caught! Stay silent...he'll be gone in a moment!

But he wasn't. Although I don't remember the conversation, I realized he had awakened her. They were talking. Their conversation seemed so routine. She shifted in the bed. And being that I could only see his mid shins from my viewpoint under the bed, when his shorts appeared out of nowhere around his ankles, I didn't quite know what to think. What the hell?

The bed began to make oscillating and evenly patterned squeaks, but my dad's legs remained planted beside the bed. So quietly, I shifted and eased my head out from under and between his spaced ankles. What the hell? (blink, blink) What the hell?.........those are his balls!

All I recall was quiet talk as if everything was routine, the site of my dad's balls and my little sister's lower legs. One on each side of his outer thighs. What the hell? Dads' humpin' my sister! Somehow I knew this was not the version of "doing it" that we all aspired to and it was not something I would ever tell my friends. Somehow, there was something very wrong here.

Lay still, wait, then crawl out!

So I did just that. Eventually my dad left the room and I waited for the sound of slow and deep breathing above. At that time, I crawled out as stealthy as I crawled in. I immediately went to my older brother's room. Excited and out of breath, I said,

"...I just saw Dad humping <name>!"

"What?!" he claimed with a certain look of disbelief.

I don't think he believes me!

As I repeated how I came about witnessing this event, he listened closely. When I finished, he got up.

"Where are you going?" I asked with a touch of fear anticipating exactly what he was about to say.

"I'm gonna ask Dad," he said plainly.

"Nooooo!!!!!" I dry hissed while trying to grab his arm as if I could restrain his four years seniority and greater strength. Ah, shit I'm in trouble!

But instead, I went with him and together we confronted our dad. My brother asked him if my claims were true and of course he denied it, but the level of redness in his face upon receipt of the question, told all. Or perhaps it's just an embarrassing question for any father? Regardless, that was the end of that. And the thought, the act, the concept, the Family Secret, would remain dormant for eight years. It would later become known as, "The Unspoken."

And then came Christmas. Baby Jesus was born and the film, A Christmas Story was released. Messy Marvin had come a long way since his Hershey's Chocolate commercials. I don't recall what I got that year. Perhaps some G.I. Joes and the Dragonfly helicopter or maybe it was the Millennium Falcon? Regardless, I could kill indiscriminately with them all. And again I heard the rattlesnake tail and desert whistle. And I think something was changing inside of me.

### CHAPTER 10

(1984)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: WHERE'S THE BEEF, MICHAEL JACKSON BURNED DURING PEPSI COMMERCIAL, IRAQ USES CHEMICAL WEAPONS ON IRAN, GHOSTBUSTERS RELEASED, MASSACRE IN MCDONALDS RESTAURANT-21 KILLED, MIAMI VICE DEBUT, A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET OPENS IN CINEMAS, CRACK IS INTRODUCED TO L.A., POPULATION REACHES 4,769,800,000. STOP.

"Wars, like thunderstorms, are often necessary to purify the stagnant atmosphere. War is not a demon, without remorse or reward. It restores the brotherhood in the letters of fire. When men are seated in their pleasant places, sunken in ease and indolence, with Pretence [sic] and Incapacity and Littleness usurping all the high places of State, war is the baptism of blood and fire, by which alone they can be renovated."

-Albert Pike, Morals and Dogma, 1809-1891

It was a new year. The world watched in horror as Michael Jackson was carted away on a gurney from the Pepsi set where he had burned some of his hair while making a commercial. "Oowww.....shu-mo-neh!" (Toe stand in my penny loafers with white sparkly glove followed by a moonwalk).

Michael was loved by both parents and children alike. However, this would change in the next twenty years. There was some war over in the Middle East between Habib and Haboob, religious in nature, of course, which desperately needed help from my G.I. Joes. In addition, Wendy's was making a comeback with, "Where's the Beef?" In fact, I'm convinced that if Dave Thomas hadn't gone this route, every Wendy's would have belonged to McDonalds in the years to come. Needless to say, (but I will anyway), "Where's the Beef" was spouted from 9 out of 10 people on a daily basis. Much like Beavis and Butthead's "Fire, Fire" later to come in the mid-nineties, "Where's the beef" will never be forgotten, although the restaurant that created it, might.

I returned to school as everyone else, bringing with me some of my new toys for show-off and tell. Of course, Marcello just returned from Italy where he spent Christmas and returned with some robot-like toys that made the Transformers look like childish stuffed animals. Nevertheless, we loved his rich ass for a few reasons: (1) he was fun to hang out with, (2) the more one hung out with him, the more likely one was to receive some gifts from his parents as well, (3) he had cable where we could see "boobies," (4) he had a pool and we could climb onto the roof of his two-story house and cannonball, (5) his parent's supervision was minimal, and (6) he had the coolest toys. But I guess, even if he didn't have all these things, we would have continued to hang out with him. Just not as much. As was life.

There was nothing spectacular about the beginning of 1984 except that a movie with Bill Murray and some great special effects, for the time, was coming to theaters soon. They carried cannon-like guns, wore jumpsuits, and zapped ghosts; however, it was rated PG and Mom wasn't sure it was suitable. Not to mention (but I will), that these people "busted" ghosts without the "Power of Christ," meaning, they were battling the underworld with powers unholy and therefore, like Karate, movies like this could have a very negative impact on my psyche and wholesome Christian development into a strong Christian Soldier...but I saw it anyway, perhaps while staying at a friend's house. But there was an even more powerful movement out there at this time and although it had been around for years, in the eighties, it came with a vengeance. And they called it Break Dancing.

What a sad, sad time in the United States. Like a volatile chemical cocktail spiraling out of control, bad hair styles mixed with hideous clothing, ridiculous dance and a false machismo, from which sprang break dancing and all its allure. But the spirit of the eighties did not discriminate among the races. The spirit of the eighties took each and every man, woman, and child and baptized him in the urine of the ages. Black, white, brown, or yellow, everyone was equally ridiculous! I was sold! And Ice-T made his debut in the film, Breakin' as he lisped through his rap while the "breakers" had a "break-off."

Consequently, I needed some gloves with the fingers cut off in order to do this right. However, one was incomplete if they lacked parachute pants. And being that these pants cost nearly $80 in 1984, I got a pair of wanna-be knock-offs. Like a diligent student, I started with the basics-kind of like a starter kit. It entailed, the "wave," the "centipede," the "back-spin," and the "moonwalk" (to include the "reverse moonwalk" as well).

The true grasshopper of break-dancin' learned to improvise, adapt, and overcome. And to the amazement of my fellow breakers, I moon-walked forward. My knock-off parachute pants were no longer visible as I razzle-dazzled the viewers with the rare jewel of a move. Quickly, my moves flourished and I progressed to the head-spin. I never mastered the robotic movements, so instead I over-compensated with all the other moves, to include later, the sideways moon-walk.

I was essentially all over the place. I was out of break-dance-control. "Oowww.....shu-mo-neh!" I moon-walked through the mall with my mom or dad to the extent they warned me to stop. So I would do it when they weren't looking. And as a "Master Breaker" in my class of fourteen students, I began to catch the eyes of some of our girl breakers. And all I have to say is, regardless of how cool we were then, and how ridiculous it appears now, we truly were nothing more than peacocks displaying our brilliantly colored feathers for mate selection. What miserable beasts we really are.

But there was a counter culture out there, which ran concomitantly with break dancing. It was also the era that gave birth to something more rigid than hair teased with sixteen ounces of gel, mousse, and hairspray. They called it "Heavy Metal," albeit, the second generation of heavy metal. These bands were no Led Zeppelin's, AC/DC's, Van Halen's or Rush's. This generation of heavy metal had overly anxious ambition and underdeveloped talent. However, to compensate for their lack of talent, their album covers implemented ghoulish skulls, chains, and whips or giant horned devils standing proud-and-strong in hellish fires. The musicians wore spiked wrist and arm bands with black leather or parachute pants. These were hardened, demonic, hellish, supernatural, and all-powerful, fear inducing wielders of "Battle Axes" who spent more time in front of a mirror teasing, crimping, and styling their hair and applying make-up than most women on the planet.

But they were "cooooool." They went by names like Judas Priest, Twisted Sister, and Iron Maiden. They sang about far off lands where superhuman men like themselves, did battle with dragons, beasts, and demons. They had weapons like magic spawning guitar licks that zapped, tamed, neutralized, or hypnotized their prey. Perhaps even some of them fought alongside the demons and devils against an even greater foe that our bibles taught us...SATAN! They shouted at devils, ran to the hills and they broke laws...or so they sang about. They were madmen of rock and roll and they coined the term for a fan's greatest contribution and salute to any rock and roll agent of "Fantasy Knighthood." These champions of fury and might looked down upon their subjects with their sacred battle axes and called them, "Head Bangers!" And the Angels of Heavy Metal rejoiced (HAAAAAAAAAAA-lleluja)!

Head banging was easy. One just needed to slam their head back and forth while their hands repetitively thrust the pinky and index finger, sign of the beast; hence, the salute. The truly dedicated would demonstrate the power of their rock gods, like a fundamentalist Muslim with a rack of body explosives, by banging their heads into walls or anything which would induce pain or, at least, bleeding. So I became more of a hybrid. I moon walked with a spiked bracelet, parachute pants and high tops and sang Quiet Riots', C'mon feel the noise. And of course, the girls "rocked" the boys, which somehow took on a whole new connotation.

The school year came to a close and we celebrated the coming end with a Field Day full of sporting events for all of us aspiring young athletes. Jason and I competed against each other in the 100 yard dash. He won and so I asked him how this could be since I could always out-run him in recess.

"I ran with my hands like this," he claimed as he demonstrated keeping his hands in a Karate chop form. "It made me more arrownydamic!"

"Ooohhhhh, that makes perfect since! Arrownydamics," I said as I thought this through while hearing a wise old pan flute whistle gently as I contemplated his Karate hand form. Do you hear a pan flute? Fuck it! Who cares! The fucker beat me! That's all that matters! However, I may want to adopt that karate hand form for the future.

A few weeks into the summer, Jason had a birthday party. This was one of the best ploys ever developed by parents. Think about it. Parents go out and spend a little money on a cake and some ice cream and perhaps a small gift for their kid with the promise that they will have so much fun on their birthday and would receive many, many obligatory gifts from their friends. What a deal for the parents of the birthday boy! It was like a mini-Christmas. However, this placed the burden of gift bearing upon the invited kids. But let's not kid ourselves, my job at the time of doing nothing had brought in "0" income. So where would this gift come from? Ah-ha...of course, parents. Let us not forget the pressure by the invited kids upon their parents. They wouldn't want to miss a party lest their old best friend make a new best friend. And the invited kids couldn't gain entry into the heavenly party unless they paid their dues. Well, my Christ-like parents weren't up to date on their tithes and payments to the Church, but they managed to squeeze out the cost for a single G.I. Joe like a squelched fart in a quiet library full of beautiful women. "Pwt", and there it is. How come Jason can have birthday parties, but I can't?

"Mom," I asked inquisitively, "how come Jason can have birthday parties, but I can't?"

"Because we can't afford it," she said. And that was the end of that. But those words would resonate for years to come.

I arrived at Jason's with my crappy bike in the trunk and G.I. Joe in hand. Jason had a Mongoose or a Red Line bicycle; the kind that had free-wheel and hand brakes as did everyone else. But I was getting used to it. And I would keep up with all of them and jump any curb available. I began to wonder why my parents couldn't get a bike like this for me while apparently everyone else's parents could. I wouldn't put it all together until many years later. All my friends were either an only child or one of two, whereas I was the fourth of five siblings.

Regardless, I really don't remember much about the party in its entirety, however, I do recall an event around the party.

Like a wild pack of banshees, we took to the streets with our iron horses, helmetless and carefree while jumping every curb or bump we could come across. With playing cards attached by clothes pins to the rear frames, our bikes sounded like gurgling engines as the cards snapped between every spoke. Eventually, someone would eat it and do a face plant on the pavement, but these were the wild days and the dues of outlaw bicyclers. Somewhere along our war-torn path, we came across a local junior-high school and plowed across a basketball court. The problem was, there were some brutha's playing some ball at the end of one. Now we didn't interfere with their game or even come close to their end of the court, but they didn't like us passing through, regardless. As we screamed by, one of the brutha's shouted, "Hey muthafucka, don't be drybin yo asses cross dis cote agin, or I beat ALL yo asses!" And he was big, he and his three friends. They all must have been in sixth or seventh grade. They all clearly had several inches over our tallest "Hell's Angel," but we were a pack, damn it! And there were about ten of us.

"Wha-did they say," someone asked as we circled up behind the school.

"They were cussing at us because we crossed their basketball court," someone else responded.

"Fuck them," came a cheer from somewhere else in the pack followed by several other "Yeah's." Rally the troops!

"Hey, hey, I have an idea," I said with so much enthusiasm that everyone quieted down, stopped and focused on me. I don't remember much of my soapbox, but I remember some key points.

"If we all stick together, we can take 'em!" I said with zeal.

"But they're a lot bigger than us, they must be in junior high or something," said the face of a person I have blocked from memory. Coward!

I saw how much his confidence, or lack thereof, spread like the Ebola Virus. Quickly people were losing their angry fervor and becoming demoralized due to this cowardly but observable logic, so I decided to muster enough confidence to feed the pack.

"So what if they're older and bigger! There's only four of them and there's about twenty of us. Inflate our numbers, must make a sale. That means there would be three of us on every one of them. My fourth grade math was paying off. And I think, Jason, Darren, and I could take the one who cussed us out! And even if one of them is hitting one of you, that leaves the other two to punching him in the back of the head until he falls, then you can stomp 'em! Right? And how about this, let's go get some weapons at Jason's house, just to make sure!"

And just like understanding a great mystery for the first time, my idea, my concept, my logic, my anger was heard and accepted.

"Fuck yeah, I'm in," a faceless memory said.

"Me too," came the other responses until we were all back on our wanna-be Harley's to Jason's house to gather weapons. When we reached his garage, we scrambled for anything we could find, old broom sticks and poles. Those that couldn't find anything merely grabbed rocks along the way back to the school.

On the way back, I shouted, "Let's just ride right through their court again!" Everyone agreed. And that's exactly what we did. We circled back around along the edge of the court to see what they would do next.

"Hey Muthafucka! Thought I tole you not ta-be drybin tru my cote!" The big one said as he and his buds came towards us. Damn dude, they're big, better not let anyone see my lack of confidence now.

"Y'all ready?" I said with borrowed confidence as I turned my head to look back at the guys only to see the faces of nine deer standing on a dark highway with their eyes caught in the headlights. Maybe I should let this one go? Shut up ya pussy! If I stop now, I'll never live this down.

So I sat there on my bike facing this kid who only appeared to grow exponentially with every step he took towards us. I knew at this point, in order to make this happen, I was going to have to be the one to get us all going. I was going to have to be the one to start it.

"Whut muthafucka, you think yo bad or sumpin'?" The big one said as he approached to no less than one foot from me with his chest poofed out like a rooster and his inflate-a-lats causing his arms to branch out to the sides, which ended with two big fists-like pendulums. Damn dude, he's freakin' REAL big! He may be in eighth grade. I think I'm fucked! Dear Jesus, though I may walk through the valley of the sha....

I knew at this point, there was only one thing to do. I figured if I got this fight started, our pack would swarm them in a matter of moments. I may get popped in the face, but we'll be on top of them in no time. And just like a good wizard speaks his incantations as his wand delivers the fury of the gods, I too spoke mine as I stared up into the face of this bull with flaring nostrils.

"Fuck you, Nigger!" I said with clear and calm confidence.

And that was all I said. What happened next is only believed to exist in movies, comedies specifically. His fists moved like jack-hammers as they repeatedly, but only for about two seconds, pounded into my chest and back. I was too shocked by both my own balls and his speed to attempt to cover myself or counter-strike. Instead, I fell over my bike and into the dirt. It was on, I knew it, and I figured within this nanosecond that I was living in, the pack was already lunging forward to counter-strike them all. But when I pulled my face up out of the dirt and looked just past the shoes of the bastard who just put me there, I only saw those same nine deer standing on that same dark highway with their eyes caught in the same goddamn headlights.

<..Crickets chirping...>

<..Still chirping...>

And it was over before it ever began. Take your licks. This is just the beginning.

"Na get yo asses' outta here, muthafucka's!" The big one shouted to us all as I picked my defeated ass up out of the dirt and remounted my shitty-ass bike.

"Yes sir!" And as we rode off in the silence of utter failure like the Black Widows from the movie Any Which Way But Loose, the only words I heard came from one of the brutha's talking to the other.

"Daammnn, nigga! He axchully called-chu a nigga!" He said with astonishment.

"Crazy-ass, cracka-muthafucka!" Was all the big one replied.

I don't recall much more about this summer except hanging out with Marcello one day at his house. The news was playing in the background. Apparently a man walked into my favorite restaurant, McDonalds, (albeit, in another state), and began shooting at will. He even shot the kids through the window while riding their bikes outside. I was horrified, but intrigued and obsessed at the same time. He had harnessed some kind of power in his powerless state. He took control by losing control. He refused to take it anymore by taking it all in. He had had enough because he didn't have enough. He no longer lived for anything by living for that moment. He had nothing to lose by losing his life. And he became immortal in death and famous among the infamous when he felt the simple squeeze of a sharpshooter's finger. Regardless, the ketchup on my Big Mac never looked the same.

Fifth grade started with a vengeance. We were the top dogs of our elementary school. We were told to be examples for the younger kids. So we tried...for about a day. And with every coming school year and fall season, is a new television series and there was nothing more Ocean Pacific (OP) than two cops in suits with pastel colored shirts running around Miami in their Ferrari with guns, solving mysteries while wearing penny-loafers without socks. And the cheese wouldn't be REAL cheese if their names weren't "Tubbs" and "Crocket." Miami Vice was the coolest thing to hit the eighties. There were sexy girls in bikinis on white sandy beaches walking to a cool electric guitar soundtrack mixed with keyboard drums. And this was merely the beginning credits.

Meanwhile, we were all learning the hand bells for our Christmas play. I think I was the note of "G." And somehow, this was the time honored tradition of fifth graders at this school and only the nerds in the class really loved it. But we only had one choice. We could ring our bells at the appropriate times during our "O Little Town of Bethlehem" or we could fuck it up for everyone for the Christmas play in front of all our parents. The question was, who was going to be the one to fuck it up. Who wanted to ring out of turn first. In the end, no one did. And for once, we all just complied. It was truly a sad display of conformity. But in the end, it was worth it this time, because this Christmas ended up being the best there ever was.

This year, we had to wait until Christmas day to open presents. It seemed so unfair as our routine was to attend the candlelight services at church late on Christmas Eve and then come home to find that Santa had come while we were away. I stopped believing in Santa a few years before, but I never did know how my mom and dad managed to have all these gifts from "Santa" piled up under the tree while we were away because they were there with us at church. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it also didn't mean a fat man in a red suit could squeeze his fat ass down our chimney either, so I just remained suspicious. So we came home and Mom and Dad only let us open one gift and then we had to go to bed so Santa could come with the other gifts.

One of the hardest times in a kid's life to go to sleep is the night before Christmas. I don't remember how long it took me to go to sleep, but it was a long night all the same. And when the southern winter's sun shone through my window on Christmas morning, I flew out of bed and ran to the Christmas tree to see what Santa left for us. I could not believe my eyes.

Before I saw "it," I saw reflections of "it." As I said before, the sun shone bright that day and it was gleaming through the living room window and casting its brilliant rays upon one of man's greatest creations. This was no Red Rider BB gun. It was something much more sacred. As I rounded the corner as if in slow motion, I saw a collection of prisms, but these prisms were only Platonic reflections of its true form. These prisms were cast from two inverted, black and chrome Diamond Back Silver Streak bicycles. One for me and one for older brother. This was no-joke bike. This was no Wal-Mart version of a good bike. I was now on equal playing grounds with all my fellow cyclers. It was a light-weight, hand-brakin,' free-wheelin' wrapped up in a chrome body, spokes, black rims and black tires (with tread still on them, no less).

I knew it was from both my mom and dad, but they gave all the credit to Santa (whatever, if Santa makes them happy, they can have him, so long as I have this.) And although I knew it came from them both, I also knew my mother remembered my humiliation a few years back and saved a little more to do this for me this year. I wish I could say that I never forgot her kindness and repaid her with gratitude. I wish I could say that I returned to her this same love. But if that were the case, then this book would not be this book.

Regardless, there are and were no words to adequately describe my elation that morning. I can only say that it was the only Christmas I've ever really remembered and couldn't forget if I tried. That day, I felt like everyone else, like I was no different than my friends. But as silly as that sounds, up until that point, when dealing with my peers, I always just felt like the house-nigger; good enough to have in your home to cook, clean, and serve you dinner, but not good enough to sit down with and eat.

Yeah, of course there were poorer kids out there and kids worse off, but when all your friends were equally broke, when all their roof's leaked, when they all heard, "we can't afford it" as commonly as they heard, "good morning," when they all went to bed to the sound of their parents screaming at each other, furniture breaking or facial slapping, when they were all whipped with belts or broomsticks, or when molestation was common to them all, then you really stood out or felt different than anyone else you socialized with. When all your friends are the same off as you, there are less secrets to keep or blemishes to attempt to conceal. And to further compound matters, I loathed the actual sleeping part of "spending the night" at my friend's houses because I was ten years old and I still pissed the bed...regularly. Yet something else I needed to hide, lest I experience genuine alienation.

### CHAPTER 11

(1985)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: FIRST MOBILE PHONE CALL, FIRST ARTIFICIAL HEART PATIENT LEAVES HOSPITAL, DEBUT OF MIKE TYSON, COCA-COLA CHANGES FORMULA TO NEW COKE, UNABOMBER STRIKES UC BERKELY, NIGHTSTALKER TERRORIZES L.A., BANGLADESH CYCLONE KILLS 10,000, EARTHQUAKE IN MEXICO CITY KILLS 9,000, VOLCANO IN COLUMBIA KILLS 23,000, FAMINE IN ETHIOPIA, WORLD POPULATION REACHES 4,830,979,000, STOP.

"Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die."

-Amelia Burb, 1869-1956

This year would be different. I was a new man on a new machine. I would return to school on the first day back with my new bike for "show and tell." Of course, all my friends received something better, but I was one kid among five in my family, so gifts were a little more evenly distributed or diluted. So it was. But something else happened this new year. David Lee Roth recently left Van Halen and formed his own group and recreated a song, and more importantly a video, that won the world over which MTV killed like everything else. It was called California Girls. As a result of this song, the "California Girl" was just the type of girl a guy needed. And with my new shinny chrome bike, there was no stopping me...except that I lived in Texas. No matter, California would come to me. And sure enough, that term an unfortunate girl moved with her family all the way from San Diego to Houston. And like every good kid my age in that era, I asked her to "go with me." Where? I don't know, anywhere I guess would do. Perhaps to a place to "do it." But this would never come to pass. In fact, I don't even remember breaking up. In fact, I don't even remember how people broke up then. I don't think one cordially asked if one would "go away from me" after a period of time of "going with me." But it ended all the same. But me and the guys had more important things to do anyway, like punch each other in the balls and grab the girls' asses.

"Grab- ass" was an interesting era although it resulted in more ass whipping by my mother. The mission was simple. Sneak up on an unsuspecting female classmate and grab her ass, lift her skirt, or squeeze her prepubescent tits. Or if you could do all three without having your eyes clawed out, the better you were. However, being that next to none of the girls in the class had any boobage worth grabbing, we stuck to grabbing ass, lifting skirts and of course, the all-time favorite, punching each other in the balls. Of course, the poor class nerd never caught on and resorted to grabbing the guys' asses instead of the girls and punching the girls in the twat. Or perhaps he did catch on and preferred the guys' asses over the girls. Perhaps....never mind.

Regardless, this behavior provoked a very embarrassing sexual education lecture from one of the mothers of a victim of ball punching. She spoke the forbidden words of "penis" and "testicles" and "breasts" and "vaginas." And from this, we deduced that her son, one of our prime victims, had a vagina and consequently it was okay to punch him the balls. However, we did need to be a bit more discrete regarding our endeavors. After all, if I wanted to watch the greatest movie ever, The Breakfast Club, so that I could live vicariously through a high school on television, I needed to be on good terms with my friend so that he would invite me over so I could watch cable and eat his Ding Dongs (uhhhhh....that sounded really bad just after talking of ass grabbing and ball punching. But I meant the snacks....Ding-Dongs by Hostess.)

And from this movie, I learned how to look cool and rebel like John Bender. I made my own gloves with the fingers cut off. And to some degree, I wonder now how much I re-enacted or how simple my aspirations really were. I'm currently getting really bored with this side of the story, so I'll make it quick. I grew tired of school. Things were not alright at home. I rebelled in the classroom. And tally sheets could no longer hold all my tallies.

One day, I was sent to the principal's office for cursing. While waiting outside her office, I asked myself, "Why are you just waiting here to be punished?" Yeah, dude! Run! You know she's going to tell your mom! Hell, your mom works here for fuck sake!

And off I ran. I ran all the way down stairs and out the front door of the school. I had my hands in their proper karate-chop form for better arrownydamics. I would not sit and wait to be punished. I would fight back (by running away...how does that work...sounded good at the time). I ran down the street and into the neighborhoods where only a few years ago many children turned up missing. But I didn't care. I was John Bender (only smaller and with less facial hair). I told myself over and over, "Fuck her, that old bitch won't punish me!!!" Yeah, that's right, fuck her!! You could kick her ass if you wanted. In fact, when you see here next, you should tell her to go and fuck herself!

Yeah, I thought to myself, when I see her again, I'll tell her go and fuck herself! And with my hands now clenched into tight fists, red-faced and sweating, I was ready to take on anyone who wanted to cross my path adversely! And right at that moment, I saw the principal in her old car pulling up on me like a cop with a vendetta. And all I thought was, "Bring it on!"

"Young Man!!! Get in this car RIGHT NOW!" she said with her finger directing every word like a whip. This is it man, be strong! Don't take it. EYE OF THE TIGER!!!

"Yes ma'am."

...what tha fuck??..You showed her! So much for the Eye of the Tiger. As I drove home with my mom after school, she had already been informed. Consequently, I didn't get to go out and play afterwards. Instead, I experienced the long end of a belt across my legs back and butt...because...she loved me.

That summer I was sent to summer camp for two weeks. The idea was to keep me busy and out of my mother's hair for that period. There was not enough bible at this camp and so in the future, I would be sent to church camps for further processing. Jason was the only person I knew there. At the time, I was obsessed with drawing pictures of He-Man. I was obsessed with muscles and human strength and power. I was eleven and still playing with little dolls. Jason made sure I knew this. What could I say, he was right.

However, more unfortunately at this time, the Friday the 13th movies were still very popular. At the exchange on the campgrounds, they sold giant Rambo knives and several kids bought them since their parents were not here to tell them "no." But I couldn't afford one. One night, a kid from our cabin came running in and crying with blood all over his hands. He had been sliced. This was too much for my little imagination. I was in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere and a cabin-mate had just been sliced with a giant knife....like a machete! I couldn't sleep. I began to cry. I was scared. Jason cried too now. We scarred each other and perpetuated our fears. Then we woke up the next morning and went about our day. However, all knives were confiscated and returned to each camper upon return home. I was glad to be home again.

Home Sweet Home was released by Motley Crew. I never really liked these guys, but damn, they managed to create a Stairway to Heaven ballad within their time. That deserves something. (Admittedly, in all my upbringing, Shout at the Devil scared me. But this was how I was trained.) Trained to fear, that's what religion is all about. And this is why it's not for you.

Green mildew began to spread more on the ceiling from the leaks in the roof in our house. Getting out pots and pans to catch the rain became common. I began to listen to the rhythm of water drips and to count the cock roaches I found under the kitchen sink. It was then that I began to experiment.

I would capture live cock roaches in old honey containers. Fill them with water as the roach scrambled to escape, sealed the lid, and placed it in the deep freezer. Hours later, I would open it up, and view the frozen block of cock-roach still life. Later I discovered death by fire. I would trap cock roaches with strings dipped in gasoline. With this dowsed ring of string, I would throw a loop around a scrambling roach. Due to the fumes, they seemed to remain still. If they only knew it would have been better for them to run for their lives at that moment as opposed to being burned to death, I think they would have run. So I threw on the match. And slowly the roach cooked as the ring of fire acted as an oven. They scrambled madly for a few moments and then laid down and died. Later, I would capture little snakes......since they were "evil" and burn them too. I loved the effects of fire. It was so...beautiful. They smelled like burnt hair. As was life. I began to think differently.

As I neared my twelve birthday, my mother decided it was time I ask Jesus into my heart since I was old enough now to make this decision. For years I had witnessed people full of guilt do the Sunday morning walk of public shame down the church aisles in order to be "saved" after a penetrating "You Are Evil" sermon from a self-righteous pastor. It became such a popular activity that some people did it a few times in their life in order to get the attention. Jesus will always take you back. It was like a Catholic confession. Fuck up, go to confession, be forgiven, go out and do it again, come back to confession and do it all over again. The difference is the Catholics are less dramatic about it. In the end it was all about attracting a suitable mate. But why try to attract a mate when you can just take a mate.

### CHAPTER 12

(1986)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: FIRST PC VIRUS, SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER EXPLODES, MIR SPACE STATION LAUNCHED, GERALDO RIVERA OPENS AL CAPONE'S VAULT AND FINDS AN EMPTY BOTTLE OF MOONSHINE, CHERNOBYL NUCLEAR PLANT EXPLODES-31 DEAD, HANDS ACROSS AMERICA, STATUE OF LIBERTY RE-OPENED, ARTIFICIAL HEART RECIPIENT DIES, POSTAL SERVICE EMPLOYEE KILLS CO-WORKERS-14 DEAD, EARTHQUAKE IN EL SALVADOR-1,500 DEAD, POPULATION REACHES 4,932,700,000. STOP.

"Fear is not the natural state of civilized people.

-Aung San Suu Kyi, 1945-present

I was officially a big man now. I made it to junior high and felt like an adult, although I still had no pubic hair minus a sprout or two. Saying "Your mama" was still cool and currently not forbidden at my new school. My mom, who desperately feared the education of public schools and the teachings of modern science; i.e. "evil-lution," obtained an additional job to send me to a private Lutheran school. After all, Luther was a real good Christian and never used the Lord's name in vain. Even better was that almost all my friends went there as well, except Jason. He now lived in another school district, so we lost touch. But there was still Cole...and his balls that we liked to punch. He still remained the greatest connoisseur of the "Your Mama" and subsequent jokes. And making fun of one's mom was currently the greatest way to get to someone.

It came about one day that drawing sketches of each other's mom had become the new way to hurl insults and to pass these images back and forth among ourselves for entertainment while the teacher wasn't looking. Since my mom was fat, Cole drew a picture of a fat lady with the above title as my mom. Now, even though we were at a Lutheran school, we were all Baptists and alcohol consumption among "good" Baptists was rather frowned upon and borderline "sinful." On numerous occasions, Cole's mom was known to indulge in beer, even if it was just one, alcohol consumption was "bad." Alcohol leads to temptation and sin. "EVIL!!!" So I drew a sketch of Cole's mom with a beer in each hand and titled it, "Cole's Mom" and subtitled, "Boozer." I guess I went too far that day, because he got up as if going to the trash can, grabbed my neck from behind in a choke hold and pulled me over in my chair. He caused such a raucous that the teacher turned around and caught him in the act. I don't know what happened, the cartoon insults seemed to be fine when they were bidirectional, but mine seemed to cause greater laughter among the others at his expense and it no longer seemed funny to him. He got over it.

As the year went on, one day while sitting in class, our teacher was called out by someone from the principal's office. When she returned, she was rather distraught. Teary eyed, she managed to pull herself together and said, "Class, there has been a terrible disaster, the Space Shuttle Challenger just exploded." What the fuck? I'll bet it was the Russian Nazi's. You saw Red Dawn and Rocky IV, you know what those people are made of. But you and your family will be okay because you've been training in camouflage and face paint while crawling around in the backyard throwing Chinese Stars at the trees.

My first thought was that this was World War III. The teacher wheeled in a television and tuned into the news. Over and over again, we watched the shuttle go up and then begin to catch fire and then burst into flames. It was later proposed the devil was behind this because the smoke trails from various parts of the burning shuttled formed the appearance of horns. I knew it. Satan and the Russians Nazis were behind this, just as I had been taught to believe by my mom and church. Satan looks for us good Christians and waits until we sin so that he can unleash horror upon us for something we did! It was all our fault. I think I even began to pray to myself and Jesus to forgive me of my sins.

I think we sat there and watched the shuttle blow up from 17 camera angles over 40 times as the commentator repeated what a tragedy this was as he went to another reporter who said the same thing as we watched the shuttle blow up again and again and then listen to another reporter repeat what the first reporter said. I wonder if David Lee Roth is on MTV right now. You should ask, after all we are just watching TV and it's the same shit over and over.

"Can we watch MTV?" I asked jokingly?

I guess that was a bad question, perhaps one of those stupid questions, which supposedly doesn't exist.

"What's the matter with you? People just lost their lives!" the teacher replied venomously. As if watching the same shit over and over would bring them back. And what the fuck, it's not like she knew any of them anyway. It's not like it was her dad, sister, or cat that just died. However, there was a teacher on the flight whom she was living vicariously through as if there is some kind of "Brotherhood of Teachers" and she just lost a comrade. Regardless, I was rather shocked with the footage and I think the news continued to replay it and talk about it for weeks. I began to think I was there on the scene and that I knew them. Hmmm, whatever, they'll build another one and fly it again and another will probably blow up again in the future. As is life.

Oh Holy, Holy!!! Once a year, or so it seemed, a famous evangelist came to town. And although my mom never seemed to have any money for toys and such for my brothers and sister and me, she always seemed to have $100 in order to buy tickets to this sell-out performance of mysticism. Billy Graham was his name and a Crusade was his game. He was the Pope of the Protestant Empire. And when he came to town, people hooed and hawed. People would be "saved" by coming forward after the performance and confessing to other sub-humans regarding how "guilty" they were for all the things Billy said they should feel guilty for. Consequently, they too would become Crusaders and give their money to this empire of intolerance. I hated these spectacles.

I stood in the stadium and stared upon 10,000 people at $20 each and thought to myself. Damn, he must be rich. He just made $200,000 in one night. He's like a rock star except that he doesn't have to pay taxes for it because it was a church. But what if there was a fire. Would the tax funded police and fire department not show up to put the fire out and risk their lives to save a non-tax-paying forum? And the same applies to the ground that their churches reside in every state? What if a fire or a crime occurred there? They pay no property tax so why should they receive service. They clearly have money to pay. Why did this guy who had so much money insist that I donate more of what I and my family had so little of, so that he could fuel his jets or buy his expensive suits? Perhaps, so that I could come to this performance and listen to someone call me a sinner? But, I was only twelve. What did I know?

Enter, Freddy Kruger. He was the newest scare of the eighties. He was every white kid's nightmare. He did bad things to kids in the boiler room at school. He had a hand made of knives. He was burnt and wore a red and green horizontally stripped sweater and an "Indiana Jones" hat. He was the Boogie-Man of the new era.

Apparently, my teacher was at her wits end one day and I lipped-off like the smart-ass bastard that I was. It was too much for her. She ran out and the next thing I knew I was being called to the principal's office. I think at this time I knew I was in trouble. When I sat down in his office, his appearance was omnipotent.

Old, saggy jowls hung from his cheek bones, the fat pads under his eyes and behind his thick, rigid glasses spoke of years of sleepless nights and years of hating children. They called him, Mr. P. Deep raspy voice, over six foot tall and 280 plus pounds with a permanent scowl across his face, he said to me, "You're gonna learn respect boy," as he reached into a side drawer from his desk and retrieved a very large leather strap. I became full of fear in an instant. Respect??? I know respect......I'll spell it for you...R-E-S-P-E-C-T.....whoa, whoa, whoa......that's a big belt....bigger than the one mom and dad use on me... dude...you're dead!

After he slammed the drawer shut, with belt in hand, he pulled his fat body from behind his desk and said,

"FOLLOW ME!" as he opened an adjoining door in his office into some kind of dark...boiler room. Now, this is where Hollywood feeds the fear. This was about to become A Nightmare on Elm Street. Mr. P was the boogey-man of the modern era he had a boiler room where the children were tortured to death. Was it possible that Mr. P knew Freddy? Were they friends?

He moved past me and pulled the string to the single hanging light bulb in the room and it swung back and forth while illuminating various boiler tanks and a spacious clear, cold cement floor.

"Come here!" He yelled in a loud voice as he pointed for me to move before him, "Now, reach down and grab your ankles!" I stooped in place and slowly reached down and grabbed hold as I looked back from between my legs and witnessed the "wind-up." Of course, in this split second, I made it worse upon myself by seeing just how much he had wound up, like a batter needing a home run to win the world series. I knew at this moment, that this was going to hurt...a lot.

BAMMMM!!!! I fell into the boiler in front of me and then unto the floor as the belt impacted my ass with a loud WWW-POP! "Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!" I screamed as I began to cry. Does he have knives as fingers as well, I thought?

"GET UP!!!," he bellowed, not recognizing my screams of pain and fear. "GET UP AND GRAB YOUR ANKLES OR I'LL WHIP YOU WHERE YOU LIE!!!" Well, in that case, since he put it that way I may as well get up, it'll hurt more if you don't.

I clambered to my feet and slowly grabbed my ankles again. Again he wound up and knocked me down and again I screamed and cried and again he said to get up. If memory serves correct, I received six of these. After the sixth he said, "Now get up!!! And don't come back or I'll give you double this!!" And I ran out of there as fast as I could, full of hate and contempt. Fear was there too, but it was quickly transformed into something stronger. Never forget him or those like him. They are all the same. Hypocrites whom preach love while practicing hate. You will never be like them! You will preach and practice hate upon them all! Revenge!! Bloody revenge. Hate. Hate. HATE!

For the next few days, It was painful to sit. The bruises on my ass and back of my legs turned from red, to blue, to black and then to yellow. And weeks later they passed, but the hate in my heart and mind grew stronger. My mother and father you ask? What did they think, say or do? Nothing! I was on my own and revenge would be all my own. I knew at that time as a young kid that if I ever had kids and someone hurt them like that, they would disappear without remorse. If anyone is to beat a child, the only one whom has that right, if there is any right at all for such behavior, is the parent and no one else. And so, it is written!

We'll call him Mr. Hilgy. He was the archbishop of the evil Mr. P. He was, in fact, our 6th and 7th grade math/computer teacher. And he hated children like no other. He was after all, a good Lutheran. Afflicted with Multiple Sclerosis or something and not smart enough to be someone like Stephen Hawking, he hated all those thought to be healthy. He walked with a gimp leg and a flexed right hand and fist. He had a swagger that we would simulate when imitating his crippled ass. Had he been a nice man, no one would have made fun of him. But he was not and therefore, he fell victim to our teasing similar to something I'm certain he had grown accustomed to over his life. No better place to be in life, but to be in control of the children whom once chastised you as a child so that you could deliver the punishment you've always wanted to deliver. And he did.

He was an angry and hateful man and he loved taking his hook-hand and pinching the trapezius muscles of the students as he snuck up upon them from behind in order to reprimand them for anything he could. He was truly hated and rightfully so. Eugenics should have disposed of him at birth or at least locked him away so that his hate could have never culminated into a position of power (sort of like me) so that he could not pass the same hate unto the world that once rejected him. With that said, functional cripples should be monitored in society before they accrue positions of power, lest they pass on the same hate they received. I will speak of him again, later. But I was just kidding about functional cripples.

Recently, I had adopted a new hobby. I found one of my older brother's old 1970's skateboard covered in cob webs in the garage. So I took it apart, oiled up the clear-rubber wheel bearings, sanded down the fiber-glass bottom and painted a skull with a beret with model paint. I was now a rebel. Albeit, I was an incomplete rebel. I needed to undergo "rebel training." And so I would.

Skateboarding, war, blood-n-guts, rebellion and anti-authority went hand-in-hand. Late at night, I would listen to an old Sony radio passed on by my older brother. It had a single cassette recorder. So I found some old tapes that I no longer listened to, used some of my mom's nail polish remover and erased the artist name from the tape, placed some tape over the slots on the top of the tape and periodically recorded songs from the radio.

Then one night around midnight, while rebelling in my dark room with the lights off as if I was sleeping (But I wasn't because I was rebelling and listening to the radio after bed-time.) And at that time, my rebellious anthem blared through the tiny 3 inch speakers. Some group created some rowdy song in which they claimed, "You gotta fight...for your right...to parrrrrrrty!" Who were these gods of rebellion? They spoke to me. They said things like, "Your mom found your best porno mag," and, "Your dad caught you smoking and he said no-way!" I could relate to this as I had a porno mag I found in some trash can somewhere and stowed under my mattress and recently I found a pouch of chewing tobacco on the soccer field, which I also smuggled home.

In the birth of my rebellion, I found myself deeply impassioned with a girl, Jennifer R. She was a cute, little blond-headed girl with a typical "good-girl" bow in her hair. And one day, unbeknownst to me, we were "going together" and on the playground I summoned all my rebellious courage, moved in and gave her the biggest kiss I had in me. At this time, besides my mother, I had never really kissed a girl (with the exception of the girl whose breasts I fondled at Christian Summer Camp...while she slept.) But as far as consensual stuff, I had held hands, that I did well, but it was time to move on and man-up as I was now 12. I was overwhelmed with love.

Since my mom worked and our school had no bus service, I walked 2.5 miles home every day. I was an active kid, so this was no trouble. It was too much hassle to load my bike into the car every morning and because of the neighborhood, there was also nowhere to lock my bike up to keep it from being stolen. So I walked.

During these walks, I would typically stare at the ground as I went, occasionally looking up to see how far along I made it. This is when I noticed my other hobby that went hand in hand with my other rebellious activities: smoking. All along my route lay hundreds of half and fully smoked cigarettes. So as I went, I would pick up several of these butts and bring them home with me. And behind my garage, full of excitement from the fear of being caught, I stuck these pre-schlepped butts into my mouth and lit them with the bathroom matches. And I puffed and puffed because after all, I knew nothing of inhaling until I began to watch other smokers and mimicked them. That first inhalation was painful, but must be overcome if I wanted to look cool in my new rebel skin.

Admittedly, I look back now and wish that I might have done things differently. My skateboarding hobby ended up being less addictive than my smoking one. Back then, cigarettes could be purchased for $1.50/pack. Now they are typically $4.50 (or $10.50 in NY...now that's some bullshit). After introducing this new hobby with my best friend and fellow skater, I found a bag of chewing tobacco on the soccer field. By god man, I had an idea!!! Why buy cigarettes when I can roll my own??? This was tobacco after all!! Yes, goddamn, I was brilliant....or so I thought. Genius!!! You are a fucking genius!!! I know exactly how to do this! Let's go home and roll some smokes, man.

Noticing the very wet nature of chewing tobacco and its likely difficulty to light and smoke, I knew it needed to be drier. When I arrived home, I knew I had exactly an hour before my mom arrived. (Think, think, think...how to do this...).

Stand aside my friend. Be my hands and I'll show you how it's done. Damn, if Mom catches me, I'm done for. We're not going to get caught, so you never did anything wrong. So, first, turn on the oven to 400 degrees. Spread the tobacco out evenly on a cookie sheet. This ought to dry it out.

I followed this plan and watched through the oven window. That was when I began to smell smoke...tobacco smoke...in a house where no one smoked but the scent wasn't unfamiliar. Oh fuck...I'm so dead. You fucking dumbass...quick open some more windows! I tried to tell you! Now we're in trouble. Shut up, asshole, and help me out!

"Oh fuck!!!" I said as I quickly opened the oven door and retrieved the cookie sheet. I then went and opened the kitchen window as well as a few others. This seemed to work and the smell disappeared. I then finished my process. Okay, what you want to do is take a handful of that dried tobacco and roll it up. Roll it up in what? I thought to myself. I need something like paper and then I need to make it stick or something. How the hell do cigarette companies do this? Dude! Just grab some notebook paper and some scotch tape. Duh!!!

Of course, notebook paper and scotch tape. I couldn't think of a single reason why this wouldn't work...until I lit this beast of a lung retardant. This monster was 8.5 inches long (the width of a sheet of notebook paper) and an 8.5 inch strip of Scotch tape. [Note to Reader: I might take a moment to not recommend this. Smoking notebook paper and Scotch tape does not feel good to the lungs.] After lighting the end of this paper turd, it remained on fire as I took a long drag. The moment I inhaled a beach ball of smoke, my cough reflex responded with a vengeance followed by a gag reflex. I coughed until I puked. When I finished, my throat hurt and my head was spinning. Needless to say, I didn't finish it. The lesson I learned from this and for future purposes was as follows: When one does not have adequate rolling papers, use a page from the Bible. I am certain now that the authors of the Bible also had this in mind when they wrote their fairy tales.

My final event of this age was a moment that caused both my mom and dad much anguish. Their good god fearing son had his best friend over to spend the night. He brought with him a Playboy he stole from his dad. We sat in my room looking at naked women and sat in weird positions in an attempt to hide what was going on below. I think I hear angels singing.

That night, we waited for my parents to fall asleep. We then crawled through my window, out into the yard and to our "wheels." We rode our bikes along the freeway and through neighborhoods playing keep away from cops. But our luck ran out and we met a cop that neither my friend nor I ever forgot. It was our first time in the back of a police car, but not my last.

When our dads came to pick us up from the police station and as we were both walking out, we looked at each other, desperately holding back the tears in an effort to prove our machismo to each other because we both knew we had the belt coming for punishments when we got home. We starred at each other like two peacocks standing off as if saying, "What's up man? I'm not scared...are you? Pussy." Then almost on command we both turned to our dads who walked along side us on the outsides and started bawling in an effort to prevent the beating we both knew we were in for. After a good show, we then looked back each other with our peacock faces, silently saying "What's up man? You crying??? I'm not crying? Is that a tear in your eye? Not me. Pussy. I'm not scarred!" And then we faced our dads again and cried again. We only admit this to each other today.

While sitting a home one night, late into the evening, I watched an old television show. I think it was an old Charles Bronson film...Death Wish??? Regardless, there was a horrific rape scene in the movie from the start...and I must say...it turned me on.

### CHAPTER 13

(1987)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: UNABOMBER STRIKES SALT LAKE CITY, SUPERNOVA 1987A, JIM BAKER SEX SCANDAL, FIRST HEART-LUNG TRANSPLANT, VLADIMIR NIKOLAYEV IS SENTENCED TO DEATH FOR CANNIBALISM, RUDOLF HESS FOUND DEAD IN HIS CELL, HUNGERFORD MASSACRE-16 DEAD, FIRST CONFERENCE ON ARTIFICIAL LIFE, JESSICA MCCLURE FALLS DOWN A WELL, BLACK MONDAY, TYPHOON IN PHILIPPINES-1,036 DEAD, HUSTLER MAGAZINE VS. FALWELL IN U.S. SUPREME COURT, PROZAC DEBUTS IN AMERICA, GUNS N' ROSES TAKES THE SPOTLIGHT, POPULATION REACHES 5,017,900,00. STOP.

"The Church of Rome claimed despotism over the soul, and over the whole life from the cradle to the grave. It gave and sold absolutions for past and future sins. It claimed to be infallible in matters of faith. It decimated Europe to purge it of heretics. It decimated America to convert the Mexicans and Peruvians. It gave and took away thrones; and by excommunication and interdict closed the gates of Paradise against Nations."

-Albert Pike, Morals and Dogma, 1809-1891

The summer came and went and I was back in school. I was officially a teenager now. I don't remember exactly what I did, but apparently it was too much because I was kicked out of school and forced to the nearby public one, since no other Christian school would accept me at the time. I met a new group of friends as well as keeping my old ones and developed a sense of rebellion greater than I ever had before. After starting at my new school, I turned for revenge upon my last one. I thought of, perhaps, the most offensive and embarrassing thing to a bunch of Christians they could imagine conducted upon them. I snuck out of the house with a can of black spray paint and rode my bike over to my friend's house. I previously told him what I had in mind, however I think he didn't believe I would actually do it. I knocked on his window.

"Hey man, are you ready?" I asked with manic excitement.

"Nah man, I can't...my mom's still up...she checks on us. Sorry man," he said out of fear of being part. No worries. After all, only one finger was needed to operate the spray paint.

"Alright, well tomorrow morning when you get to school, check out the drop off circle in front of the school." I rode off into the semi-cold October evening and completed my mission. I was told by my friends later about the reaction.

Upon the flat façade of the school, just below their name and proudly behind the flags of the U.S., Christianity, and Lutherans, stood a crude, eight foot, erect and ejaculating penis with a shriveled ball sack for every parent to see when they dropped their kids off in morning for their Christian education. The school was rather embarrassed. I wiped my hands clean and called us even.

As a loyal skater, I dyed my hair orange to my mother's dismay, began stealing for no more than the thrill of it, sneaking out more, running away, vandalizing more, fighting, talking girls into giving me their pussies, spying on girls from a ventilator over the restroom stalls at the church and getting picked up by police for various reasons. I was blossoming!!! I was so goddamn proud of me!

I was never allowed to spend the night at a friend's house on a Saturday night unless their parents were taking us to church and Sunday School in the morning. If they didn't go to my church or some Baptist church very similar to mine, it counted as no church at all, thus forbidden. So while my friends were able to hang out and sneak out with some girls on Saturday nights, I had to be home at a reasonable time to get some sleep because I had fucking church in the morning. Church was getting in the way of my reality. I needed to do something about this!

So I wrapped this year up with some excitement, to say the least. You see, my second oldest brother was a super jock in high school. He didn't drink, smoke or do drugs. However, his addiction was girls, specifically girl's genitalia and he knew it. He always had a new girlfriend and I suspected, even then, that this was because he became easily bored and needed to feed the addiction center like a crack-rock junkie. He was no different than me. I knew it even then. Anyhow, the archenemy of a jock is a "Burn."

Burns were people who loved to get high and rebel by doing things like growing their hair out and coloring it orange, ride a skateboard, flip off cops and run. Jocks were those who loved to gloat upon their selves, take steroids (which my brother did), conquer the emotions of women then cast them aside, beat people up (like Burns or anyone else that would build their ego). Long story short, just in principle, my brother and I were archenemies due to our allegiances (and still kind of are today). Consequently, he would tell on me any time he could regarding things he knew that were unacceptable to my mom; e.g. smoking, curfew violation, lighting fires, etc.

It was a typical day. My brother caught me smoking behind the house and confiscated what I had and threw them away, not because he cared, but because he knew I liked them. Later that evening, while standing in the kitchen and looking into the refrigerator for something to eat (this was always a quick peek as there was rarely ever anything to eat), my shithead brother came and asked me in front of my mom, "Hey man, did you want your cigarettes back?" I stood in silence that was quickly replaced by a, "Whaaaaaat?" from my mom as she glared from my brother to me. That motherfucker just needed to die!!!

I stood there and thought to myself for a brief moment about what a dick he had always been and realized then and there that he did, in fact, need to die. Drawer. Large kitchen knife. It's time to kill!!!

So without further ado, I, without remorse and with utter disregard, reached into the drawer as if I was going about my business as my mom asked if I was smoking. I grabbed the knife, turned, and lunged at my brother and came down straight at his heart. He was lucky he parried, because my focus was true and with intent to carry through. He successfully managed to disarm me and knock me to the ground. I was whipped by my mom to no end.

I realized on this day that I was not my brother's keeper and I never would be. However, if I'm not mistaken and remember correctly, he never fucked with me again. He may have enjoyed getting me in trouble, but I appeared to enjoy killing. Well, what can I say? He was a dick.

### CHAPTER 14

(1988)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: CLASH AT THE DOME OF THE ROCK, JIMMY SWAGGART CONFESSESS TO SINS HE COMMITTED WITH A PROSTITUTE, U.S. SUPREME COURT SIDES WITH HUSTLER MAGAZINE, OLIVER NORTH INDICTED, RED ARMY WITHDRAWS FROM AFGHANISTAN, MEDICAL WASTE WASHES ASHORE IN LONG ISLAND, IRAN-IRAQ WAR ENDS WITH OVER 1 MILLION DEAD, NASA RESUMES SPACE SHUTTLE FLIGHTS, CYCLONE IN BANGLADESH LEAVES 5 MILLION HOMELESS AND THOUSANDS DEAD, EARTHQUAKE IN ARMENIA KILLS 25,000, PAN AM FLIGHT 103 IS BLOWN UP BY TERRORISTS, POPULATON REACHES 5,103,500,000. STOP.

"I accept chaos. I am not sure whether it accepts me. I know some people are terrified of the bomb. But then some people are terrified to be seen carrying a modern screen magazine. Experience teaches us that silence terrifies people the most."

-Bob Dylan, 1941-present

Christmas came and went that winter with little memories. I played strip poker with my friend's sister under the influence of Vodka and saw her enormous bush, which I immediately fell in love with. The next day, I was so hung over at school that I had to run out of my Biology class during frog dissection in order to puke all over the hallways. The spring also came and went without much to talk about besides the aforementioned activities.

That summer, with a new friend, I discovered a new hobby to add to my others. I don't remember how I got my hands on it but I did all the same. They called it "weed." It is common to refer to smoking pot as "getting high," "getting stoned," or "getting baked." This statement implies that getting high, stoned, or baked are all the same things when one smokes pot. However, only someone who has really smoked pot knows that there is, in fact, a very distinct difference between getting high, getting stoned, or getting baked.

I always heard the first time one smokes pot, they fail to get high. This was not true in my case. That day, I got baked. Super Mario Brothers recently came out for the Super Nintendo and for a brief moment while riding my bicycle in this condition, I overwhelmingly felt as if I was a part of that game. The color of everything was so very lucid. "Where's my magic mushroom, so I can throw fireballs?" I never experienced this elation again with weed. Regardless, it was good. We would become more acquainted over the years. In fact, I grew to truly love weed. I loved her so much that I eventually fucked all her cousins years later; i.e. acid, cocaine, etc.

Some have said weed is a segue way drug to harder drugs. I think this is incorrect. I think weed is a starter drug simply because it's the easiest of all drugs to get a hold of. Nothing in its nature says, "Hey drop acid and shoot up." It merely says, "Remember where you bought me? Perhaps he'll know where you can buy his cousins too." It was during this summer that my friends and I found sanctuary under any bridge we could find so that we could smoke cigarettes and weed without getting caught. We gave the bridges code names, such as Mosquito Creek and Exit Ramp. There were no cell phones in use at the time (at least we never had any), and call waiting was a new phenomenon that my parents couldn't afford for some time. Furthermore, call waiting didn't work with our rotary phone. So we all had to plan ahead and meet at times or physically ride around town until we found each other. In an effort to make our hang-outs our very own, we all snuck out at night and began ripping hood ornaments off Mercedes, BMW's and Volkswagens and hung them proudly upon the walls like trophies in our "under-bridge houses."

We entered the eighth grade. We continued stealing anything we could from any convenience store in town. Cigarettes were our greatest commodity. This, in an era where cigarettes commonly sat in display cases accessible to honest customers who would bring them to the register for payment. Only the smart stores placed them behind the counter. We began to make stealing an art. We even went so far as to stage fights in the back of the store, causing the Asian lady to run back and break it up while another one of us filled our pockets with the cigarettes from the unattended counter. When she returned, we would pay for the 5¢ piece of gum that we came for (as well as a carton of cigarettes-gratis).

The day came when we, specifically me, received a taste of my own medicine. It was common for us to ride up to one of the convenience stores and play a video game and smoke our cigarettes. We would lay our bikes down right outside the window within an eyeshot as we played. Somehow, some bastard more slick and skillful than us came along and snatched my beloved bike that I let my friend ride, as well as, my brother's which I had borrowed for the day. My shinny gem from three Christmas's back was now being molested by a stranger. In our neighborhood, we knew it was by the hand of one of two entities. The Mexicans who typically carried the title: The Metal Militia and wore Metallica paraphernalia. And then there were the Chinese/Vietnamese who called themselves the VC (remnant from the Vietnam war: The Viet Cong). We were friends with a few of the Mexicans, so they teamed up with us and we went in search around the neighborhood for my bike. We wandered to all the bridges and through the large storm drainage systems with bats, knives, and weapons of our own creation. Jesus man, we were right out of Conan the Barbarian (without the muscle...war history...or balls for that matter). More importantly, the VC were tougher than both of us combined.

So a few days went by and Julio passed the word that he found my bike and currently had it in his possession. I was excited, but when I met up with him it was not mine. More importantly, the VC tracked him to our rendezvous point at which time they came in a pack with knives showing and simply grabbed the handle bars and slowly pulled it out from under me waiting for any sudden movement on my part. That totally wasn't happening...in fact I think I might have even queefed. One thing was certain, I definitely needed to change my tampon when I got home.

The terrible thing about my bike getting stolen was that my friend was riding it, or had borrowed it for that day. Consequently, my mom found it to be his fault and expected his parents to pay for it. What my mom didn't understand was just how much this alienated me from all my friends. After all, it wasn't my friends fault. But my mother was so greedy that she wanted someone to pay for it since we couldn't afford to replace it. I tried so hard to convince her differently, but she wouldn't have it. This event led to a fall from grace among the only friends I had. Consequently, I grew to hate my mother. And I would make her pay for it for the rest of her life. Or so I said to myself at the time.

The only other remarkable event I recall from that year was getting "punked out" by some black kid and his gang after he punched me with his thumb tack-embedded wrist band. It was a slick little weapon being that weapons of any sort were not allowed in school. We had a cop there that enforced it. Thus, the only weapons one had between classes were their fists, feet, and ramming ones head into the lockers. Hell, even the girls fought, much like the males, with fists, feet, and lockers, but also fingernails and hair ripping.

I still don't even remember, but I do remember this: more often than not, white kids hung out with other white kids and some Asians and Mexicans, but not with the black kids. This wasn't because there was any home schooling on the issue of black/white relationships. If there was I don't recall it. We were two different birds of different feathers and we didn't fly together. That's all, nothing remarkably or dramatically hateful or racist as many candy-ass liberals would like to attribute it to so that they could wear their banner of "Freedom-loving, Humanitarian and Saint-Defender of poor, poor minorities...we love them...uh...just don't move them into our neighborhood."

Now that was a run-on, but that was the type of liberalism rising in Houston at the time. It wasn't genuine care or concern for anyone or their rights, it was merely public display for the purpose of self-praise and resume building. I digress. We had one black guy we all liked, (As you read this, you might say, "Ahh, the Trophy Nigger," but you would be wrong.) We still communicate today...and he's still black.

So here I was, coming to the holiday season. My dad was recently laid off and had to get a job at the grocery store in their video department. We only had one functioning vehicle in the family and my mom used it to get back and forth to work while my dad walked to his. As a kid, I couldn't understand. I know it was a hard hit to my dad's pride with this demotion and only now can I look back and realize how difficult these times were as he was trying to support three kids. My oldest brothers had already moved out, but with his little income and my mom's job as a teacher, money was tight. The roof (and everything else in the house) continued to deteriorate and we never could manage to keep the cock roaches out of the house regardless of the gallons of RAID my mother sprayed on them. We weren't poor, but it would have been better to have had more, I guess. I guess what really made it so humiliating was that I was trying to "Keep Up with the Jones's." All my friends came from smaller families and had parents with more money, or at least, parents who lived within their means. Consequently, we rarely ever hung out at my house. As my friends would say, "There's nothing to do over there and there's never anything in the fridge." Fair enough. This really didn't matter since we all spent the bulk of our time at a local skateboard ramp in the woods.

This was where I was born into half pipes. It was truly a sport that I was pretty decent at. It was also the location where the neighborhood bully beat the piss out me. But this is where I learned the power of allies as the bully was quickly beat down by one of my friend's older brother. I was, after all, one of the more popular skaters (never anything professional, but a big fish in our little pond). In fact, I no longer had a first name. I was merely called "Swamp Rat" due to a spectacular crash, slide and splash following a failed front-side air and into some water beside the ramp that had formed after a hard rain and failed to dry up. These were good days.

Strangely enough, we as skaters, were popular among the rich girls. I suspect it was because we were their parent's worst nightmare. We were, after all, from the wrong side of the tracks and were very interested in stealing their daughter's virginity. If we couldn't, we sure messed around a lot. We used any means necessary to conquer rich, clean pussy. We stole or bribed a wino to purchase alcohol for us and would bring it along to "loosen them up." If we could get them drunk enough, we would molest them while they were passed out. In fact, one of them was dead-fished. I guess that's considered rape.

What came next was quite a life altering event. Yes, even at the ripe age of 13-14....somewhere in there, it was life altering. While spending the night out at a friend's house, we decided to sneak out and cause havoc in the neighborhood. He was a rich kid and his house was awesome. We really had some good times there. More importantly, his parents gave them a lot more freedom and less supervision (Strangely enough, his entire family grew up loving, caring, responsible people in the world all the while having every opportunity to do the opposite.) Anyhow, so we were out running around, playing hide and seek from the cops. We would watch for their headlights and try to hide from them. If they spotted us, we would see how far we could run before we got caught, if we were caught at all. We had been doing this for a few years now, so we believed ourselves to be seasoned veterans...except this time.

We were spotted and we took off running. We ran into a neighbor's garage and hid under the cars. This seemed like a logical spot at the time. What we didn't calculate was the cop would be smarter than us. He was. He simply followed our footprints that ran across some wet grass and down a driveway into a garage. Big footprints that screamed, "Hey, if you're looking for two punk-ass kids with feet like these, they're over here, just shine a light under the car." BOO! There we were. Long story short. We were taken in, parents called to pick us up, and I was punished for 6 months. I was not allowed to spend the night out anywhere but home. When you're 13-14, this is detrimental to your social development. But there would soon be other issues that would hammer the final nail into that coffin.

It was a hot summer afternoon as we sat under one of our bridges, smoking our last cigarettes. We thought about going skating. Perhaps, catch a bus downtown and skate where we were specifically prohibited from skating so that we could have the cops chase us out. Regardless, we needed to resupply on smokes, so we decided to steal from the local K-mart because it was the easiest place to steal from and because we were interested in doing other things that day other than stealing. We rode our bikes and dumped them along the 25¢ bucking plastic horse ride.

As we entered the store, we split up in order to distribute the security attention rather than it focused on both of us as a group. My friend, swiped a pack of smokes from the cigarette display and carried them back into the depths of the store and had a brilliant idea. What he didn't know was that he was being watched by security. But during the interim, he stripped off the plastic from the box, pulled one cigarette out and cast it aside in an effort to give it the appearance of a pre-opened pack before leaving the store. And it was right about that moment the sharks attacked. I was standing in ear and eye distance of him and the two security guards grabbed both his arms and removed the "evidence" from his pocket as well as the torn plastic and discarded cigarette and started marching him to the back.

"Let's go!" they said with authority. I had not been detained, but the team was so confident that I was certain they meant me as well, so I followed behind them. All along this walk I was thinking how much trouble I was going to be in. We arrived at a solid door in the back of the store with a tiny window. This was clearly the security room. They opened the door, pushed my friend into it and then they closed the door in my face. What the fuck, man? Dude, they forgot about you. And even if they didn't, you're not tied down....run goddamnit!

Fuck it, it can't get much worse than this, I thought to myself as I turned to make my way out of the store. And it was when my back was turned that I felt the knife pierce between my shoulder blades as my friend pleaded from behind the door.

"HE TOLD ME TO DO IT!!!" he screamed.

You have just been betrayed! Not even for 30 pieces of silver, but for a pack of cigarettes that he won't even enjoy smoking!

I made my way out of the store as fast as possible, rode home and sat by the phone waiting for that dumb ass to call when he was able. That was one long and boring day. It started to get later in the day, so I decided to call him instead. In a hushed whisper, he said, "Just take the blame."

I asked him, "Why? you stole them." But he insisted he had some scheme going that would keep us both clear. Then he claimed he had to go. It turned out that his scheme was to blame the whole thing on me in an effort to save his self.

It was this event that resulted in my final excommunication. That motherfucker's mother called every mother from our group and labeled me the black sheep and consequently I was forbidden from hanging out with any of them any longer. His mother was a born saleswoman and she sold the perfect lemon. She merely took the common variable from every case where we encountered trouble. When my friend, Jason, was picked up by the police, he was with me. When my friend Preston was picked up by the police, he was with me. And when this dipshit was detained by store security for stealing, he was with...you guessed it...me. Thus, for all the troubles my friends were punished for in the past, it was now clear that it wasn't their fault. It was mine and as a result of my "sacrifice," their "sins" were washed clean. I resented that motherfucker for years.

Out of fear of being a crying tattle-tail, he began a smear campaign against me. I give him credit, he was, and still is, a great manipulator, but he lacks the guts to carry through at the risk of himself. The smear campaign was simple. He merely told everyone that my dad worked at the grocery store. While this seems completely ridiculous (and it was at the time) zoning for public schools recently took effect and closed the one on my side of the tracks where "my kind" came from, thus I spent the last 2 years trying to blend in with the upper crust and managed to form a big pack of friends. There was only one friend who never betrayed me (or at least did a damn good job into fooling me that he didn't, and that was Jason...my friend from the 4th grade.) The rest rode safely out of town upon the backs of their loyal and faithful friend: fear. At this age, I would have to find a completely new group of friends.

I now had a more limited group of friends to hang with over the summer. I was 13??...14?? And I fucking pissed the bed at his fucking house. I woke up in a panic realizing what I had done and immediately started spreading towels over my mess on the bed as my friend slept. Even though we were friends, me pissing the bed was only something else to make fun of me about. This cannot happen!

I observed a very interesting phenomena that summer: fear is contagious. Think I'm wrong? Then experiment with this. Go into a nursery and make one baby cry and pretty soon, they all become overwhelmed by fear and begin to cry too. It's a strange phenomenon. It's innate. It goes something like this: "Oh shit...dude in crib number one is crying....why is dude in crib number one crying?...shit...shit..shit....I should cry too...cause there must be something to fucking cry about...I won't even check for myself...I'll just assume dude in crib number one is right....evil lurks among us...I am no longer safe...cry god damn it, CRY!!! MAMAAAAA, HELP!!!....Oh shit...dude in crib number two is crying...why is dude in crib number two crying..." And on and on it goes until a cacophony of screaming tears fill the atmosphere resulting in one pissed off nursery attendant.

That fall, I started high school and I was completely out of my realm. I knew just about everyone there, but I was the outcast since I was known to get into so much trouble. My mother recently managed to get a job teaching "Bible" at a private school resulting in free tuition for me. This is exactly what my mom wanted because in private schools I would be safe from drugs. After all, good Christian boys and girls don't do drugs. Thus, these boys and girls I hung with now were kids from the church that I never really cared for. They were crazy about Jesus and Jesus merely made me crazy. Needless to say, I didn't socialize with these fucks on the weekend since we had nothing in common, so I made friends with some guys in the neighborhood, but this doesn't happen overnight. Consequently, I had a lot of time to myself. However, there would be a few more incidents to finalize this year.

My new friend and I had a great idea. And yes, that's where the problem starts. We had a bag full of left over fireworks from the summer and decided to have a war. Down the road, old houses were being knocked down in order to build new ones. At the time, they were merely rows of naked 2 x 4 frames. In the middle of the night, we snuck out, took sides in our "forts" across the street from each other and began launching bottle rockets at each other. Running from house to house ducking and weaving each other's deliberate and intentional aim for the head. When we ran out, the street looked like something out of a war movie. Against the backdrop of street lights was the ghostly hew of smoke and waste. It was beautiful.

We hopped on our bikes and rode to the nearest bridge to have a few smokes before we snuck back into our houses to go to sleep. That's when we saw the flashlight and blue and red lights reflecting off the trees above. With pistol drawn, we heard, "You boys come on up here." We walked up slow with hands up. We were searched and questioned right there on the car hood.

"You boys know anything about the fireworks down the street?" Lie, motherfucker!!!

"No, we were just hanging out under the bridge." I said, most convincingly...or, at least, I thought I was convincing. That was when my old friend, and arresting officer from my first police experience, reappeared at the hood alongside of us and said,

"You sure about?"

Don't change the story now! Stick to it! Anyway, that dude's a dick....literally.

"Yes sir, we don't know anything about it...we've been right here the entire time." I stated with even more confidence and conviction.

There were no more words spoken. My beloved friend, behind the shiny badge, which screamed of authority, returned from our stowed bikes and emptied the remainder of our fireworks upon the hood before us.

ASIDE:

Reader, I ask you. What the fuck do you say at this time? Nothing. You just stand there with bug eyes and say nothing. But that's you, Reader. Me? What did I say to this?

RETURN:

You're so fucked!

Thanks asshole, I thought to myself but my mouth said something altogether different.

"Hmmmmm, interesting," I said with great confidence as if I was on his side investigating the unpermitted neighborhood 4th of July celebration at the construction site.

"Yeah!!!! I'll say!" Mr. Freedom Fighter and defender of The Law said with greedy and pleased excitement. And yep, guess where we went. I think this was the third time I had been picked up by the police in the last year and a half or two, but these were only the times I was caught, so I guess statistically I had a good run. But I wasn't finished yet. My dad had to pick me up again and when I arrived home he broke a broomstick across my ass.

So this song came out some months back, but it took a while to become prevalent in Houston: a town inundated with Gangsta Rap (although, I did have something in common with the 'bruthas'...I too hated the police.) It was called Sweet Child O' Mine. The era of super-groups such as Led Zeppelin had been reborn through a group who called themselves, Guns-n-Roses. The ecstasy of the song was when the lead guitarist, Slash, opened up the cry-baby and soloed. Rock-n-Roll passion was reborn. There was hope for 80's rock-n-roll yet. But before this, they welcomed us all to the jungle and made Poison and Motley Crue out to be the bunch of glam-glam, hair-band homos they were.

For some damn reason, my fireworks friend and I decided that it would be really exciting to rob a house...or a few houses. By word of mouth and by our own calculated observations we followed the patterns of people in the neighborhood. What I didn't know then, but I know now is that not only did police keep records of local juveniles, but parents in the neighborhood did as well. So when something went amuck...you could guess who came up first. After a few days of crappy planning, we struck. We robbed the neighborhood dorks house and stole his entire knife collection and then we robbed the neighborhood whore's house and stole her daddy's gun. The gun was our favorite of stolen items. We quickly brought it home, set a three-inch thick phone book up in the house against the wall and fired away. We now had weapons! We could form an Army!

The army never happened, but to make matters worse for my reputation, I just recently befriended the local king of juveniles, Torin. In fact, he had recently been locked up in some juvenile detention center for an array of things. We both liked to skate, smoke, and destroy stuff. More importantly, my new friend was a giant. He must have failed twice in school. He had the brain of a seventh grader, but the size of an angry ox. There was nowhere we couldn't go with this Rottweiler. But don't let me fool you for a moment, he was as unpredictable as a Rottweiler as well. When he got angry...look out! Fortunately, that never happened...to me at least. But it didn't take long before the police came calling. I wasn't home when it happened, but when I came home, rest assured that my mom was, and the interrogation began. She claimed, the police told her the owner of the gun didn't want to press charges, he just wanted the gun back. How in the hell did he know it was me? Someone ratted on me!

This was true, someone did...my old K-mart accomplice, the one who got busted stealing cigarettes. He apparently was still mad and in denial that he had ratted on me when he got caught stealing and was doing everything he could to rebuild his reputation while destroying mine. I would have my revenge.

Realizing now I could trust no one, not even my so called newest friends and cohorts in crime, I acted on my own. The world would be guilty until proven innocent. I had finally had enough of this motherfucker interfering with my life. It was bad enough that I was declared to be the single "bad apple" since we were all individual "rotten apples," so I decided to take my rottenness to a whole new level.

I went down under the bridges in search of snakes. In our area, Copperheads and Water Moccasins were not uncommon. If you looked hard enough in all the ideal damp dark areas, you would find them. I hate snakes...a lot...but I hated him more. I brought a pillow case with me for this adventure and when I found this little 2-foot Copperhead curled up under a rock, I scarred it out. As it crawled, I threw a stick over its head, then stepped on it, trapping his venomous little head. I then shifted the pillow case to his front and let off the stick as he crawled ahead and into, what it thought, was a safe hideaway. After I cinched up the pillow case, I got on my bike and rode to my enemy's house. I suspected no one was home. I knocked regardless (nothing but the barking of two Doberman Pinchers). They were such a fearful family. After a period of no response, I shifted his window open, untied the pillowcase and dumped the contents inside on his bed below the window. My work was done here.

We'll see who's laughing now...won't we?

"Yes we will my friend!" I said with a laugh as I rode off.

That year must have been the crown of my misbehaving. My delinquent friend and I discovered a new fun. We would sneak out at night and spy on our female neighbors as they changed clothes. It had to have been one of the most erotic times of our lives. Many nights, we would shimmy silently into position into people's yards or on their fences and peer into their windows. Many times, we were rewarded. I am certain that I jacked off 5 times a day back then. Perhaps one night I could enter one of their homes with my new stolen weapons and have my way with one of them.

"Interesting idea," I thought out loud to myself. Although this event never culminated, I assure you I began to gather data on my potential victims. For weeks I watched patterns. I knew when their shower times were. I knew what time certain house lights came on or went off. I came to the conclusion common people were so predictable. I would realize years later this was why I was so untrusted...I was so unpredictable. When you can't predict the behavior of someone or something, that object acquires the title of elusiveness. When something is elusive, it takes on the persona of "ghost-like" and people fear ghosts. I became a ghost.

I gradually quit skating since I no longer had anymore skater friends at my new school. Since my mother was overly concerned that I would get into trouble if I didn't have some planned activity after school, she gave me the choice to join the school band or some sport. I was into neither. Joining the band would have made me a "Band-Ferry" while joining some sports team would have made me a "Jock!" I could have neither. But apparently, I had no choice. So I took up a sport that all my police evasion training might have prepared me for. I took up running. Apparently, I did okay. I was placed on the Varsity Cross Country team in my freshman year...but now that I think of it...I don't think there was a Junior Varsity. Anyhow, running was something I liked and still like to this day. Somehow, my mind would go into some trance-like state as I would pace relative to my breathing pattern. We competed in the State Championship and I ran like that goddamn cop was after me...and like my police capers, I lost.

Strangely enough, for a fleeting moment, it appeared that I was becoming a good boy again. Look at me. I washed the orange out of hair and even cut it...a little. I quit smoking and began running more and more, but then Cross Country ended and I was forced to play basketball. I fucking hated it. I hated basketball and I sucked at it. The only thing I got out of basketball were "pops" from the coaches for repeated mistakes, specifically for wearing boxers that hung out from under your basketball shorts. I look back now and realize that they just enjoyed shelling out "pops" for fun, not infarctions. I had one red ass over that season.

Fuck this, It's not me! I thought, the next time I'm due for pops, I'll shit my pants and hold that turd in a tight ball within my whitey-tighties. And when the coach winds up and smacks my ass with that board, shit will fly out all over his office. It never happened, but it sure would have been funny.

### CHAPTER 15

(1989)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: TED BUNDY EXECUTED, 24 GPS SATELLITES PLACED INTO ORBIT, GUN CONTROL MEASURES PASSED, COLD FUSSION, AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI OFFERS 3 MILLION FOR THE HEAD OF THE AUTHOR OF SATANIC VERSES, EXXON VALDEZ OIL SPILL, TIANANMEN SQUARE PROTESTS, AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI DIES, ZSA-ZSA GABOR ARRESTED IN BEVERLY HILLS FOR SLAPPING A POLICE OFFICER, SEINFELD DEBUTS, MENENDEZ BROTHERS KILL THEIR PARENTS, PETE ROSE BANNED FROM BASEBALL, TELEVANGELIST GUILTY OF EMBEZZLEMENT, REPORT OF UFO LANDING IN SOVIET UNION, DOW JONES CRASH ON FRIDAY THE 13TH, NIGHT STALKER SENTENCED TO DEATH, BERLIN WALL FALLS, PREMIER OF THE SIMPSONS, POPULATION REACHES 5,189,200,000. STOP.

"Collective will stimulates herd instinct and tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd."

-Bertrand Russell, 1872-1970

"I concur Mr. Russell. So I intend to run the herd over the cliff so that they too can feel this ferocity!"

-The Author, 1974-Present

The winter break was extremely difficult. I didn't socialize with anyone from school since their idea of fun was reading the Bible and going to church functions. I became my new best friend. I got to know my neighbor pretty well. He was a senior at the local public school and I suspected didn't have many friends either. He was completely obsessed with his '88 Mustang and was always tweaking something out on it. He loved to dabble with many things and was always trying to come up with big money schemes. He had a giant weed plant growing behind his fence and he routinely went out and picked hallucinogenic mushrooms and devised a new way of ingesting them. He would dry then out, grind them up and place them into capsules so that the user could swallow them without the disgusting taste of shroom shit. It worked. I know, I tested them for him.

Since I had no friends and nothing to do on a Friday night, I sat up in front of my little black and white television and watched Friday Night Videos. We didn't have cable, so I rarely ever saw MTV unless I was at a friend's house. Before I started the evening, I swallowed two mushroom capsules, which was equivalent to two decent size mushroom caps. This was my first experience with hallucinogenic drugs. I had no idea what to expect. I didn't see dragons coming out of the wall or any bullshit like that, but as I sat and watched the television, I began to notice something strange. The television seemed....brighter, demarcated lines between objects on the screen became more.....blurred. My focus was diminished. The detail on my skin looked.....different. My stomach felt a little queasy. But the most interesting effect was that for no reason, I began to laugh.

What the fuck are you laughing at?

What's so...fuc...HAHAHAHHAHAAA!

THIS SHIT IS AWESOME!

"What the fuck am I laughing at?" I thought to myself.....actually....I think I really asked myself this question: "Self....what the fuck are you laughing about?" What's worse is the fact that I also answered myself, which caused me to laugh more. nom-nom-NOM-NOM-NOM!

"What?...Did you say something?" I asked myself as I looked behind me for myself. I seemed to have misplaced him....then I realized that I was me and myself was right there with me. "What the fuck just happened there?" I asked again. "That's was fucking weird!!!" I thought....out loud no less.

NOM-NOM-NOM-NOM!

"For fucks' sake man, shut up you invalid!" I said to my mind friend. He appeared to be dribbling over himself as I sat there trying the think about what I was thinking about. k............non-nom!

And then a most interesting song played. I had heard it before on the radio, but now I was watching the music video. This one-hitter group called Living Colour came out with a song called Cult of Personality. More interesting was that the entire band was black, none of them "b-boxed," and they all played instruments....and played them well. This was certainly something unique in 1989 when groups like NWA, Ghetto Boys, Ice-Cube and his cohort Ice-Tea represented Black America with their ripped rock songs they rapped over while they were visually depicted in movies like Colors with Sean Penn and Robert Duvall. I have to say, I really think there was quite a Black/White divide in the late eighties, but groups like Living Colour were instrumental in bridging that gap. Although it wouldn't last, as the early nineties would prove to be a tumultuous era as well.

Wait a minute...what happened? Where was I? Oh yes....two caps deep into my mind where one is to never travel and certainly not alone if it can be helped....meanwhile, my Inner Moron was still dribbling. And that's when my wheels starting turning...and not for the good. For whatever reason, I decided I should learn about electricity via disassembly of something electronic...like my record player. I went outside and grabbed a few tools from the garage. I took the player completely apart and realized I had no clue how it went back together. Fuck it, I had a tape player now. I then crossed some wires into some meaningless mess as if I was Nikola Tesla and decided this work of magic needs to come alive. It needs life. It must be plugged in. The moment the plug contacted the outlet..... "POP!!!" and the house went dark.

"Oh shit!" What the fuck just happened, I thought to myself. What the fuck should I do? Nom-nom-nom-nom!

"You're fucking worthless!" I said to myself.

It was at this time my dad came out wondering what had happened. He no longer beat me with belts, boards, or broom sticks...I think because I started to hit back. Furthermore, at this age I qualified for "groundings." Not that I adhered to said name groundings, which apparently only increased the length of the groundings, although it didn't seem to matter.

"What happened?" My dad asked.

"I don't know," I said, "I was working on this record player...and something went wrong."

However, what I thought was entirely different. Yeah dad, my head is full of mushrooms right now and...is that a nose hair coming out of your nose...so we were working on some serious science here and figured we needed to boost the flux capacitor with a little juice...hey check out my pupils...they're fucking HUGH!!!

"Not now you moron!" I said to myself.

"What?" My dad asked. I guess I wasn't thinking to myself....who the fuck am I anyway?

"Huh?" I replied to my dad as he flipped the breakers and brought light back to the house.

"Now, quit messing with stuff and go to bed." he said as he left. I realized this to be a great idea as I was barley mentally functional. However...sleep was not to come for some time. I would spend the rest of the night thinking how I could make money with this shit.

I also thought about all the hubbub that circulated the media about this guy named Bundy. I remember every news channel playing the same footage and this is important to note. I do NOT recall the same footage being repeated over and over upon every channel again and again in 20 minute cycles. Instead, every local channel (which I think amounted to three of them: NBC, ABC, and CBS) played one piece of footage with commentary which demonstrated an ambulance in the night whisking away the dead body of an infamous man. Against the backdrop of a dark sky in Florida, a white and reflective ambulance wrestled its way through a horde of onlookers and people with signs celebrating his execution. If there were "anti-death penalty people" out there that evening, their opinions were squelched significantly enough that I have no recollection of them. I'm not saying they were not there. They just made no impression upon my memory. Strangely enough, I watched three news flashes of this event and I watched them only once and yet I can still recall them as clear as yesterday nearly 20 years later.

Selling mushrooms became somewhat lucrative for me insofar as it was "un-reportable income," meaning my mom couldn't tax it for tithes. Although my older brother didn't know it, all the innuendos made by he and his friends never slipped by me. There was a popular commercial going around at the time for Mott's Applesauce. It depicted a kid dressed as some inspector-like Columbo asking his colleagues if he's, "Got the Mott's?" So when my brother and his friends would laughingly ask each other if they had the Mott's, I knew they weren't talking about applesauce. Consequently, I approached one of his friends and said, "Hey man, you want some mushroom's....they're better than "The Mott's." His grin stretched so big, it nearly severed his jaw from his head.

One Friday night, my older brother came home with his eyes dilated and black as coal and I knew he found "The Motts"...my Motts. I sat, bored and watching Friday Night Videos again. He came and sat beside me and started telling this story about how he was just at a party, and how someone there gave him some mushrooms. I played dumb and said, "Really? Where did he get them?"

"You." My brother said to me with a fat grin and a face that looked tired from a night-full of unsolicited laughter...the kind of sudden and sporadic giggling which means "temporary schizophrenia" to sober laymen and "tripping-out" to enlightened veterans.

Meanwhile, while living a life of misconduct and unsavory behavior to any organized and conservative religion, the Ayatollah placed a worldwide bounty for the author of the Satanic Verses and if I'm not mistaken, the dude went on the

run...real fast-like since their beloved leader commanded it.

Correct, in the name of their peaceful and forgiving leader, Muhammad, the Ayatollah became full of the spirit and retranslated what his master REALLY meant some 1400 years ago. And he would know because he is a "holy man" and shits "holy turds." Furthermore, should one eat one of his, most holy turds, they could be forgiven for all their sins. However, before this story became headline news for days on end, the largest drunk driving event occurred in history to date. It appeared that an "Exxon Tiger" may have had a few too many "road sodies." Because, along the way he pulled over and puked a black mess into the Alaskan Bay. Perhaps he had an ulcer. Regardless, the Exxon Valdez became a dirty word.

While all these events had an impact, there was one in particular which stood out more than any. In an effort to overrun the tyranny of their government and plant the seeds of democracy...the individual voices of the youth became one, united, resentful middle fingers of rebellion. And while several people spoke their minds in the safety of the camera and other limelight, another man stepped up and challenged "The Bear" with nothing but a symbolic stick. He simply emerged from the protesting crowd in Tiananmen Square, placed himself before a hoard of tanks and the eyes of the world. He immediately became a man after my own heart. He stood his ground in a land where there is no right to own the ground you stand upon. Had I been in his brain at that moment, I suspect he was saying, "Go ahead, run me over in front of the world and show the world what type of leader you are. This is worth dying for!" Or perhaps, he was merely lost and looking for directions to the protest. We'll never know.

Meanwhile, the man with the holy turds, Ayatollah Khomeini, keeled over and died. What a victory this was for us. And by "us" I mean "Us, the non-believers."

One afternoon during a lunch break, I wandered around my lame-ass school when I came upon the band room. Emanating from it was a voice that would resonate within me into the future. It was the sound of a guitar. We had two head-bangers at our school who were equally alienated for their love of death metal....the music of the Devil. I never hung out with them either because I couldn't appreciate groups like Mega Death or Iron Maiden, but at this moment, I heard some chords that brought my mind back to happier days. They were strumming the chords of Back In Black by AC/DC on a steel string acoustic guitar. They were fans of the L.A. Night Stalker. I peeked my head in and watched enviously.

I don't remember how I struck up a conversation with them, but I managed to ask them how they played that sound. I remembered that my dad had an old guitar buried somewhere in his closet and when I got home, I fished it out and spent the remaining day trying to replicate that sound on it with the remaining five, and out-of-tune, strings. I eventually would learn how to tune it as I struck up a limited and conditional friendship with the head bangers. I never really wanted to be their friends, but I did want to learn this beautiful instrument of rebellion. However, no one personified rebellion better than Zsa-Zsa by slapping a cop and going to jail for it. She did what many would have loved to do. Instead of putting on a false face in an effort to avoid trouble, she wore her real one and then acted upon it.

After almost six months of having no friends to hang out with and becoming bored with my quiet and lonely weekends, I struck up a friendship with another guy in the neighborhood. I'll just call him "Bubba" since everyone in Texas has a friend named Bubba. Really our relationship started as co-workers as we both needed money to sustain our habits and hobbies. The great shoom trade had run dry as the cow patty's produced fewer and fewer jewels. My friend routinely smoked cigarettes, which I managed to stop doing, but I did routinely need new guitar strings, and following a temper tantrum, I needed a new guitar after I smashed my dad's after breaking a brand new string while attempting to tune it.

In a way, a sense of fear, disappointment and betrayal reigned during this year, respectively. The Mendez brothers murdered their parents for the money, the innocence of baseball was lost, never to be the same again, and a televangelist was caught embezzling (was that Jim Baker, the husband of that histrionic wife who loved to cry her fucking eyeliner and mascara down her face while begging for money like a homeless person?) Did that cunt really think people didn't see the "golden arches" of décor and wealth on the walls behind her? Really???? Are you fucking serious??? The answer to this is, "yes," because the money continued to roll in. However, it took many years to appreciate these people (better put, barely tolerate). After all, if it weren't for all these idiots, I would have never realized just how fucking smart I am. Thanks idiots. I do appreciate it. You almost caused me to want to keep you around.

The spring played itself out. I ran track...because I had to and also because my alternative was a team sport, like baseball. Track, it was. Although I was a freshman and my brother was a senior, we were both on the Varsity Track Team. I think we were just too small to have more than one team. I don't know. I never thought of myself as a great runner, but I think it was a result of this that my older brother and I began to talk to each other more. He ran the 800 while I ran the one and two mile. I really don't remember much about my track "career" except for one occasion.

One of the wealthiest schools in the city was hosting the event. They even had trophy black kids on their team. I never knew any black kids that had money, so I suspect they had some scholarship...Track/Football/Basketball no less??? Clearly these guys were the school's secret weapons as this school had a champion title. I can't remember anything about these guys except they each had a thick gold rope-chain around their necks and every muscle in their thighs were defined and screamed, "I will break you." It was as if Draco from Rocky IV just knocked me out without even throwing the first punch. My god man, they have black people!!! Shit man, you just lost!!!

"Fuck it." I thought to myself. And rest assured, the people from school who turned out to cheer for us knew it was a loss too. This was the era of pre-prison Mike Tyson and black people were undefeatable at sports as Mike was the living and painful proof to "Ole Whitey!" Ultimately, I remember thinking to myself that it would be okay so long as he doesn't lap me. My heart pounded as I warmed up for a mile of humiliation. My stomach was in knots. This was an individual effort, and since there were bleacher stands, people could watch my individual failure, pat me on the back afterwards with plastic smiles and say, "You did great! (for losing....loser)."

It was at this time my older brother came up to me and broke the hypnotic voice of self-doubt and said with a fat grin upon his face, "Hey, if you win, I'll buy you one of those gold chains," as he pointed to one of the Black Stallions in the distance who was clearly also preparing for this event.

His quadriceps glistened in the sunlight as his "Kid-n-Play" high-top fro provided him with confidence. My brother also added that he would throw in a matching medallion with the continent of Africa upon it if I took first. And just like that, the pimple of tension burst as I laughed out loud and accepted the challenge. And the final 200 meters of that run shaped my love of running from that point forward. To be praised by your peers, to be celebrated as number one, to be cheered for, to live in this moment for eternity was to become like God. It was addictive.

I remember the sun was getting lower on the horizon as a reflection of my confidence. We lined up on the starting line. Unlike our school, his uniform was shiny and new. He fucking looked like a champ. Hell, he even grinned at me as if to say, "C'mon White Boy...I got you in my teeth!" Fuck!!! This was going to hurt. Even though he was also there to beat the other brother running among us, his first mission was to beat every motherfucker there...and he knew it. He was Boxer from Animal Farm. He was the pride work-horse for his school. He intended to tear me a new asshole. Jesus fuck nuts, he looked as if he could even shave while my beginnings of puberty were barely taking root. I think I had one black hair protruding from my chin.

Fuck, fuck, fuck....you are so done! The Fresh Price of Bellaire is gonna wipe this track up wit yo ass! Fuck. I thought to myself as I leaned over the starting line.

"Runner's...at your mark...get set..." POW! The little .22 caliber pistol resonated in the air as my heart caught up to itself. We blasted off the starting line. My eyes glued to the back of the head of the Black Stallion...and it stayed that way for three laps around the track...however, in my eyesight, his black head kept getting smaller and smaller from my perspective the longer we ran as did the heads of three others in front of me. I was in so much pain while he appeared to run like he was enjoying the smell of fresh cut grass.

My god, man!...he's an animal!...a fine tuned machine!...this run is nothing to him. He's wiping you up like the white boy you are...just remember...don't worry if you don't win...he is black...you're expected to lose!

"No god damn it. Push!!!!!" I thought out loud to myself as I grunted and desperately tried to control my breathing. It was at this point at the last 200 meters of the race where I, for once in my life, met "me." And I fell in love with me and what me was capable of. I was able to reach down deep into the mind's eye of my past. I thought of everything that affected me negatively, of everything I had lost, my current position of loneliness, boredom, and potential for nothing better. I took all of this in at once, stirred it in a pot until it boiled and then I stirred it again until it formed a frothy self-hatred...gave it a couple seconds to rise then forced it down the throat of my power to will myself into something. I immediately became drunk with hate. I felt nothing. My legs went numb. I thought of fast, rhythmic, hypnotic, beating drums in my head and synchronized with every step.

I heard a surge of cheers, screams and the stomping of feet from a section in the stands where our school sat. I vaguely recall them rhythmically chanting my last name in unison, which fit right into my step. My hate shifted. I became drunk with self-love and delusions of greatness and accomplishment. I felt as if I lifted up like an airplane, as if I just shoved the throttle forward as far as it would go.

I came around the bend as I took the outside lane and began to close in. One by one, I began passing my opponents. But there was only one opponent I was interested in beating that day...and he was in front wearing my gold rope chain around his neck. I shifted into lane two and moved in for the kill down the last 100 meters. As I began to inch up upon the Black Stallion, the crowd grew louder in my ears and my legs began to beat mercilessly along the track.

He made the mistake of turning his head over his right shoulder to glance at the White Demon flying up behind him. It was his fatal move. He faced back forward and began to push harder, but it was already too late for him. I was already in complete self-love, hypnotic possession...(perhaps my eyes rolled back in my head)...regardless, I felt god-like, worthy of worship...after all, my name sounded so beautiful when chanted by millions...(or perhaps it was the chant of only five....whatever....five was a start....perhaps they would like to rear my offspring...or kill for me.) The Black Stallion and I ran abreast for only about 10 meters before I overtook him. Victory was mine as I crossed the finish line, fell to my knees in the grass beside the track and threw up...but it was a welcome vomit.

One mile in five minutes and twenty-three seconds was my time. Yep, that was all. Jesse Owens ran it in about 4 minutes flat about 50 years ago. He would have lapped me. Almost twice. I suspected at this point that my black opponent must have been hurt...(but no one needed to know that....let me enjoy these delusions for just a moment, please.) While trying to catch my breath, he came up to me.

"Good run, man." I said, as I tried to hold back my puke.

"You too." He replied.

"My name is <name>," I said in return as I gulped for air, "nice to meet you."

"I'm Terrell, nice to meet you too. Maybe next time, heh?" He said with grin on his face.

"Maybe." I said in return, laughing, and then needing to turn around and puke some more.

As I continued to puke and the delusions began to fade, my brother appeared beside me in the grass to congratulate me, and in between gut wretches I said, "You owe me a gold chain."

"Yep...Yes I do. Good run," he said as he helped me up. This was about the end of my sporting career. I retired as a champion.

The school year came and went. As the summer rolled around, I had virtually no one to hang out with. I got back in touch with Bubba and we decided to go into business for ourselves and mow people's yards throughout the neighborhood. We struck up a pretty good friendship. He went to a good Catholic College Preparatory school across the city, but he was, by no means, wealthy. His parents both worked and spent the bulk of their income on school tuition. I remember wishing I could go to school with him as I had no friends at my current location, but his school was far too expensive for me. More importantly, his school was Catholic and according to my hyper-religious mother, Catholics were evil because they worshipped Mother Mary. We were good and devout Baptists...next to God Almighty Himself. After all, we burned rock and roll records after playing them backwards and realizing they attributed their rock success to the Great Satan.

Our devout Baptist church held youth seminars on Wednesday nights and exposed us to a piece of literature called, "Why Knock Rock?" Think I'm kidding? Oh no, my friends....we really did this. I really went to good Baptists revivals where albums by Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Jimi Hendrix and even U2 were scrutinized and taught to us as being Hedonist and Evil Doers. We became enraptured in bloodlust against their work and burned them like witches in Salem. Well...I didn't, but everyone around me did...as they held hands and shared in their murder of Evil Doers...in the name of Jeeeezus! These people were so goddamn foreign to me. But I did enjoy a nice fire.

Over the summer, I began to play the guitar more and more. In fact, I would spend every last dollar I had on cigarettes and guitar related items. I had no intention of going back to sports when I returned to that sorry ass Christian school come fall. My mom would attempt to force me, and I would force her back. In fact, I became so angry and aggressive, I found myself finally rebelling against the strongest force in my family. My mother. I still do not recall what provoked it, but I became enraged with her as she forcefully confronted me regarding something which I don't recall and I responded by throwing my oversized walk-man into her face, then shoved her into the closet. These actions were accompanied with a sleuth of profanities and followed up by going to her bookshelf, taking her bibles, setting them up on end and stomping them, breaking them lengthwise and snapping their spines. It felt...good. Corporal punishment never happened again. I revolted.

I returned to that school in the fall. There was a new me. I had a new confidence. I would do my choosing. I would not play sports, nor would I play in the band. I would barely participate in my studies. All I remember was that I got up every morning, went to this shitty-ass school, slept through my classes as best I could, came home and played on my guitar until late in the evening. Went to bed and did it all over again the next day. Around this time my mother cashed in on some medical coverage and started sending me to counselors. I told them nothing. I filled myself with hate for these people as well as Christians. This would come to a head in the future.

This year at school, there was new guy. He made a comment one day which reflected his dislike for the fundamentalism and like me, he was forced into Christian schools. We were immediate friends. He was from Georgia. I'll call him Woody. We hated this school and all the bible beaters that came with it. And as you could imagine, we were both very intrigued by the personification of evil stuffed within the body of the Night Stalker. My god man, he had a freakin' Pentagram tattooed or drawn upon his palm and he loved to expose it to the cameras with his hyper-excited eyes as a backdrop. The Christians believed him to be the Devil Incarnate and his wicked smile had them trembling in their socks and frocks. Their presentation of fear made me very happy. It made both of us very happy. Fear...learn to master it! Induce it! Rattle cages with it.

One Wednesday evenings after the Youth Seminars, Woody and I had to attend church services which were customary for budding young Baptists. However, rest assured, we were not there by choice as we made that quite evident with our behavior (or lack thereof). During the service, Woddy and I laughed at all the "Amen Belchers" in the crowd. What is this you ask? Think of a bullfrog who says, "AAAAAAMEN!!" And that's what these freaks sounded like. Well anyhow, it didn't take much for Woody and I to find humor in the actions of these morons and we didn't mind publically insulting them either. This went on for about 15 minutes into the sermon until a deacon accosted us and whisked both of us out of the chapel proper and into the corridor just outside the doors.

It was at this point where Woody and I differed in personas. As the deacon pushed both of us up against the wall and demanded between gritted teeth, "What's your name!!???"

My name is Fuck You...Fuck You Johnson, and yours?

Say it, I dare you! Say it with hate, not humor. This bible beater has crossed the line, he pushed first, he drew first blood, Jonny Rambo, so it's fair!

"Fuck you, asshole!" I said with equal intensity. Damn man, nice touch at the end. Short, simple, yet powerful and provocative.

He shoved me again and said, "I'll ask you one more time before I call the police." He said with burning cheeks and hateful, gleaming eyes...just like a good, god-fearing Christian.

"My name is Bill Mehalus." I said with the calmest calm I knew.

"How do you spell that?" He said with greedy, lustful eyes full of hate and vengeance.

"B—I—L—L." I said with a big smart ass grin. LOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!! That was fucking awesome, where did that come from? Kick this fucker in the balls or down the steps, which I might add, are lying unfortunately behind him.

"I know that much, smart-ass," he replied, "spell your last name."

"M—E—H—A—L--.......," and this is where I froze. I couldn't think of how my alias should be spelled since this was the first time I really tried to use it seriously, but more importantly I think he was beginning to smell my lie like a boiled egg-fart. So I took off running because there was no way he could keep up. And he couldn't. However, the cops and their radios could.

And soon thereafter I was captured and turned over to my embarrassed mother. Fuck her! This wasn't the first and, sure as hell, wasn't going to be the last. After all, when was she going to learn that no matter what she wanted me to do, she was not going to shove this religious shit down my throat. And when she tried, I'd throw it all back up in her fucking face.

Since my behavior was so much more extreme and provocative than Woody's, the limelight turned from him and unto me, thus allowing him to disappear into the shadows and slip away unscathed. And when asked who I was sitting with, I simply said, "I don't know his name. I just met him tonight." They didn't believe me, but that's all they were getting. As you could imagine, I was grounded once again.

I can't remember exactly when it occurred, but I seem to recall it being sometime in the winter. I was staying up late and watching the little 12" black and white television in my room. There was quite an event that was wreaking excitement and joy the world over. For many years prior to this date the entire world lived in some kind of fear since the two greatest super-powers lived so many years in turmoil and at the brink of nuclear war. If another world war was to occur during this period, it would have been the United States and The United Soviet Socialist Republic going toe-to-toe while the rest of the world would have merely been collateral damage and recipients of the fall-out.

This threat was so prevalent and plausible that fallout shelters could be found in just about every government facility, such as chow halls on various bases. However, now the war was over. Thousands of people for miles and miles along the German border joined in unison with hammers, pick axes, crow bars, finger nails, fists, and anything else they could find to chip away at this domineering, oppressive, and long standing representation of isolation, alienation and division...better known as "The Wall." Watching this structure crumble on the television was like watching a large predatory insect being overrun by a pack of angry ants. Except, they were happy while devouring every last shred. And this was the fruit of revolution. It was victory against insurmountable odds. It was an adrenaline surge. It was addictive. One could become addicted and need treatment later in life should they consume too much of it.

It was inevitable; during my sophomore year while taking a course in physical science from the schools' most feared and tyrannical monster, I reached a breaking point. I survived the first semester with him and even made it into the next for about a month...before... well...before something went wrong. I don't remember the details of the incident, however I do remember the theme. It was rebellion, of course. The man/teacher was such a crabby old fart, void of humor, and loved to see people fail his class. So one day I decided to fight back. If my memory is somewhat correct, it probably was the result of me visibly shaking my head in disgust at his ranting and raving as he belittled the entire class for their poor grades in his class. And yes, of course, I knew I was doing it merely to pick a fight with this fucking turd. And as predicted, he saw it. Furthermore, as predicted, he responded to my behavior adversely. Yes, I went fishin' for trouble and I found it.

"Stand up boy. What seems to be the problem? Do you disagree? Do you have something to say?" He taunted from across the room behind his desk. You god damn right I have a problem.

"Yeah, I have problem and your it!" I fired back. I heard Welcome to Jungle blaring in my mind and it sounded good! As you can imagine, the room fell silent as this was the first time in the history of this school that someone stood up to this geriatric tyrant! While in the safety of dark corners, restrooms, or in the hallway, no student I ever knew had anything good to say about him. So I felt really good about publically speaking out against him since public revolt can sometimes be conducive to change. I guess I saw it as, "someone had to do it." And once again I spoke for more than myself.

One thing I never understood and still don't, is why is it that so many people will say one thing to your face about how they really feel about something or someone, but when the opportunity arises to speak up and stand up, they cave in and buckle under their own fear and cowardice. Admittedly, about 99% of the time I ended up paying for it with my ass. Furthermore, this behavior is better known by the expression, "Your mouth is writing checks that your ass can't cash." And finally, after behaving in this manner for years, a better expression arises which is stated as, "The only time I take my foot out of mouth is to insert the other one." Fuck it.

"Oh yeah, and why is that??" He yelled back in return.

"You suck as a teacher and you know it," I yelled back, but with more force than his, as I felt my anger rising, "and it's reflected in the overall class average of your class."

It was about this time that the principal walked by and heard the fight. The best part was that he first noticed the unprofessionalism of the teacher. His first demand was that I sit down, and then he looked at Mr. M, "Can I see you for a moment? Wow, yet another victory for the lovers of the 1%." These things are truly jewels.

However, with this event and my recent event at the church-that owned the school-they decided to warn my mother with expulsion (in the form of a threat). I don't know exactly what they said, but it was enough to cause my mother to pull me out of there and send me elsewhere. And it must have been significant because what happened next was truly a shift in Baptist morals.

Do you remember that Catholic college prep school I spoke of earlier where Bubba attended? Well, my mother was a big believer that I would be safer and further away from drugs and alcohol if I attended a private school instead of a public one. While this may be true in some cases, I think, for the most part, many people go to private school because they were kicked out of, or suspended from, public schools and their only other option was to attend a private one. This school was certainly one of those. Regardless, it was truly a fine school. However, there were two things standing in my way. The first was that the school never let anyone to be admitted in the middle of the semester and second was that we didn't have the money to pay the tuition. Therefore, in order to address these obstacles, I first had to take some kind of entrance exam in order to reassure them I could keep up with their curriculum that was already in mid-semester. The money thing would have to be addressed later. In the meantime, my mom was desperately searching for an extra job to pay for it if they let me in.

I showed up to this strange campus one morning and sat in a room and answered several questions from subjects regarding math, science, and other things I can't recall. I don't know what I did but it was the right answer, that's for sure. Apparently, I excelled in math, or so my mom said, but she was one to exaggerate. However, she never did get that extra job because she claimed I received a partial scholarship, and I was physically sleeping at my new desk the following Monday. Yes, like everything, I took all of it for granted. What can I say? I was already tired of school. After all, I was an aspiring guitarist. I would become like Jimmy Page one day. I would tour the world on my own jumbo jet with the band name painted on the outside. We would become a super-group. We would smoke pot all day, play and record into the night and then settle down with some band groupies. Get up around noon the next day, ands do it all over again. Somewhere in between, we would tour, make more money, buy more drugs and collect more groupies.

And this was the life. This was truly living. It was truly living in a dream. And while this expression is typically used to describe a delusional person, if they're happy in their delusions, is that so wrong? More importantly, if someone does live this lifestyle and also dreamt/thought about it years beforehand, doesn't that make them as sick as me?

On another note, I adopted my first pets that were to be my sole responsibility; two gerbils. I bought an aquarium, cedar chips, and some cotton stuffing from my sister's stuffed animal. I liked them at first, but then...they just became a nuisance. And one evening, I guess one of them was making too much noise, so threw it against the wall. When he hit the ground, there was blood coming from his mouth as he twitched. When he finished, I picked him up and threw him in our compost area behind the house where all our pets were buried.

### CHAPTER 16

(1990)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: NORIEGA SURRENDERS TO AMERICAN FORCES, TIME WARNER IS FORMED, MAYOR OF WASHINGTON, D.C. ARRESTED FOR DRUG POSSESSION, CREATOR OF FIRST INTERNET WORM IS CONVICTED, NELSON MANDELLA RELEASED FROM PRISON, HUBBLE SPACE TELESCOPE IS PLACED INTO ORBIT, THE WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION REMOVES HOMOSEXUALITY FROM ITS LISTS OF DISEASES, STAMPEDE TO THE MECCA KILLS 1,426, EARTHQUAKE IN THE PHILIPPINES KILLS OVER 1600, IRAQ INVADES KUWAIT IGNITING GULF WAR, LEBANESE CIVIL WAR BEGINS, FIRST KNOWN WORLD WIDE WEB PAGE WAS WRITTEN, SUPER NINTENDO IS RELEASED IN JAPAN, FIRST GROUND CONNECTION BETWEEN UK AND EUROPE SINCE LAST ICE AGE, JOHN GOTTI IS ARRESTED, WORLD POPULATION REACHES 5,263,593,000, STOP.

The dissenter is every human being at those moments of his life when he resigns momentarily from the herd and thinks for himself."

-Archibald Macleish, 1892-1982

So my semester started midway through. I knew no one except Bubba, and rest assured I was a bit anxious. These were a different breed of Christian. They did many things that a good southern, Fundamentalist Christian would be appalled by, such as drinking alcohol. Furthermore, their Eucharist ceremony used real wine, not the grape drink that the Baptists served. At lunch we were allowed to sit out in the yard among the trees. Of course, this gave us just the right distance from the priests and brothers so we could smoke cigarettes without notice. And when we did get caught, the punishment wasn't a beating, it was a punishment known as Penance Hall where one would have to write something, like, "It sure looks like rain today," about 250 times. In fact, that was one that I had to write and I still remember it today. I had a few punishments like this. And instead of taking home pain, resentment, and a desire for revenge, I left with a cramped hand by my own doing because I rushed to be finished. As much as hate religion to this day, I have never lost a certain level of respect for this school. One may never know how much it grieves me to say this, but I must concede.

While there, I made new friends. We developed quite a bond. A couple of the guys played the guitar and played really well. One of them played so well he taught me everything I know to this day. This transition was so great, coming from a school full of corrupt minded youth to a school of reasonable people. Granted, the priests were big believers and the students were believers too on Christmas and Easter, but there was no fanatical revival about the scene. Hell, even they made fun of "those kinds" of Christians. And rightfully so. They were and still are morons to this day. I left behind the George W's, Palin's, and Romney's and traded them for Plato's, Aristotle's, and St. Thomas's. Admittedly, their philosophy revolved around the premise of a divine figure that I disagreed with, but at least it was logical and consistent. Coming from a group that deemed right and wrong was determined by something like, WWJD, to a group that explained logically why right was right and wrong was wrong, was such an exponential improvement, that even though I barely believed it, I found it sensible. Damn, what a relief!

After a year of alienation and spending my Friday and Saturday nights with my best friend, the doo-doo box, a.k.a. the TV, I now had friends with similar interests to go out with. We smoked, we bought beer (illegally, but we got it), and we smoked pot (I smoked the most.) And under the influence of all these things, we went out and played pool. Occasionally, we even went to house parties.

These house parties were my first ever. They were the kind where the parents went out of town and if you were lucky, you could get a girl drunk enough to fuck. I did not disagree with this behavior, however I didn't participate in it either. I was actually shy and terrified of public embarrassment, such as, say the wrong thing to the wrong person or a person's girlfriend at the wrong time and getting my ass kicked. Furthermore, if you were a stranger to a party, some overly aggressive people may have used you as a punching bag for mere entertainment. And if you didn't have a loyal pack of friends, you could get a free ride to the emergency room, courtesy of some sorry girl (typically the girlfriend of the asshole), by dropping your broke ass on the corner and calling 911 and telling them where you could be found. Fortunately that never happened to me, but since the potential was there, it resided in the back of my mind and at all times.

Although the parties were fun (with a bit of healthy tension), our group of friends entertained ourselves differently. We loved smoky pool halls instead. Just about every Friday night we all met up at a pool hall and played for hours while smoking cigarettes and sometimes stepping out for a hit off a joint. But like anything constant over time, whatever it is, it becomes boring or mundane. Thus stimulating the brain to seek new and better pleasures or highs.

His name was Bryan and he soon became known to us as a sanctuary of hallucinogens, specifically LSD. Remember those drugs that couldn't be found in good wholesome Christian private schools? Lies. Bryan had the hook-up to several drugs and he also had a funky hairdo, a long pinkie nail, and dark clothing. This was the era of Techno. It was the era of Nine Inch Nails, a.k.a. NIN (however with a backwards "N" on the end). It was the beginning of Goth and utter weirdness. We began to trip every Friday night wherever we were (without the black drab and finger nails). This made going to large social gatherings, such as parties, a bit tricky since they were regularly edgy anyway. Add acid to the mix and you have a high potential for a really, really bad trip. However, this was yet another addiction, the adrenaline rush of sympathetic excitement. But I was no fighter then. I was pretty quiet, which I attribute to constantly being stoned. I became peaceful after all those years of turmoil and hatred. I was no longer forced to go to church, simply because I refused to. And my mother had only one choice, physically drag me to the car and take me or settle for loss. She settled.

LSD use became a weekly experience for a few years. And the more I socialized with my new group of friends, we progressively went to more parties. However, on these occasions, I would typically stand out of sight and just watch since my mind was no longer familiar to me. And the versions of myself thought out loud but only in my mind. Ahhhh, dude...what...what happened man? I'm feeling a little strange. I probably shouldn't speak too much. I might really say something stupid...and it won't even be funny, not even to me.

It was these first experiences I'll never forget. They were a transition into another state of mind, another level of consciousness, another version of me, but not me, if that makes any sense at all.

It was during these days that I met another friend of mutual interests. We both loved classic rock and doing drugs. The difference between he and I was that he was much more clean cut and also the son of a judge. There were many occasions upon which we sat around and got high. We were usually out riding around in his car. I didn't have one because I still didn't have a driver's license solely because I couldn't afford a car, so why get one? Right? One weekend evening, he asked if he could bring a friend of his over and all go out, eat some acid, smoke some weed, and ride around. "Sure," I said, "Is he cool.....like, he won't trip out or anything?" He assured me he was cool. So once we were all together, we dropped our hits, got into the car and smoked-out on our way to our favorite pool hall. Oh yes, my friends, this was more exciting than it sounds.

In the pool halls, the green of the tables became more fluid, thick, lush.....alluring. One must touch it in order to see one's blue-purplish hand contrast against it. As our eyes grew into large black beads, the light bulbs became.....larger, brighter...a shiver runs down my spine...it has arrived. Ahhhhh...I feel...wonderful...look at all the colors. I heard my "versions of me" say to each other or in unison. All was meshing into one. I, with them, and they, with me. I was hate, love, lust and confusion rolled up into one large pile of silly-putty. Are my palms sweating??? I confer with my friends not by words but by the blacks of their eyes and a gapping, but tiny, hole that forms their mouth that is...talking...to me?

"Are you fucked up yet?" He asks with both humor and fear upon his face.

"I am...electric," I said, "are people looking at us?....because I'm looking at them and they look..."...my thoughts drift away into silence and my mind thinks out loud..., "what? Did you ask me something?" I turn back to my friend as if he was speaking to me...he looks...flat, animated...his mouth sags, I think. But he wasn't speaking to me. Was it the juke-box? I think Zeppelin is playing...of course Zeppelin is playing because I loaded it up with every Zeppelin song they had. Zeppelin II is blaring, "The leaves are falling all around, time I was on my way, thanks to you I'm much obliged, such as pleasant stay, but now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way, but now I smell the rain and with it pain, and it's headed my way...guitars...beautiful guitars...fluid guitars....ahhh sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I got one thing I got to do...RAMBLE ON!!!"

My mind drifts. I regain consciousness and melt back into the song with the harmonic solo...doooo-do-dalooo-da-do-do-do, sustained, sustained, simple notes but beautiful....I think like milk chocolate. Thick rich and delicious. I want to devour Zeppelin.

The juke box drifts away. I think I drift with it. I hear Peace Frog.

"Did you put The Doors in?" I ask my friend.....lost..I am lost.

"Yeah, we just heard the entire Zep II and now it's your shot."

How long have I been standing here, I thought,...hours...last week...have I moved...?

"How long have I been standing here?" I asked my friend, "I don't know...a couple of seconds I guess..."

"I don't know, a couple seconds I guess," he said to me smiling.

What the fuck...was I just in the future? How did I guess what he was going to say? What the fuck?......wwhhhooaaa, Scott...Jim...Jimmy, we are fucked up! This is some good, good shit...Who are we three??? What's our name??? Who the fuck was that? Fuuuuck!!! We're all here!!.....Tha blue buuuss... is calling us...driver where you taking us!... (time passes).... out here....we is stoned.....immaculate!.....goddamn that's right!!!

"Hey!! Wake up, it's your shot!" my friend says with a giant grin on his face as he realizes just how fucked up I really am. Goddamn that's a big fucking grin!!! Fucking grin!! Hey, wake up...I think your melting. Wake up dumbass, you'll get us busted....you're wiggin' out.

"Sorry dude, I'm back...just wiggin' a bit...I think Jim Morrison is fucking himself right now," I replied as if this was normal conversation, but at some point I transitioned from Peace Frog into The End. "Where's Numb Nuts?" I asked as I looked around.

Now in all honesty, he wasn't Numb Nuts yet, he would earn this name when we returned to my house and in front of my mother who believed that we were all just good boys, not kids wiggin' out on acid and high on some sweet weed.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm one to talk about someone wiggin' out. But rest assured reader, while I experienced moments of slight separation, I never hallucinated. I experienced illusions, but never hallucinations. There is a difference. However, when we arrived back at my house, this so called, "cool" guy, who wouldn't "trip out" or anything, experienced a true and genuine schism. Oh Jesus fuck-nuts, did he fall to pieces, and in front of my mother, no less. While my mother always wanted to expect the best of me and tried at all times to ignore what appeared to be some slightly strange behavior, his was monumental. It left my friend and I speechless and simultaneously struggling for excuses to explain the behavior of this weird lump of cells we brought home with us. It went down like this:

We pull up and park in front of the house. Time to go over logistics and put on our angelic smiles. Eye drops. Slap on the face to recover in case I was gone.

"Okay, y'all be cool, my mom might still be up." We walk in. She is. In fact, like a beached whale, she lies on the couch with books scattered around her, religious books, no less. She nearly reads nothing else but Jesus shit. "Hi, we're home", I say as we walk in. Of course you're home, idiot, you just walked in and made an announcement to her face. "Did I just fuck up" I thought to myself." Yoda-ley-eehoo. Howdy Mom!!! We're fuuucked up!!! Check out my pupils! Don't fucking grin, it's not funny, I silently shout in my mind.

My friends exchange courtesies with her. Except....well, except the new guy. He only grins from cheek to cheek and nearly turns to walk back out the door he came in as if walking in and out and in and out again of the same door was normal. Like some endless loop or carrousel. We managed to cover up his behavior and walked into the kitchen, still in earshot of my mom, grabbed some chips and salsa and sat down at the kitchen table, both in ear and eyeshot of my mom, The Great Disciplinarian.

"Are you going to answer the phone?" Numb Nuts asks.

"Huh?? What???" I reply with "shut up" eyes and a casual grin in an effort to divert my mother's furrowed brow and analysis of this absurd question from him. By the way, eating on acid can be sickening. Your stomach is in knots from the strychnine found in LSD...or so we're told. In either case, your stomach feels like it turns inside out. But we eat because this is normal behavior for growing teenage boys after a long night of "playing pool." This was not a lie. We were playing pool, however, what she didn't know was that we played pool in the 7th dimension and not just down the street. The pool hall down the street was merely our portal. When we opened the doors and walked inside, we entered into.....there. When we left the 7th dimension, we returned to a different movie screen from the one we left upon entrance...into there...but it was similar to the same one, several hours earlier. And when we returned home, we returned to another video screen that we left behind further still, like exiting a loop the same way we came; a spiral that starts from the furthest corners of the universe and spirals its way to center. Where the fuck are you....wake up.

"Well, we're going to my room." I said to my mom as we wandered in line back to my room. As we sat around and listened to some music, my friend and I lost track of Numb Nuts although he was only three feet away, standing in the corner facing the wall and babbling about nothing. Instead of watching him, our eyes diverted to the life-size mural of Pink Floyd's, The Schoolmaster that I painted on my wall in fluorescent colors some months back. It was at this moment that I began to hear a trickle, like water spraying constantly against a hard surface. God damn it...there was water spraying against a hard surface. I turned to look. Numb Nuts was peeing on the wall in the corner. I sat still for a moment to make sure I wasn't tripping out. Nope! He's pissing on the wall. My friend and I leapt towards him at the same time, grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him conscious. He didn't even know his dick was hanging out...and still dribbling. And with a rattlesnake lunge, I slapped the head of his dick in order to shut off the sprinkler.

The moral of the story: there is no goddamn way to thoroughly screen someone for Acid Incompetence. It's a very real syndrome, at least it is in The Acid Underground. However, what one can do is undergo undercover training with the Acid Prospect. How is this conducted? Simple. Take the prospect out into public with you where there are simpler challenges, such as ordering food from a waitress, requesting change for a ten from a cashier, asking a stranger for directions.

This is standard acid training for prospects. Like combat training, if the prospect fucks up here, the consequences are minimal, but more importantly, you know not to take him into real Acid Combat as he could get you killed/busted/arrested. After training has proven successful, measured by a timeline you have established and to a level of difficulty predetermined, you enter the combat zone full of mothers, fathers, police officers and other strangers whose consequences are much more severe. Only after the prospect has passed all these will you be safe with him/her as he/she merely becomes a fluid extension of you in altered reality.

Although this period in life was adventurous, there was something missing. Girls. Specifically girls willing to fuck. I had already fucked one girl by the ripe age of 15, but she was no girl. She was my coked-out, drunk, 30 year old neighbor and Crack Ho. I still remember the evening. I snuck out into the night and went over to her house. This was not strange behavior because I mowed her lawn, she paid me and sometimes paid me in pot. Furthermore, I knew she would be up...all fucked up. So after an evening of ritually watching The Song Remains the Same by Led Zeppelin, I went over. She had coke. I tried some. I was high, in a different way. She started to look.....good. I got a boner. Then I reached over and grabbed her tit. She got up, left the room, came back with a rubber and threw it in my lap and said she would be back in her room. I was scared. Stand up, you pussy. Go back there and fuck her!!!!

None of my friends had been laid yet. I would be the first at 15-16 years old. The Pioneer. Christopher Columbus. The world was round, as round as her tits. I would do it out of conquest. Bravely, rubber in hand, I walked the Green Mile back to her room where she laid nude and legs spread upon the bed in the dimness of the hall light. Bush! I dropped my pants and fucker her...over and over again. Why would she want to fuck you? Your face is full of acne pits and pustules! You're an ugly motherfucker! He's right, you know. You could scare small children with that face...and you're skinny too. One day, you will have your revenge for this alienation...this painful rejection!! One day, due to your fame, the girls will come. And if they resist, they will all be drugged and raped! Oh Jupiter, you'll have everything you want! However, years later I knew why she wanted to fuck me. I was a jewel, a forbidden fruit. I was a young man, full of energy and endless boners. Likewise, the alluring factor of her for me was that she was an older woman. A MILF to be almost exact...however she had no children, although old enough to be a mother, but not a Cougar just yet.

Moreover, as an adult male, younger women are considered "Big Game." Regardless, during this time my acne was the root of my alienation, my introversion. I knew damn well how I looked. No girl wants that. No girl wants to make out with that. She might catch pimples too. Sure they were nice to you because they knew they needed to befriend you in order to get closer to your more attractive friends, to safely infiltrate the group, the pack. I was the doormat to wipe their feet upon as they entered my house to meet my friends. Igor, at your fucking service, can I take your coat, bitch?

This is important to note regardless. Think about this for a moment with the mindset of evolution and selection. My coat, my plumage, my first means of sexual attraction had visible blemishes. These blemishes were inadequacies in nature and health. It means these traits could be passed on to offspring. Acne to my degree was an obvious indication of poorer health than one with no acne. My largest organ, my first line of defense, my skin, it was compromised. And while girls may not seriously consider reproducing at 15 or 16, if you already have a girlfriend, they see you as a challenge to conquer, control, or influence. However, if no other girl wants you, there is no challenge for any girl. There is nothing worth pursuing. Having several girlfriends or girls interested in you makes you an alpha male. When you have no girls attracted to you, you are far from an alpha. You are selected against and not for. You are stuck with the token "fat girlfriends" who are friends of the beautiful ones. Only through sheer confidence, deception, manipulation, usurpation, and might can an acne ridden face reach alpha and pass on his genes. These are the attributes of survival, not of yourself, but of your legacy. This is immortality! This is becoming god-like! Hello, pleased to meet you.

### CHAPTER 17

(1991)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.

UNRELATED EVENTS: ALAN WIGGINS DIES OF AIDS, OPERATION DESERT STORM BEGINS, PRESIDENT OF SOMALIA FLEES MOGADISHU, DR. KEVORKIAN BARRED FROM ASSISTED SUICIDES, IRAQ ABANDONS KUWAIT SETTING FIRES IN THEIR PATH, RODNEY KING IS BEATEN BY THE LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT, TROPICAL CYCLONE IN BANGLADESH KILLS 138,000, SONIC THE HEDGEHOG IS RELEASED, CROATIA AND SLOVENIA DECLARE INDEPENDENCE FROM YUGOSLAVIA, JEFFREY DAHMER IS ARRESTED AFTER HUMAN REMAINS ARE FOUND IN HIS APARTMENT, CONCEPT OF A WORLD WIDE WEB IS RELEASED, DEAD SEA SCROLLS ARE RELEASED TO THE PUBLIC, ANITA HILL LOSES HER CASE, GEORGE HENNARD GUNS DOWN 24 PEOPLE AT A LUBY'S RESTAURANT IN KILLEEN, TX., MAGIC JOHNSON ANNOUNCES HE HAS HIV, FREDDIE MERCURY DIES OF AIDS, COLLAPSE OF THE SOVIET UNION, POPULATION REACHES 5,359,800,000. STOP.

"If we ever do transcend our religious bewilderment, we will look back upon this period in human history with horror and amazement."

-Sam Harris 1967-present

I continued to indulge in drugs throughout the year and it finally caught up with me. I didn't drink alcohol during these days because I never liked the taste. But by the time I reached the end of my junior year in high school, I managed to fail two classes...or was it three? I know that one of them was chemistry. I apparently couldn't balance a chemical equation to save my life and never understood the difference between inertia and momentum.....now that I think about it, I still don't know the difference. Regardless, If I wanted to stay at this school, I would have to take summer school. The bright, mathematical prospect I demonstrated a year ago upon special entry mid semester into this school, fell asleep and woke up with his head on a desk at the close of the following year.

We couldn't afford summer school, so I was shit-out of luck. I would have to go to public high school. What I feared the most about this was that I had no friends to go with me there. However, since my previous school was head and shoulders above any public school, I managed to successfully fail right into my senior year without any public schooling. But, the downside to this was that I was so void of confidence and the people I would run into would be that group of "friends" I was alienated from years ago, because my dad worked at a grocery store in the rich kid's neighborhood. That fuck-stick who was so instrumental in my public shaming would be there. Apparently my little snake trick wasn't successful. To make matters worse, I recently obtained a job sacking groceries at the same grocery store where my dad worked. Like father like son is what they'd say. Well goddamn.

Image meant a lot for some reason. In retrospect, image mattered only to those who made things, like image, to be so very important. This was one of my first, albeit unconscious, uses of existentialism. I made "image" to be important, good, all things holy. I was in control of this. But I didn't know it yet. But this humiliation I thought I was about to experience would not come to pass.

My first day I found myself wandering the colored hallways. Apparently this school's schematic went by colored hall with room number as compared to my last school, which went by building, and room number. I am lost. I'm a clean cut, usually stoned, acne-faced new guy in a new school where my "old friends-turned enemies" lurked behind every corner...or at least they did in my mind. I would be called out and alienated before a school full of judgmental, careless and typically cruel, teenagers. I had no self-esteem, however I had a boatload of resentment.

And that's when it happened. Nothing. Nothing happened. While walking with my head down to avoid eye contact, I decided it was better to stop someone and find out where to go than to find it too late and be the focus of attention for a roomful of strangers.

I look up, I see this strikingly tall, long haired person. A girl? No, it's a guy. I think to myself, wow, they don't have hair regulations here. Perhaps I'll grow mine out too one day. Fuck him, but be careful man, don't piss anyone off. Be nice, polite...ask and go! If there's trouble, just go nuts on him! I wish I was home and stoned.

"Hey, excuse me, could you tell me where Red 213 is?" I ask while looking down at my class schedule instead of making eye contact, as if it were the first time I looked at it.

"Yeah," was all he said and nothing more and I thought to myself, great, he's going to be an asshole so here we go. When I looked up to this lean tree and saw who it was with a grin from ear to ear upon his face, a flood of memories rushed up and took me back. Back to a time when I had more confidence and more friends. Back when I was "Swamp Rat." I was one of the best skaters in my pack. I had balls and would try just about anything on the ramp. I was someone. I was important at least in my tiny universe.

It was my second oldest friend. We used to sneak out together. Spending the night at his house was the place to spend the night. His parents rarely kept track of us. We were free there and consequently we had fun. As free and dangerous as this may sound to any parent, I will tell you this, the freedom his parents gave him prevented he or any of his family members from developing a sense of rebellion and resentment. But I think I told you this already. Sure, they were disciplined when they crossed some unforeseen boundary, but when they were reprimanded, it was so obviously wrong that even they knew it. And to this day, I have never seen a tighter and more loving family than his.

With much relief I smiled and said, "Hey man, how have you been? It's been years." Damn man, that's too weird...can we get stoned now?

"Your room is right here," he said, still smiling. " Do you still skate?"

"No man, I haven't done that in a long time. I lost all my skater friends, ended up going to a Christian school and became a jock since my alternative was to become a band fairy. I did pick up the guitar though. Are you still playing the drums?"

"Yeah, you should come over sometime and we'll jam."

I always disliked that term, "jam" but it was what it was.

"Do you still live in your old neighborhood? Same house?"

"Yep. You can come over today after school if you want."

"Thanks man, I would, but I don't have a car."

"I'll drive you. It's cool."

"Alright, thanks man. I'll see you after school."

And just like that a tremendous burden was lifted. My mind went from utter anxiety and trepidation to relief in less than a 100 words and twenty seconds with a familiar and friendly face. Years later I would lose him again as a friend and it would be completely my fault. But he wouldn't be the only friend I ran off. In fact, as the years transpired, I managed to run off all of my childhood friends, except one. Jason.

Well, prior to school starting, I quit my job at the grocery store. Actually, I think I was fired for skipping too many days of work and causing the manager to have to belittle himself and sack groceries in my absence. I no longer had to play school sports or band now since my mother merely wanted me to graduate from school at this point. She was more worried about it than I was. But then again, I was already convinced that I would be a rock-n-roll star like Jimmy Page or David Hasselhoff, have all the girls I wanted, and lots of money so who cared about school (kidding about David Hasselhoff, though). And in a way, I was playing in band. I was playing a guitar and with anyone else who wanted to get together and "jam" and become a band.

But in the meantime, I took on one of the most humiliating jobs a person could have. I became a telemarketer. But not just any old telemarketer. No my friends, I became a telemarketer for none other than a low rate life insurance company. Yes, you got it. My assignment was to sit at a phone and go down a list of names in the phone book, dial a household after work, usually during dinner time...unsolicited by the unsuspecting victim, and read my bullshit lines about how much money they'll save by spending it on this shit. The infamous, "cold calling." Rest assured, I spent more time listening to dial tone and talking to a phone that had hung up several sentences back while I rambled on. And yes, there was always a good handful of insults hurled in my direction followed by, "And don't call here again!" Yes my friends, it was the result of me and my shitty job that people opted to not be listed in the phone book, which later evolved into the development of caller ID and later still into the National Do-Not-Call Registry in the advent of cell phones once they outcompeted pagers and became smaller than a brick. I have nothing more to say about this job, mainly because it didn't last long. However, I do have this to say to the world and all those I cold-called, "I'm sorry."

There's not too much to mention about my life during the last half of this year or first half of the school year except that I was perpetually stoned. I couldn't get my hands on acid as frequently as I used to. I was now hanging out with another group of friends and losing contact with my old group. Running the pool halls happened less and less and consequently so did the acid flow. However, weed was more available than ever. Besides reuniting with one of my old friends, I also reunited with all the others including my old archenemy. However, this time around he was no longer the spiteful bastard he used to be. In fact, he really wanted to be my friend. I think he actually felt bad about behaving as he did back then. I remember, it was just me and him sitting on top of a friends two-story house and legs dangling over the side. Smoking weed, of course.

"Hey man," he said as he broke the silence, "I'm sorry I was such a dick to you back in junior high."

"It's cool, man," I said, and I really meant it. "I'm sorry too."

"Whaaat??" he asked, "Sorry for what??"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. I'm just stoned."

And, I guess I was sorry about the whole...snake thing.

The year was coming to an end and by this time I had struck up a pretty good relationship with the school's biggest distributor of weed. I really liked him quite a bit. For an 18 year old, he was certainly mature for his age. Hell, he needed to shave his entire face every day lest he grow a full beard and mustache. He was originally from Iran but his family fled when Ayatollah Khomeini took control sometime back in 1979 or so. He was full blooded, but you would have never guessed it. He was a regular Persian dude in Texas who loved Metallica like no other metal-head I'd ever met. While my combo was weed and Zeppelin, his was weed and Metallica. I never could understand it, but that's not saying much. I was stoned.

When the war broke out in 1990-1991 against Iraq (now known as Iraq 1) he and his family were excited and rooting heavily for the United States. Just two years prior the U.S. supplied Iraq with weapons in order to defend itself against Iran and now the U.S. regretted it since Saddam was playing dirty with dirty weapons and threatening good commerce in the middle east. I guess you could say Saddam was that dude in the boat who would rock it back and forth in order to see if it could remain afloat and no one else in the boat wanted to play that shit. Hell, I can admire him for that as I too would develop enough confidence to rock a boat or two myself. Regardless, what was really interesting about this time was the culmination of events from a few years prior up to the present.

You see, it appeared that racism and "Left vs. Right," especially the tensions between the whites and blacks was reaching a melting point. When one looked back upon the preceding years of the late eighties, they looked a bit like this: The Soviet Union was crumbling and no longer a threat. They were like an old dog living out his last days and getting weaker by the day. In the nearby areas Muslims and Christians began to develop quite a hatred for each other, especially in the areas of Yugoslavia. I know because I sat by a Yugoslavian refugee in one of my classes and she told me all about it. Anyway, it was like the U.S. needed more drama. The police and conservative America were being ostracized by the liberal left in merely every city for profiling and racism. This was most prominent in Los Angeles.

Several rap groups had come about and wrote some pretty heavy stuff with pretty inflammatory lyrics towards cops. I'd say they were testing their boundaries of free speech. Good for them. But turmoil erupted when they made the headlines and were censored by "Old Whitey." Admittedly, it did look that way. And perhaps it was. Music videos and popular culture had white girls with black guys. White girls loved to dance and go to dance clubs. Dance clubs played the most up-to-date hip hop to dance to and as you could guess, it was rap music. Dance was becoming more sexual with the lyrics and dance moves. Ass grinding and all. White girls were known to booty dance with black guys. Whitey's response to this was that the white girl was forever soiled. And in fact, they really were permanently rejected by white men. It was as if "Old Blacky" had lured the white man's woman away. And nothing pissed white men off more than black men having their women.

However, the flip side to this was that black women became really freakin' upset with their black men. Black women tended to get along better with white men than black men did with white men. One thing that black women liked about white guys was that white guys ate pussy and black men didn't. Regardless, tensions continued to grow. By this time, it had developed into an unapparent blood clot within the vasculature of human communication, not causing any problems yet, but merely lying in wait to be released and make its way to the coronary arteries and carry out the inevitable of shutting down the entire system for everyone and forever, in the form of a stroke. Just waiting...just waiting.

A few years back, Axle Rose said, "nigger" without remorse in one of his songs and it wasn't censored but the rap groups were. Damn this didn't look good. Since the late eighties the snowball had been rolling downhill and getting larger and faster as it went.

Also to date, some black dude whose name became known throughout the world, Rodney King, got the shit beat out of him with clubs and tasers by the LAPD and all filmed on some guy's camcorder for the world to see. The cops were placed on trial. Would they lose? Damn right they would, there was proof. He really was getting the shit kicked out of him. And the photos of his face released soon thereafter proved it. There were three groups that developed from this. There was the liberal/radical left who said, "Oh no you did-nt!!". There was the middle group who said, "Damn, that was a bit much, don't you think?" And finally there was the conservative right that said, "That mouthy nigger got what he deserved!" And within the shadows, some crazy white boy gone serial named Jeffrey Dahmer was arrested and found with several body parts in his cooler within his apartment and it appeared he had a fetish for black boys.

Anita Hill lost her law suit for sexual harassment albeit a case between two black people. But it was white people that decided the outcome. As an aside, a known homosexual, Freddy Mercury, died of aids, which elated conservative America because that was God's punishment for homosexuality, but then, Magic Johnson appeared to the public and announced he had the same disease, but he wasn't gay. So the Christian gay-theory took a blow.

Emotions ran high as the Soviet Union finally died and the years of media based communistic fear died with it. And finally, one white boy went nuts in Killeen, Texas, and shot the shit out of a Luby's restaurant, killing several and forever tarnishing the name of the restaurant. Perhaps not all of this happened exactly in the order placed above, but they happened all the same and perpetuated each other.

The sides were determined. A line was drawn. More than just a black and white war, although color was used as a tool, it became a white conservative/black liberal war. The left was soon going to collide with the right. But hey, what the hell did I really know? I was just perpetually stoned during all of this time and kind of enjoying the show. I just wanted to sit around, watch the world go by and play my guitar. And perhaps dream of a day in the future where I could sit and write about it.

### CHAPTER 18

(1992)

SUBJ LOCATION: HOUSTON, TX.; MCRD, CA.

UNRELATED EVENTS: BOSNIAN SERBS DECLARE WAR, GEORGE BUSH BECOMES VIOLENTLY ILL AT A STATE DINNER AND FAINTS AFTER VOMITTING IN SOMEONES LAP, MIKE TYSON IS ARRESTED AND CHARGED WITH RAPE, EARTHQUAKE IN TURKEY KILLS OVER 500, SEVERAL DAYS OF RIOTS IN LOS ANGELES, JAY LENO BECOMES THE NEW HOST OF THE TONIGHT SHOW, FOUR NUCLEAR MISSILES ARE LAUNCHED INTO THE PACIFIC OCEAN, BILL CLINTON IS NOMINATED FOR PRESIDENT, RUBY RIDGE, POPE JOHN PAUL II APOLOGIZES FOR THE INQUISITION OF GALILEO, U.S. FORCES LAND IN SOMALIA, POPULATION REACHES 5,443,800,000. STOP.

"Two forms of government are favorable to the prevalence of falsehood and deceit. Under a Despotism, men are false, treacherous, and deceitful through fear, like slaves dreading the lash. Under a Democracy they are so as a means of attaining popularity and office, and because of greed for wealth. Experience will probably prove that these odious and detestable vices will grow most rankly and spread most rapidly in a Republic. When office and wealth become the gods of the people, and the most unworthy and unfit most aspire to the former, and fraud becomes the highway to the latter, the land will reek [sic] with falsehood and sweat lies and chicane."

-Albert Pike, Morals and Dogma, 1809-1891

By now, instead of just smoking weed and in need of an income to purchase it (because I was always too stoned to make it to work on time), I saved up some money from mowing yards and purchased a sheet of some powerful acid. It wasn't known to be powerful just yet, but that would come.

I remember getting it. It came from some guy I still can't remember to this day and he was sometimes unreliable. I took a big gamble. I gave him my last few dollars, which would have purchased an ounce of good weed at the time. First of all, he took a long time to come back with it, so I began to think he ran off with my money. But he came. Upon my unsuspecting lap, sat the White Horse of acid. It was in some used sandwich bag and it looked as if someone wadded it up into a ball of trash and then smoothed it out. The perforations were terrible and hard to separate. I was in a state of dismay. I felt that I had been ripped off but I was too much of a coward at this time to attempt to fight anyone. Depressed, I popped two pieces of this junk in an effort to determine how much it was worth and felt nothing for an hour. So I gave the rest to my friend to sell in an adjoining city, where he liked to party, and said to just sell two for $5 in a time when poor to decent acid sold for $5/hit.

You see, acid as we knew it at the time, had a gradual effect. You first noticed that you might have been clenching your jaw for a period of time. Then you received a tingle up your spine. And from here, it went any way it wanted. When I got home, depressed, I went to the bathroom, filled up the tub with hot water and climbed in. All I was experiencing at this point was a little tension in my neck and then.....then IT happened. But the thing about IT was that I didn't see IT coming. Instead, IT shut me down while it had a party in my head. I had never ever in my life hallucinated or experienced a whirlwind like this one. My last memory was of me getting into the hot bath and relaxing. I became conscious again with wrinkled fingertips in a cold bath.

I went away....far, far away. I went so far that I don't remember where in the hell I went. Immediately, I got out, shivering, dried off and ran to my room in order to look at my eyes. I think I was still naked. In a lunge, I squared off with myself in the mirror. Holy, holy donkey dicks! Fuckin' Jehovah. Your pupils are......your pupils are fucking HUGH!!! What was that? What was that? What? What was what? I thought to myself. Did you see that? Yes, I saw it!

Yes, yes I saw it. As I focused upon the shutters behind me in the mirror, the shutters beside me grew and shrunk. And when I focused on the ones beside me, the shutters behind me grew and shrunk. Wo-owwwwwww! I think you hit the jackpot you moron and they are currently selling for half price. Get on the phone now and up the price. I think you just found one of the most powerful acids to date! Could it be?? Could this be the infamous "White Horse??" The White Blotter??

It was only myth as far as I and my friends were concerned. We had heard through the drug underground that a beast by the name of "White Blotter" existed within the acid species. But in all our years, we had never found it. It was like the albino elephant...or tiger...whatever the hell it was, it wasn't ever in our hands.....until now. The Beast had come and he came into my home with a vengeance, my sanctuary, my head. Immediately, I called my friend who was selling 2 hits for $5.

"Hey dude, it's me" (whoever the fuck that was at the time).

"Whhhat?" he replied. "Oh dude....dude....dude...we're all fucked up! This is not dog-shit acid afterall."

"I know...we know...shut up...both of you shut up!"

"Whhhhat?" my friend asked on the other side? hahahha, he IS on the other side isn't he? We all are.

"Fuck!! Fuck, get a hold of yourself!!!" I said to myself, albeit aloud. "Dude, it's the real deal. It's the Blotter!!! It's White Blotter!!!" I said with much enthusiasm. "How much have you sold already?" I asked while not wanting to hear that it was almost gone.

"I think about 30 hits or so," he replied.

Fuck...fuck...fuck!!!!

"Okay, if anyone asks, you're out!!! Bring the rest home. This shit is easily worth $10 a hit!"

"K!!!! I'm fucked up man," was all he could say.

Aren't We All? I thought/said...said-thought to myself and to anyone listening. What the fuck was happening? I was having a schism. My brain lobes were separating. I was separating. There was me and then there was ME. Everything is happening. That's what's happening!

When my friend came home the next morning with a look of "enlightenment" upon his face, we went to work. I sold a few hits to some friends in my drug group for $5 and told them to spread the news. Jesus had come and he came on shitty, white, construction-like paper in the form of tiny squares called Acid. I became a hit, no pun intended. The feedback I heard was similar to my own experience. This shit made you mad at first because you just spent money on some paper that you could have spent on beer or weed, and for what? And then...then IT happened.

Some people tripped out pretty bad, which made it all the more popular among the heavyweight drug contenders who believed nothing could bring them down. Then, IT happened. My baby, my White Blotter took both their balls within its unforgiving and devilish hands and gave them a little squeeze while saying, "Who's your daddy?" And like Jimmy Swaggert, they all looked to the heavens with tears streaming down their melting faces, begging for forgiveness, begging to come down. They met their maker, they met the devil, they met The Beast and I was the Beast Master. Because of this good/bad event, people were leery of buying acid from me again, not because it was shit, but because it had the ability to turn anyone into a giant blob of shit....if IT wanted. Only the true and experienced acid dosers like myself ate my acid from that point on. And on the bright side, I finally had an income to support my drug habit.

At the end of 1991, I left off by discussing the growing turmoil between the races and between the minions of "political preferences." It finally came to a head and burst like an angry abscess. To the joy of White Conservative America, Mike Tyson, the world's greatest heavyweight challenger and reincarnation of the old bare-knuckle-fighter, Jack Johnson, was arrested and charged with rape. He wasn't going to be a heavyweight challenger anymore. But this was soon overshadowed when the ruling came back as to whether the police involved with the King beating were guilty of excessive force or not. The jury deemed they were within their every right to beat the shit out of King. Within hours, the blacks of LA went ape-shit. Okay that was fucked up. But it was somewhat funny. C'mon, I'm just teasing. Anyway, I had never seen something so fucking remarkable than the riots in the streets of L.A., which ensued thereafter. I must say, it was beautiful.

How had it come to this? I'm not a liberal or a white-hater because I am white. But think about it. Here's how it looked in America around these times. Here's another re-cap. Black Rap groups were censored while Axle Rose could say, "nigger," without much backlash. Geraldo provides a forum for race hatred to culminate into a riot on his show just so that he could increase his ratings, (because, a few years earlier he looked pretty fucking stupid when he unearthed a wine bottle from Al Capone's mysterious vault.) Neo Nazi Skinheads were on the rise and very vocal. Oprah Winfrey and blacks in general were referred to as monkeys on national television. Mike Tyson was placed in jail (regardless of guilt or innocence, he was incarcerated) and finally, 15 LAPD officers could legally partake in the ass whipping of a black man and remain protected by the judicial system. All of this occurred in about 6 years. Black resentment towards American authority carried weight and was justified.

From personal experience, I can relate to police resentment. I too have had a few run-ins with the Po-Po in my life and have grown to despise them....wherever I go and in every city. However, what you have to understand is why this riot was so beautiful. In order to get an enormous amount of people together and on the same sheet of music to act as one unit as a driving unit is very difficult. This is similar to a massive deployment of troops and is usually carried out by high-ranking officials or generals and follows after much training and/or preparation. There was none of this and yet damn near every black person and gang in Compton laid their differences aside for just a moment in an effort to retaliate and focus this aggression upon one, and only one, enemy. It was as if their movement was some sort of contagion which infected everyone, causing the same symptoms, that of anger, disgust and rebellion. They attacked and destroyed everything in sight (unfortunately their own damn neighborhood) and placed the city of LA in the grips of utter fear and loathing for days.

But even though they were all looked upon as ignorant since they destroyed their own neighborhood, I don't think that was the thrust of their movement. Their neighborhoods were collateral damage. They grew up there and knew full-well their neighborhood wasn't worth a shit anyway, so what did it matter if they destroyed it? Their riot was brilliant and well executed insofar as the message it sent to the world, specifically the L.A. Police. Their collective mind, their collective movement said this, "If we are willing to carelessly and without remorse, shit in our own home and destroy our own neighborhood, imagine what we'll do to yours!" Furthermore, and as you can see from fly-over video taken from news crews, the message said, "The Po-Po has no control over us, so all you white people better run to the hills because this contagion is spreading and there is nothing to stop us now."

Now, I'm a white boy as you know and fuck me, man...that riot said a lot without saying anything at all. The black-white tension wasn't limited to California. It was everywhere and in almost every city across the United States. Consequently, every police department in every major city across the United States was placed on high alert and standby. Most people old enough or familiar with history remembered the 1966 riots and didn't want a repeat. That was exactly what was happening. The rabid dog was out and every cop within the state of California was shitting his pants (as they should have been).

And on a funny note, every "Wigger" became extra black for a few days in order to protect themselves or remain completely hidden altogether, while every white liberal quietly and fearfully, went inside and locked the doors behind them. Perhaps they even rigged a chair under the door knob for safe measure. What an exciting few days. So I popped some more acid, smoked some more weed and continued to think about the world as we knew it.

Now what I'm about to discuss will be brief. Not because it isn't important, but because there really isn't much to say. However, it is important enough to include. It involves that very familiar phenomenon known more to guys than to girls. It is that confusing, yet sometimes, lethal beast known as a "friendship" between a guy and a girl. Don't get me wrong, a guy and a girl can become friends, however if it's genuine, it really isn't as close friendship as it appears (also known as platonic "best friends"). Instead, if it is truly genuine and without sexual motivations, then it really is an acquaintance. The girl and guy are really "best acquaintances." Why? Because, when they lie to each other about the nature of their "friendship," one person likes the other just a dangerous degree more than the other does. Usually it is the guy who loses in these. But this is normal because he has a penis, known as a fuck-stick and it is the fuck-stick that is always shifting, thus he is driven by it. But he just didn't realize it at the time. And you didn't realize it at the time because his fuck-stick was charging ahead at light speed, leaving him blind to everything that was happening to his mental status in front of him.

The fuck-stick is an interesting beast in and of itself. While the guy thinks he has control of it, he really only has his hand on it, but trust me guys, the fuck-stick is really on auto-pilot and you're merely along for the ride. The only thing you can do in order to control it is to take the fuck-stick by the throat and run it straight into the ground. Or, and this is vital to remaining in control of your fuck-stick and peace of mind, early in your "friendship," you need to get her fucked up somehow, fuck her and get it over with because in reality, and as you will see in hindsight, fucking her is all you really wanted anyway. But you accidentally called it "friendship." Once you have boogered her, afterwards, say you're sorry and that "we" may have made a mistake. With that said, she will likely still want to be friends and you very well could create a "fuck buddy." This is having a cake and eating it too.

ASIDE: I have never understood this expression. Who gets a cake and doesn't think/plan on eating it. It seems to imply that people regularly buy cakes and stare at them because they are forbidden to eat them. I don't buy/accept cakes just to look at them. Do you? I'm certain I have overlooked something in the expression. I digress. Anyhow, where was I? Oh yes......

RETURN: What I have previously discussed should be taken as an announcement to all "Men-kind." It behooves you to set this shit straight now before it's too late. And if you have a "girlfriend" who is really just your friend then she is really fat or missing limbs and you feel sorry for her. But she is no best friend. And if she is missing limbs and you fucked her anyway, then you're more fucked up than I am.

Regardless, in the end, your real best friend is a guy or you have none at all. There is one and only one exception to this rule/law. If you are a gay male, then you really can have a girlfriend as a best friend because you both are interested in men. The one caveat to this is that she may find you to be a challenge and has befriended you in order to seduce you or to see if she can. In this instance, she is like the male in the aforementioned examples.

Now with all that said, you can imagine what this little subchapter is about. Yes, I entered my mind into a "friendship" with a girl and shot myself in the foot. We became "close." Really, I only believed we became close. I listened to every problem she had. I accepted and defended her unconditionally. She was always right in any fight or argument that she had with anyone. I was with her at every opportunity. I was her loyal dog. And guys....don't bullshit me or bullshit yourself, every last guy reading this has, is, or knows a guy like this. Consequently you have renamed yourself. Your new name is Tool. My friendship was merely an illusion that I created in my mind because I really thought we were just "friends." However, what I didn't recognize was that my fuck-stick was actually in control. I must admit, I was quite ashamed of myself. And I didn't learn the first time. But I had my revenge and that was good. It's alright man, it's over now and doesn't faze you at all anymore.....but you're still a homo for it!!! And like you said, you didn't learn the first time.

In reality and in hindsight, my fuck-stick didn't give a shit about her life's ambitions, her problems with others, hanging out and talking, going shopping and providing feedback regarding how she looked in any clothing she wore. But what my fuck-stick did do was it convinced my rational mind that everything I was doing would eventually bring it pleasure. The fuck-stick can also affect your social life and this is how.

As a "friend," she will introduce you to the guy she really likes because she is using you as a Tool to make her real interests jealous. But this only works on dumb guys. Clearly you're one of them, because you think you're friends. So your introduction to this guy, this threat to your "friendship," is as follows: She says, "Hi Michael, this is my best friend, Jason." With a clenched smile and extended hand, you say, "Hi, Mike, nice to meet you." And your grip is just a little too tight. And he says with a knowing grin and equally tight grip, "Nice to meet you too, Jay."

But if minds could speak from the depths of their unconditional honesty, the conversation would really be:

"Hi Michael, this is my Tool, Jason. I brought him here to make you jealous, because as you can see, my Tool does everything I say and if you fuck me over, I could use him as a potential free dick that I'll never use but it will make you wonder, which will infuriate you and make you jealous."

And you say as you extend your hand to Michael, "Hi Michael, you motherfucker, I am so fucking jealous of you. I know what you're up to. You just want to get down her pants...AND SO DO I, but I am unable to because I don't have what you have, but I'll begin trying to emulate you, albeit unsuccessfully, and in the meantime I will say negative things about you to her when you're gone in an effort to throw you off the thing I can't have."

And finally, Michael says as he extends his hand to shake yours, "It's nice to meet you too, you pathetic piece of shit, sad Tool. I already have her and there's not a goddamn thing you can do to bring me down. But I won't kick your ass for trying to slander me because that will make her genuinely angry at me and prolong the seduction process and I want down her pants as fast as possible. Instead, I'll always say nice things about you while you will always say bad things about me. Consequently, you'll make her angry at you and I'll become the safety net to catch her when she's upset, as well as her new 'best friend,' until I get her drunk and fuck the dog shit out of her and leave you the scraps. And then, when you hold her and listen to her sobs and apologies for not believing you, perhaps you'll finally get lucky and get a piece or her soiled ass. If this happens, remember this smile right now, Jay, because it is the same face that says, 'how does my dick taste, motherfucker?'"

The mind's eye speaks multitudes. With that said and as you can see, the fuck-stick can be self-destructive if used improperly. It becomes parasitic to your mental and social status. And when used to find friendship and/or love it will implode on you or slowly eat you alive and leave only an empty shell behind, as a worthless and broken Tool. The fuck-stick is designed to do one thing and only one thing: indulge in immediate gratification. Well...this ended up being longer than I thought.

Experiencing the negative effects of being the Tool is not always detrimental. On rare occasions, good can come from your self-destruction. Anger instead of self-loathing and depression is the answer. Anger will fill you full of confidence and push you in the right direction. But you didn't do this at first, now did you? No you didn't, you dumb fuck. You fucking prayed for help, didn't you? Fucking Idiot, you should cut your fucking tongue out! You couldn't help it. You were in love. What could you do? It's okay to be sad. It's okay to cry. It's okay to pray. It's okay to feel bad about yourself. This is nurturing. You really are a fag!

Fuck both of you. But they're right. I did pray at first and then I realized... "This is fucking stupid. And you know what's more, I don't think it's ever done a goddamn bit of good in my life."

I think with that said, you know what to do. But first, make an outward display of your resentment. Take your mother's bibles, stand them up on their ends and stomp them as if they were the heads of Christians, Jews, or Muslims! Crush their fucking spines!!!! Fucking "A," man. LOL, that's fucking fucked up....can you imagine your mom's face when she finds them? I guess that's a bit more than what I was thinking....but it is a good display of your hate.

That was a great fucking idea. Because of this failure I experienced as a Tool, I underwent a form of self-reflection, harnessed my anger and used it to crush that sad, loathing, defeated pussy within me. I'm sorry, I was only trying to.....

Shut Up!!!

And just like that, I plucked that fucking pussy from my mind, pounded the shit out of a refrigerator door and screamed and yelled every obscenity I knew. My knuckles bled and my pinky broke, but I felt nothing except the orgasmic beauty of hate and I kept punching and punching and punching. I was not punching her face. I was punching my face. I punched it over and over again until my face was unrecognizable. Ahhhhhhhh.....this is good! More!! More!!! MORE!!!! HARDER!!! HARDER!!! I'm so fucking PROUD OF YOU!!!! This is it....we are growing...ahhhhhh...IT is becoming....we are invincible! Okay dude, this does hurt a little bit...dude, your fucking knuckles are bleeding and your pinky doesn't look right...

I remained angry for a long time and I took that anger everywhere. I decided to join the Marine Corps. I cut off my mop of hair and began running and lifting weights. I grew stronger and more confident, thanks to my hate, low self-esteem and self-loathing. Depressed? No longer. I pounded my depression into minced meat. No one would ever question or lecture me. I accepted nothing constructive or destructive. My cowardice was dying. From the advent of my loss of friends, acne and alienation....4 years of inner turmoil was crushed almost overnight. This was my new god now.

And while at my grandpa's farm with my dad, 3 hours from my home, my dad discovered a .38 Special in my bag, hidden because I was stealing it from Grandpa. He didn't need it, he had a goddamn armory. What my dad did wrong was that he searched my bag and he confronted me while I was cleaning a shotgun. When he questioned my motives, I slammed that shotgun under his chin and pulled the trigger. What he didn't know was that it was empty...or, at least, I thought it was. But when you're high, you tend to forget things.

I think he shit his pants. I then stole his keys and drove all the way home leaving him there to fend for himself a way home. When I arrived home, I had a keg party. All was invited. Via anger-based confidence and self-esteem, I developed more respect and consequently, more friends. I was getting big and strong. My hair was short and respectable. More importantly, I was joining the Marines. From that day on, I became known as "Shotgun Steve" I was a perfect candidate for the Marines... a remorseless killer.....Invincible. Consequently, the class whore began to like me and I fucked her over and over. I finally found myself.

Now, what I am about to tell you is a story of humor. You see, my oldest childhood friend, Jason, and I, decided to join the Marine Corps as I discussed earlier. He beat me to a recruiter and then called me up to tell me that he had mentioned my name and that we could join under the "Buddy Program." This meant that he and I would be guaranteed to be in the same platoon during boot camp. This was great being that both he and I were a bit scared. He originally went in with a Military Occupational Skill (MOS) of Infantry as was my plan as well. But then at the last minute he switched to the Air Wing, just as his dad was during Vietnam. That was cool, but I stuck with Infantry.

He and I would still go through boot camp together....so we thought. But first things first, let me finish the story of the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) program. He and I were only in the MEPS program for a brief period since we spontaneously decided to join in the last six weeks of high school. Our recruiter never had a name that we remembered so I'll call him Johnson, however he became known as "Bud" since he addressed everyone with a Texas Drawl, "Heeeyy Buuud."

One afternoon Jason called me and said, "Hey, I just got off the phone with Bud and he asked a lot of questions like criminal offenses and drug use and stuff."

"Well, what did you tell him?" I asked since both he and I were picked up by the police when we were 11 or 12, followed by another incident a year or so later, then again earlier this year when we were busted as a car full of stoned bastards with a random sack of weed between all of us.

"Just tell him the truth," he said to me. "It's cool."

"Okay, thanks," I said.

"He said that you need to call him so he can get your paperwork started."

"Okay, I'll call him right now."

As I hung up the phone, I thought about this. My oldest friend claims we can be honest about our past criminal behaviors and drug use and we could still get into the Marines. I was originally hesitant about honesty and that I wouldn't get in because of my past, but my "trusted" friend said he did, so I guess I could too. Honesty it is. With much trepidation I picked up the phone to make the call and confess my sins to Bud, the recruiter.

"Hello, this is Staff Sergeant Johnson, Marine Corps Recruiting Depot, how may I help you Sir or Ma'am?"

"Hi Staff Sergeant, this is...soon to prove my name is knuckle-head... Steve." My friend,...soon to be remembered as dickhead... Jason, said to call you so that I could answer some questions in order to get my paperwork started. He and I were planning on going in on the Buddy Program."

"Oh yeah, heeyy Buuud, how's it going?" He said with enthusiasm and I thought to myself, wow marines sure are nice, I'll bet they're as nice as Bud in boot camp too. This, of course proved to be wrong.

"I'm okay, thanks."

"Good. Good. Well let's get started. I'm going to ask you a lot of questions and just answer as honest as you can and to the best of your memory, okay?"

"Sure, no problem." I replied. I also thought to myself that this was going to be easy, after all, I can be honest if that's what he wants. Honesty to me meant one thing: When asked a question, answer in the affirmative or the negative. Do not think too much into it. Do not try to analyze the questions. Do not assume the questions posed are to mean anything else than what is clearly and directly asked. Do not offer an answer that you think the other "wants" to hear. And finally, honesty means not to lead the other party into believing anything other than the truth. And the truth is whatever it is regardless of the consequences. The difference between a truth and a lie is the difference between black and white according to me. Thus, they are clearly opposites and there is no in-between.

"Okay," he says, "my first question: have you ever been arrested or taken to jail?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Three times," I said, "once when I was 11 or 12 and again around that same age, then again a few months ago."

"Were you ever charged with anything?"

"No."

"Okay, next question: have you ever smoked marijuana, taken LSD or mushrooms, snorted cocaine, etc., etc...anything like that?"

"Yes."

"Uhh, okay which ones?" he asked but still sounded as if this were normal.

"All of them," I replied honestly and with a fat, proud and stupid smile on my face. "Smile motherfucker, you're being honest!"

"Uhhh, okay...sooo....how many times have you smoked marijuana?"

"Shew....uhh, gosh. I don't know. Well, I'd say probably a couple times per month between the ages 12 through 14. Then I guess pretty much every weekend from 1990 to 1991 and then every day from 1991 until a few months ago when I decided to join the marines." I said proudly, and once again, with complete honesty and always remembering the last words of my oldest friend—it's okay, just be honest...

"Uhhh....okay...we'll come back to that....soo...how many times have you taken LSD?" he inquired further, although this time with some strange but recognizable apprehension in his tone. Weird.

Full of pride and honesty, I said, "Hmmm...I'd say somewhere between three...ummm, yes, somewhere between three to four-hundred times."

"Okaaay, Buuud...hold on there. Let's just hold up a second."

At this point I began to feel the creeping sense that something was not going as planned. My friend's face began to appear in my head, but a little more devilish in appearance and with a big fucking smile on his face. It's okay, just be honest...

"Listen up," he said with a more serious tone, "the federal government considers you to be legally insane after using LSD three times and the amount of times you have smoked marijuana is also unacceptable. So I'll tellya wut. You think real hard about those numbers and you give me a call back tomorra and we'll go over these questions agin. You git what I'm saying to you, dog?"

"YES, STAFF SERGEANT...SIR...MARINE...Soldier-guy!" I tapered off with fear and confusion. What happened? I was honest. Was this a trick? With dismay I hung up the phone and promised to call back tomorrow.

That motherfucker. That fucking motherfucker. That cock-sucking motherfucker is probably at home laughing his ass off thinking about you talking to "Ole Buuud" and confessing your soul. I thought to myself as I thought of my "Oldest friend." Dude, that's so fucked up....but it was a good fucking prank. You know, you would have done the same to him. After I hung up with Bud I called Jason right back.

"Hello," he answered.

"You fucking cock-sucker!! Why did you tell me to be honest? Now I don't even know if I can get in."

"Why, what did you tell him?" he asked with confused concern.

"What did I tell him??? What do you mean, 'what did I tell him?' I was fucking honest like you said to be," I replied, "how many times did you tell him that you smoked weed?"

Now before I continue, I want to add that my oldest, dear friend and I have both indulged in about the same amount of all drugs during our lives. The difference between he and I was that I knew the definition of honest and he, well he....interpreted honesty......differently.

"I told him I smoked pot about eight times." He said as if this were the truth in whatever fucking reality he lived in.

"What the fuck? Eight times? Are you fucking joking me?" I replied with betrayed incomprehension. But this was truly honest to him, because he did, in fact, smoke pot eight times; however, he failed to mention the other 3000 fucking times he smoked it after the original eight.

"Well, how many times did you tell him that you took acid?" I asked as I continued my interrogation.

"Never."

This too was true and honest for him because he was asked if he had ever taken LSD, not acid. Acid is a different word than LSD and Jason always referred to LSD as acid not as LSD. So you see, he was being honest.

"NEVER??!!! I yelled with disbelief. "How many times did you tell him you snorted coke???!!" I began to desperately cling to the hope that he, too, made himself out to be the same druggy dipshit that I was but with other drugs. After all, we did a lot of them together.

"Never," was all he said.

"SHROOMS????" I asked with the last bit of hope that he was even remotely honest.

"Ohh...Never!" Why? What did you tell him?" was his reply and we both sat there in silence. My silence was disbelief whereas his silence was that of incomprehension as to why I didn't understand what was the matter and why I didn't know what honesty "meant"....not to be confused with what honesty "is."

What I would come to learn later, as a marine, that there was a name for friends like mine: Buddy-Fuckers! Hell, he was buddy-fucking me and we hadn't even completed boot camp yet. He was a god damn natural marine.

So to answer his question again regarding what I told him, I replied, "What the fuck? Again, what the fuck do you mean, 'what did I tell him?' I was honest. I told him the truth."

"Well, what exactly did you tell him?" He persisted with a tone of an innocent 8 year old who's been told they messed up but didn't know how they messed up.

"I FUCKING TOLD HIM I SMOKED POT SINCE I WAS BORN AND THAT I TOOK ACID, LIKE 5000 TIMES!!! THAT'S WHAT I TOLD HIM. THE TRUTH. LIKE YOU SAID TO DO. YOU KNOW, LIKE THE SAME AMOUNT OF TIMES YOU DID!!! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

"Shit man, you didn't need to be that honest," was all he said.

<\--phone silence...>

<\--me sitting, staring at the phone as if I could see through it and see his fucking face saying this to me in person..>

<\--more phone silence...>

<\--fucking crickets chirping...>

It was at this point that I began to reconsider my definition of truth. Clearly there was an entity out there, right or wrong as it may be, an entity of honesty that I was unfamiliar with. Honesty appeared to mean different things to different people. Clearly, honesty was not universal. I should have paid more attention in school.

"Well, what did he say after you told him," he sheepishly inquired behind his big fucking grin that I could see through the phone.

"He told me to rethink my numbers and call him back tomorrow."

"Well that's cool. Well, how many times did you tell him that you snorted coke or took shrooms?" he asked as if he needed some fucking whipped cream on my banana split of a mess.

"We didn't even get that far, you asshole. I struck out after acid."

"Okay, when he calls tomorrow," he begins to say as he plots, yet again, "just tell him you smoked pot about 25 times and that you only took acid twice....since you already fessed up to those two."

Admittedly, he was right or at least on the right track insofar as lying my way out of it. The next day, I called the recruiter back. And he asked, "Okay, let's try this again. How many times have you smoked marijuana?"

"Twenty-five times!" I said with corrupted confidence and honesty.

"Good."

"And how many times have you taken LSD?"

"Twice!" Again with confident and corrupted honesty.

"How about cocaine, mushrooms, or any other illicit drugs?" Woo-hoo, we made it!!!" I thought to myself as if this was some sort of accomplishment. Hey look at me, I made it to cocaine and other drugs. Great fucking work, you moron!

"Never!! I've never done any other drugs but those two."

"Okay, good job. That about wraps it up. You'll be going in under a CG waiver, meaning a waiver by a commanding general. It's pretty standard."

What a breath of fresh air. I was in. If they're that strict about drugs, then most of the people in the Marines must be pretty straight laced. This is what I thought. I would later learn that other guys were given the choice by a judge between doing 6 years in prison or four honorable years in the Marine Corps. I was merely a child-misfit compared to a good handful of marines. But this is a story for later, if at all. For now, Jason and I were on our way to California and I had a giant yellow Sony Sportsman Cassette Player with Led Zeppelin IV blasting, Going to California, in my ears via a new type of earphones, little plastic speakers that fit in your ear instead of over them and connected by a thin bent metal frame that fit comfortably over your head. Pretty cool idea.

A month later, my sister finally confessed to my mother that Dad had been molesting her since she was eight or nine. It became a family dark secret. It unofficially became known as "The Unspoken." My mom and dad separated soon thereafter. I stayed with my dad since I was recruited out of Houston. I really didn't know who I cared less about by this time in my life, my mom or my dad. I was really quite indifferent to both. Perfect, how fucked up can your family get compared to your friends' and classmates. The dark secret is out. Just when you thought it was buried forever. At least, keep yours buried. Now the questions would come... 'why did your parents split up?' Lie of course....it's become your greatest defense your entire life!

So as I briefly indicated earlier, our recruiter and the marines in charge of the MEPS program were so polite and friendly that we really thought, "Wow, this isn't going to be so bad. After all, Bud was always smiling. That's what Marines do, they smile." The MEPS marines were always politely encouraging us as we fell out from exhaustion in short runs or failed to pull ourselves up over a pull-up bar. As we failed they would say gently, "C'mon...you can do it...." Oh golly, shucks. Furthermore, as we swore in at the downtown office, they shook our hands and welcomed us in. How hard could it be....really?

We landed in San Diego. Like children lost in a store we looked all around for some marine in a "Smokey" who was to collect us all up and escort us onto a bus, which would take us to Boot Camp. Perhaps it would look like a happy yellow bus that takes you to school. The marine found us and gathered us all up by a door next to a...bus...but this one was green. Not yellow. And it had white stenciled letters, MCRD. Weird. Looks like a prisoner bus.

"Go ahead and get on the bus. Sit two to a seat. Start from the back and work your way to the front. Don't skip seats. Pack it in." he said to all of us. But something was strange...his tone was a bit more direct, pointed and with.....more authority. Yes, he was more authoritative. Something was strange. Something wasn't right. Once we were all aboard and the doors closed, he stood at the front and his eyes glared as they enveloped every last set of eyeballs in the vehicle like a wave from the back to the front.

"Okay, listen up! From this point forward you are on my bus. You will not speak. You will keep your head and eyes pointed to the front. And you will remain that way until I tell you different. Do you understand?!!!"

With a sheepish, shocked and confused look in everyone's

eyes came the cacophony, "Yes...sergeant...instructor...drill... staff sergeant...sir" our voices dribbled like piss over an enlarged prostate.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!" he bellowed in response.

"YES SIR...SERGEANT... DRILL SERGEANT... INSTRUCTOR..SIR," the bus responded again in a multitude of titles proving that no one really knew what to call this beast, all the while desperately wanting him to remain calm and perhaps not bite us. Avoid eye contact at all costs. He's a madman. I thought to myself. Holy shit!!! I need a fucking joint!!

"I AM A SERGEANT IN THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS!! I AM NOT A DRILL SERGEANT. DRILL SERGEANTS BELONG TO THE DIRTBAGS IN THE ARMY. WE ARE DRILL INSTRUCTORS. YOU WILL REFER TO ME AS SIR. YOU WILL BEGIN YOUR RESPONSE WITH 'SIR' AND END YOUR RESPONSE WITH ' YES OR NO SIR'. DO YOU UNDERSTAND??!!!!"

"SIR, YES SIR!!! " the bus exploded. And if there was a device that could measure the cumulative sphincter tension at that moment, it would have been redlining. No one said a word. Something was wrong. Where was my smilin' Bud? Where were my encouraging marines from MEPS, where were the marines who shook my hands and said, "congratulations" for signing my life away? Where's Jason, Where's my Buddy? Hold me..."

The bus pushed on and the silence hung in the air waiting, just waiting to snap the neck of the first person to challenge its reign of terror. No one did. We stopped at the gates of San Diego, Marine Corps Recruiting Depot (MCRD). Another marine entered, walked up and down the aisle and looked us all over and then left. That was weird, I thought, why did he get on? Was he looking for someone or something? And then we passed through the gates and landed upon Marine Territory. And well...this is where life as we knew it, just...stopped like a car running head-on into an oak tree.

As we crossed the threshold between civilization and Dante's realm of hell the drill instructor stood up and stated firmly and evenly, "When this bus comes to a stop, you will fall out in an orderly fashion and fall in upon a pair of yellow footprints. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!!"

"SIR, YES SIR!!!" we replied. The wheels slowly ground to a halt as our anxiety grew exponentially by the microsecond.

The doors opened. "FALLOUT!!! GET OFF MY BUS!!! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE YOU SLIMY RECRUIT! YOU'D BETTER GET OFF MY BUS!! FASTER, FASTER, FASTER! GET OFF MY BUS!! OH, OH TAKE YOUR TIME, WE GOT ALL TIME IN THE WORLD FOR YOU, PRINCESS!!! GET OFF MY BUS BEFORE I THROW YOU OFF MY BUS!!!"

My god man, we couldn't move any faster. Can't he see this? This guy wasn't like Ole' Buud. Where's Ole Buud? Is he out there by my footprints? Help me Ole Buud, you're my only hope! I can't do this without you! My bladder filled with urine and my sphincter strained against the gas-cloud of fear.

We ran off that bus, jumped upon a pair of prints and stood quiet and still. While staring straight ahead, my eyes stretched to scan the periphery. Where's my buddy, god damn it??? He was in the row in front of me. I guess it would be too much to ask if I could stand next to my buddy?? Ask him, he'll probably let you. He seems pretty straight forward...and honest.

"Fuck off!" I thought to myself. How could I even be imagining anything humorous at this time. But the shock of this event precipitated into more. From this moment on we would learn on the go. If whatever was commanded of you, you did right, you received less insults and tongue lashes. If you fucked up whatever was commanded of you, you received a drill instructor in your face, his smokey thumping your forehead with every enunciation of every insult regarding your mother and father and their intimate relations and you as the result. Of course, this by itself, was not enough. The spittle that built up near the corners of their mouths as they bellowed in your face was merely an inkling of the spit upon your own face. Only the fool had the audacity to reach up and wipe it away.

We were led in like cattle on death row along the sides of the walls, leaving the center of the hallway open. I had lost my buddy, but I had no intention of bringing the spotlight upon myself. Really, what was I to do, raise my hand and wait to be called upon? Shit no. I stood still, asshole to bellybutton like we were instructed. I have never had my genitals that close to another man in my life and it felt.....well, rather intrusive. I can't remember what I thought was worse, feeling my genitals on the guy in front of me or feeling the genitals of the guy behind me on my ass. What the fuck was happening? Where the fuck was Ole Bud? Could it be...certainly no...no...had he...lied to us? No not lied, he just failed to mention this part. I didn't see this in the brochures provided to us by Bud and the other marines at MEPS. Where's the guy charging up a beach, soaking wet, face colored in camouflage as if he stormed up a beachhead like in the movies with some strange red device at the tip of his rifle? (that I was led to believe was some kind of hi-speed low-drag component.) I wondered.

I would learn later that this red device was a blank firing apparatus (BFA). Worse yet, since the marine corps was god damn broke, during training when you didn't have blanks, you were to scream at the top of your lungs, "BANG! BANG! BANG!" and "BATA BATA, BANG!" if you carried a fully automatic weapon, like a SAW (squad automatic weapon). However, you weren't the shit until you could make your invisible rounds sound like a real SAW, which sounded like, "BATA BATA, JAM!". And when you became shit hot, it sounded like, "PEANUT BUTTER JAM!, PEANUT BUTTER JAM!!". And finally, when you knew the fictional war was coming to an end and in your last hoorah, you fired your remaining rounds at the enemy with the lunatic frenzy of, "LIBO LIBO LIBO LIBO LIBO, PEANUT BUTTER JAM PEANUT BUTTER JAM, FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU......changing mags!!! LIBO LIBO LIBO LIBO WHERE ARE THE 5 TONS TO TAKE US HOME SO I CAN TAKE A CONSTIPATED MRE SHIT IN A FUCKING TOILET, BANG!!!" I digress and these tales come much later. I haven't received my first Marine Corps Haircut yet.

So there we are in this hallway, standing asshole to belly-button and inching forward. Where are we going? As I am fearfully staring at the head in front of me, counting the number of dandruff flakes in this yahoo's head, in my periphery a line was moving in the opposite directions. These were the guys who went into that room at the end and now they were headed somewhere new. But they were different. Their heads shined in brilliance, revealing ghastly wrinkles like that on a Shar Pei, ingrown hairs standing at the tips of red, throbbing and pustulant pimples. The black dudes didn't look much different going in or coming out, except they had no more fro and their new bald heads revealed the patches of keloid scars.

Although it sounds mundane, there is something very ritualistic and defining regarding your first marine corps haircut. It is the absolute beginning of everything you will face in the dehumanizing process of forming the marine from the shit-putty caste you came from as a civilian. When you sit yourself in that chair among the guts and debris of the heads that went before you, the inverted shears race across your head, from front to back, center first, down the left side, your hair: fallen soldiers upon your ears and shoulders, down the right side: your hair, years of grooming, hair gels, combing, all gone as the last hair screams in agony and falls dead. The first act of stripping away the person you have known all your life is complete and christened with a good slap on your head by the barber, which meant, "Get the fuck out of my chair and fall in with that line of new recruits."

And so I did. I felt naked. I felt violated. God damn it, where the fuck was Bud? This wasn't in that brochure either. In the brochures, things were blowing up, people throwing hand grenades, wearing shiny uniforms, swinging rifles, saluting. I can salute, here look....look at me salute. Please stop violating me.

But the naked part came next, but not before I managed to locate my buddy. While moving asshole-to-bellybutton down the hall in the reverse direction, I did not actually see him, instead I heard him. Again staring at the head in front of me, I heard the most strained and poorly repressed snicker. I know that laugh, only one other asshole besides myself would find the humor in the defilement of another man, it was him. It was my buddy, it was Jason. I surmised, and through my periphery, saw him trying his best not to spit and cry while stifling a laugh at my new haircut. Keep laughing motherfucker. You're next!!! Then I began to grin a little, but not enough for one of those barbaric drill instructors to notice.

We filed into another room. Within this room were stations. Each station had a marine throwing gear at us. The first one gave us two large green bags known as sea-bags. Then we proceeded; cammies, covers, boots, web-belts, helmets, shit, shit, shit and more shit. We then filed into ranks where we were instructed to dump our bags. Didn't we just fill them, genius? This was followed with instructions to hold each individual article up in the air when instructed to do so. We were to hold them up in our..... "dick-skinners?" What the fuck is a dick-skinner? No, you don't jack off, do you....never, that's gross. Only losers do that! IT'S YOUR HAND, DIPSHIT! YOU KNOW IT. RAISE IT HIGH, BITCH! Here I am drill sergeant, sorry, instructor...here's my canteen cup in my dick-skinner...that I used just yesterday to jack off with.

After complete accountability of gear, we were marched further into the belly of this metropolis of insults. We stood in an exaggerated formation, covered and aligned. My hair, my first weapon for hiding my pimples and low self-esteem, was stripped in a matter of seconds, forever exposing my blemishes and proof that I did more jacking off than I did getting laid. We were instructed to strip. Certainly he doesn't mean completely. He means just to our underwear, right? No? This is a complete violation of my rights, god damn it!! GOD DAMN IT, WHERE IS BUD?? <radio squawk> "BUD, BUD. COME IN BUD, OVER?" GOD DAMN IT, WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS THING? WHERE THE FUCK IS OLE BUD? WHERE'S MY FUCKING BUDDY GOD DAMN IT. IF I HAVE TO STAND HERE NAKED, HE HAD BETTER BE STANDING HERE NAKED LIKE ME. I'LL BE GOD DAMNED IF HE SQUIRMS OUT OF THIS FUCKING HUMILATION WHILE I TAKE IT UP THE ASS!" My thoughts raced. "MY GOD MAN, THEY WILL SEE....SEE MY WEENIE AND ALL IT'S NON-GLORY!!!! A ROOM FULL OF GUYS WILL POINT AND LAUGH AND TELL ALL THE GIRLS THAT I HAVE A LITTLE DICK!...............Mama??? Help.....it was me....I crushed the spines of all your bibles when you weren't home. I was mad. I'm sorry. Take me back home. Hold me. I'm having nightmares???

And just like this, layers and layers of years of undisciplined, shallow, insignificant, civilian culture was stripped away. From the rowdy rednecks to the gansta niggas, every last swinging dick was stripped of everything they ever knew. Stripped of every ounce of pride, stripped of every right, stripped of everything you once believed and reduced to a naked, bald piece of flesh with a pile of gear at your feet. This gear would cover you from this point on. This gear will form you. You would be rebuilt with this gear. This gear had purpose. You did not. You were merely the vessel that enabled the purpose of this gear. Those boots, that web belt, that canteen, that giant goddamn safety pin that you had no fucking idea what it was for, would form the new you. And the new you would carry out the purpose of this gear. You were now, the new cog in a machine that would chew you up and spit you out, as if you were nothing of any value, if you ever said, "can't." You would learn to wish for a thrashing of push-ups instead of sit-ups because push-ups had an intermediate position known as the forward lean and fucking rest. In conclusion, you would be broken down and reassembled. The remaining details of boot camp, I'll leave to another author as to not spoil the mythos of Marine Corps Boot Camp. None other's compare.

I conclude with one last memory. Our time in boot camp was during an election period. George Bush, wager of war, what every marine wants, was running against a man named Bill Clinton. Bill wanted gays in the military under the façade of, "Don't ask, don't tell." Our drill instructors made it clear, "If I find out that any one of you voted for that faggot lover, I will thrash you until you fall unconscious. No one will know the better. Your body will make it over to the infirmary, and you will merely be a casualty of the training" (The Marine Corps reported an average of 17 casualties a year in boot camp alone.) George Bush, it is. Hoorah! And after 13 weeks, we graduated.

Homecoming: Friday, December 11, I graduated from boot camp. I was a well-oiled and disciplined machine. I loved to stare at my muscles in the mirror. You are a FUCKIN MACHINE! KILL! Kill Something....you fucking meathead!

I was so motivated that it was almost, completely retarded. Almost?? Bullshit!! You were a motivated retard! I left for the marines as a recently converted burn-out and came home more of a jock than any of the so-called jocks from high school. I was like a chameleon. From Burn to Jock in 13 weeks. Jason and I flew home together on the same flight in our dress blues. We were greeted by our friends and Jason's family. Instead of having my dad there to pick me up, I chose to have my friend (my weed supplier) pick me up. He was so proud. I had completed thirteen weeks of boot camp. No cigarettes, no beer and certainly no weed. It was time to begin where I left off. I figured, I could smoke out the first night back and then drink beer the remaining two weeks at home.

As we pulled out of the airport parking garage, the extra-large joints, were pre-rolled. We always called them logs since they were so big. Of course after twelve weeks of not riding in a car, I managed to forget about wearing seatbelts but never forgot that shotgun was the honored spot in the car, a seat I rarely ranked for in this car. But tonight I was the honored one. There were four of us. One was a girl whose name I can't recall. But she was hot.

The car filled with smoke. The greenhouse was beautiful. Long time, no smell. Nice to see you again! Ahhhh... Hoorah!!! And right at that moment of bliss, a drunk driver pulled right out in front of us while we were cruising, albeit stoned, with Metallica blaring. So... "A drunk driver and a baked driver were out driving.... Shut up, idiot. This is serious! T-boned was what this kind of accident was known as. At first, I was pissed, I got out and marched toward the car. I saw it was some old man. I thought he was just old and shouldn't have been driving...too many meds and stuff. Instead of anger, I merely asked, "Are you okay?" He looked up at me, door smashed in and a bit shook up since our vehicle threw his up onto the median. "Yes sir," was all he said. Ahhhh....'yes sir'. You haven't received this much respect in.....well, in your lifetime. I could get used to this uniform.

I think he thought I was a cop since I was in my Dress Blues that had a lot of shiny buttons. As I turned to return to our vehicle, I remember someone who was stopped behind us starting blaring their horn for us to move. Can this dipshit not see that both our cars were totaled? Kill!! Kill!! I walked to the front of his vehicle, pointed at him and yelled with a level of confidence I had never had my entire life, "You! Shut the fuck up!!!" And he did. I was willing to throw down in the middle of the road. The marines built this confident machine.

As I turned back to our vehicle, the girl, whose name I can't recall, squealed and covered her mouth as she pointed at me, "Oh my god, your head!!" Apparently, I had a boo-boo. Quite a bloody one, but I felt nothing. When the paramedics arrived, they took a look and asked if I wanted to go to the emergency room. Fuck no, I don't want an emergency room. I want to get high, get drunk and get laid, in that order!!! God damn it!

"No thanks." Was all I said. Meanwhile, the old man was loaded into an ambulance. And we walked over to the bar he just pulled out from and I had a beer...on the house because I was wearing my Blues. "Damn...you're gonna have to wear these more often." Unfortunately, I was such a moto-dork and I did wear them....all night...to the party. And I smoked weed, drank beer, watched my friend beat the shit out of another one of my friends, left the party and went to a friend's house where I fucked the high school whore...again. It was a quickie. Disappointed, she asked, "Is that it?"

"Yep!!!! Good night. Your check's in the mail." And she ran out of the room crying. Did she really think I cared about her? Weird. And so was the story of my boot camp leave. I would continue to pick little shards of glass from my hairline for several months thereafter. Perhaps I should have gone to the emergency room.

Towards the end of this year, the U.S. landed in Somalia as a result of a famine and subsequent genocide taking place there between factions. In fact the "top secret" and "clandestine" landing occurred in the night. However the entire thing was illuminated by an army of video cameras that wanted to catch the action on television to boost their ratings. This event became one of the best parodies the United States had in a long time. A couple years later, I would be deploying with one of these marines to the same location.

To add to the humor at the end of this year, the Pope took it upon his self to apologize for imprisoning Galileo 400 hundred years ago for the heresy of claiming the sun was the center of our solar system all the while continuing the condemnation of birth control and abortion even though simple reason and science advocated that condoms and birth control pills prevented unwanted pregnancies, sexually transmitted diseases such as HIV and subsequent death, which also, currently plagued the world, especially in Africa where several of their missions existed. I guess the Catholics will never learn since they're always 400 years behind the curve.

### CHAPTER 19

(1993)

SUBJ LOCATION: CAMP PENDLETON, CA; TIJUANA, MEXICO.

UNRELATED EVENTS: MLK DAY OFFICIALLY OBSERVED IN ALL 50 STATES, IBM LOSES OVER $4.9 BILLION, 11 YEAR OLD BOYS CHARGED WITH MURDER, WORLD TRADE CENTER BOMBING KILLING 6, STANDOFF BETWEEN BRANCH DAVIDIANS AND THE ATF, WORLD WIDE WEB IS BORN AT CERN, LORENA BOBBITT CUTS OFF HUSBANDS PENIS, UNABOMBER STRIKES COMPUTER SCIENTIST AT YALE, BILL CLINTON ANNOUNCES DON'T ASK DON'T TELL, EARTHQUAKE IN INDIA KILLS 10,000, BATTLE ERUPTS IN SOMALIA BETWEEN US FORCES AND LOCAL MILITIA, BILL CLINTON SIGNS THE BRADY BILL, COLIN FERGUSON OPEN FIRES ON A TRAIN IN LONG ISLAND KILLING 6, POPULATION REACHES 5,525,200,000. STOP.

"And shall we just carelessly allow children to hear any casual tales which may be devised by casual persons, and to receive into their minds ideas for the most part the very opposite of those which we should wish them to have when they are grown up?......Then the first thing will be to establish a censorship of the writers of fiction, and let the censors receive any tale of fiction which is good, and reject the bad; and we will desire mothers and nurses to tell their children the authorized ones only.......For a young person cannot judge what is allegorical and what is literal; anything that he receives into his mind at that age is likely to become indelible and unalterable."

-Socrates, 470-399 B.C.

Consider the above quote by Socrates to have been the first warning to our societies regarding religions and other version of spirituality and myth. As adults, we teach children allegories, such as Santa Claus, tooth fairies and gods. And as they imbibe these moronic beliefs, they reach adulthood and find themselves unable to distinguish fact from fiction, reality from myth. And consequently, today, we have individuals and countries killing in the names of their fictions and myths. A prime example of this was the standoff between David Koresh and the Branch Davidians. He claimed to be the Final Prophet, a doomsday hero. I digress. But we'll come back to my hatred for religion in later chapters.

Jason and I just finished our boot camp leave and arrived back at Camp Pendleton a few days before Christmas for Marine Combat Training (MCT). It was short training. It was only 6 weeks but it was a good tenderizer for those of us moving on to the School of Infantry just down the road. As I told you before, Jason was going into the Air Wing for his MOS while I was going into the Infantry. In a way, it was depressing. Just a year earlier we were enjoying Christmas break with drugs, alcohol and friends followed up with more drugs, alcohol and friends on New Year's Eve. Now, we spent this time in California during their rainy season sitting in an old, deteriorating and leaking Quonset hut. Regardless, there wasn't much to speak of this year except for one very memorable moment that permanently burned its way into my long-term memory. It was a moment when Jason did something completely out of character... .something serious... .something more customary to a responsible and disciplined person....a person who never did drugs or lied about doing them....a person who was intimately familiar with duty, honor and loyalty....someone who wore a tie....someone who had the ability to command was innate.....something oh-so very not Jason. But hold on for a moment.

We had spent the last week out in the field. The rain was relentless and the mud clumped to the tread of our boots like cow turds. Although it wasn't really cold in southern California, when you're wet, anything below 50 is cold. The GP tents leaked to no end. Some nights we had to sleep in wet sleeping bags. Mud puddles everywhere and showers non-existent. For us who had never experienced anything like this in our lives, it was a rude awakening. Times like this made boot camp seem more appealing, happy, ball tingling good. And while Jason and I were not in the same platoon, so much for that buddy program...again, we still ran into each other periodically.

Okay, about Jason. One afternoon, I was sitting up in some bleachers waiting for the other half of my platoon to finish their obstacle course; Jason's platoon was standing in formation out in front of us. Although I was sitting up on the top row of bleachers, I couldn't determine where Jason was, but I knew he was out there somewhere. Since we were all privates or private first classes, the platoon commander was a corporal. These corporals were from the fleet infantry battalions from throughout Pendleton. And this corporal was pissed off about something. He had all his marines standing in formation and at the position of attention. Silently, they stood while receiving their tongue-lashing as the platoon guide (some PFC) did push-ups in front of them all. Back and forth, the corporal walked before them, preaching motivation, honor, loyalty, discipline, esprit de corps and everything else needed to be a leader. He continued foretelling the future of every marine present as he regurgitated the code of conduct that they'll all need to be a leader regardless of the field they go into after MCT. I must say, even I was feeling the power of this speech as I sat up in the bleachers above, all the while thinking, what the fuck did Jason do to get his whole platoon in trouble?

As the corporal marched through the mud, back and forth before his platoon with arms in a hasty parade rest, his motivational speech was coming to an end,

"...Who's got what it takes? Which one of you young marines has the integrity, the courage, and the discipline to lead marines into battle, to follow orders and to take charge and make command decisions when orders aren't clear? Which one of you? Huh?"

You could feel the tension in the air. The esprit de corps ran through all of us. From every corner and from every hilltop within hearing distance, motivation and pride welled up within the bosoms of every marine past and present. If one listened real close, the sounds of Aaron Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man sounded in the distance. And then it happened.

One lone marine standing at the tail end of the first squad glowed with pride. With his back straight, chest thrust forward and left arm and thumb held rigidly along the seam of his trousers just as he was taught in boot camp, he took one step forward with the snap and pop of the Marine Honor Guard and thrust his right arm out with a clenched fist and then bellowed in a deep voice not his own, "HERE CORPORAL!!"...And then the record scratched followed by a moment of silence as the corporal looked back at the one who "heard the call of duty."

<silence>

<....more silence>

<...crickets chirping>

"Anyone? Not one of you has the courage to be a leader?" the corporal continued as if he was returning to the conversation after be interrupted. And like that, the outstretched arm of that proud marine deflated like an oblong party balloon as it shrunk back to his side. I could swear his eyes shifted from side to side as he wondered, "Did anyone hear or see me do that? Sheewww!"

I sat in utter disbelief. I took a closer look. I did a double take as my grin grew upon my face and a burst of laughter spewed from my mouth like vomit. This proud marine, was none other than......JASON! And I DID see it!!

It took me several hours to stop laughing as I talked with him later and reenacted the entire scene for his (my) amusement. He finally told me to shut the fuck up. But it didn't work because here I am 19 years later, still laughing like it was yesterday. Since that time, as we both laugh about that day, he has said,

"That was the last time I demonstrated any sort of motivation for the marine corps. After that day, I skated out of everything I could and wore my hair beyond regs. And you know," he continued on with genuine wonder, "I wonder what I would've become in the marine corps if I was selected that day. I'd probably be a sergeant major or first sergeant almost ready to retire and retire right into a good paying job while collecting that retirement... Oh well, fuck it. Hey, by the way, you wanna go fuck some hookers in Mexico with me?"

"Sure." I replied.

And this is us, twenty years later, half-drunk and half-stoned with delusional wonderment regarding a past that never could have happened even if we were motivated. Somewhere down that road, some suck-dick gunnery sergeant would have found our bong or supply of Vicodin and turned us in anyway.

Jason and I always looked forward to the weekends. At least we looked forward to the weekends when neither one of us had duty. Somehow, we always managed to skate out of it. One unfortunate week, it was our turn for some chow hall and maintenance duty. When our names came up, we did what we did best. We pulled our squad leader aside and said, "Hey man, you selected us for the maintenance detail."

"Yeah, so what's your point," he asked defensively.

"Well we're just wondering if we could pay you $40 to change those names to someone else's," we asked with money in hand.

"Alright," as he took our money, "Johnson and Tellerman, you're up for maintenance detail. Fall in with that squad over there."

"Thanks man," we said as we slunk off and out of sight and ran back to our Quonset huts, packed our bags for the weekend and hurried down to the bus stop to catch the 305 into Oceanside where we could link up with another bus to Encinitas and stay at his uncle's house for the weekend.

During this period as we spent our weekends at his uncle's place, I met Jason's cousin. I could tell she was beginning to like me. Unfortunately, I never felt the same for her. But that didn't stop me from telling Jason that I was considering getting on his cousin, which always set him off as much as he could be set off by something like this. All the while, I was desperately in love with a girl from home.

She was actually the ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine. Cardinal sin, I know. But he was now living and surfing in Hawaii. Plus, I don't think he cared for a few reasons. First reason being he was pissed off at her for messing around on him. Second reason being that my chances of getting on her were slim to none. Regardless, she and I wrote to each other regularly. I would send her pictures of me in the field lookin' hard with rifle in hand. In exchange she would send pictures to me, lookin' beautiful as she always did. Now, what was common in these days was that everyone was asked if they had a girlfriend back home. This probably stemmed from cadence we sung on the runs about missing our girls and how they were now getting laid by some other guy. I think his quintessential name was "Jodi"....or maybe that was the girl's name. I don't know because I was always worn out on these runs and too busy thinking about someone else fucking the girl I was obsessed with. And besides, who names their boy, Jodi?

Remember before, when I talked about not thinking with your dick and thinking you could be best friends with a hot girl? Well, shit I did it again and set myself up for failure. But this would come later. In the meantime I shared pictures with other guys to show them my "hot girlfriend." When I look back now, I'll bet half the guys back then had pictures of girls that they wanted as girlfriends, but were too damn ugly to have, just like me. Regardless, I kept her picture in my foot locker just so I could open it every day, fill my head full of lies and dreams and push myself harder that day and pretend she was somewhere on a hilltop somewhere watching me and fingering herself as she watched my muscles bulge. Anything to keep me going.

When we reached our last day of MCT, we looked out at the road and saw the white buses, with air condition, waiting for all those going on to easier schooling to complete the training before they hit the fleet. Jason and I, "my buddy" from the infamous buddy program that never came to pass, picked up his sea bags and walked them to the bus. All through MCT we were able to see those in the School of Infantry humping (this is hiking for several miles with your full pack) and suckin' wind. Admittedly, it looked real painful and that was my future. Since Jason and I always loved a good laugh at each other's expense, it was now his turn. He took one last look at me and said with a grin, "Good luck and don't trip over your sea bags doing the 'Sea Bag Drag.'"

"Fuck you asshole," I said with a grin, "perhaps I'll see you again. In the meantime, I'll be sure to fuck your cousin."

"Fuck you Steve, stay off my cousin," he fired back with a defeated grin. We shook hands and went our separate ways. I walked back to my sea bags, fell into my squad and we moaned a cadence all the way to the barracks down the road. At least we got wall lockers there.

For eight long weeks, the training grew exponentially painful. Fall out of anything and you get dropped. The punishment was that you had to start the entire training over again. For fear of failure and failing my "girlfriend," I kept up with the training.

One unfortunate night towards the end of the 8 weeks while out in the field, I began to develop a terrible ear infection. But I wasn't going to say a word for fear of missing any training and having to repeat the entire 8 weeks again. Eventually, I began to feel tired, feverish and my ear began to leak blood and puss. I still said nothing as a bit of delirium set in. When the exercise ended, we humped 10 miles back to the barracks. It was Friday and we had the weekend off. That night since I knew I wouldn't be missing any training, I reported to my squad leader, a former sniper and thief of our Copenhagen, showed him my ear and asked if I could go to sickbay.

"Jesus Christ, how long has that been like that," he asked with revulsion.

"Since Tuesday or so."

"Does it hurt? Can I hit it?"

"A little bit," I lied since it hurt like shit and I was getting a little blurry, "and please don't hit it. You might knock it right on over to the other ear." You fucking asshole.

"Yeah man, take your ass over to sick bay. And hey, good job for sucking it up and not dropping out. I love to see people repeat the cycle," he said in a sadistic way, "but you're so fucking ugly that I don't want to ever see you again." That was actually a compliment.

"Thanks Corporal." You kind, very kind fucking asshole. I turned and walked right over to sickbay. The doc took one look at it and decided to use my eardrum as training for one of the naval medical students.

"Take a look at this, Ensign Cook," as he pulled my tender-ass ear in every different direction. God damn you fucking cunt. This is not your dick, so quit yanking on it. "This is a perforated ear drum. This is a good one. Look at the size of the hole. You can see all the infection. Go ahead, flush this out, and get him set up on some antibiotics. Give him a shot. He's got a little bacteremia and is beginning to look a little septic. How do you feel Marine?"

"I'm alright.." I feel like shit. I said as I squinted to the light in the room.

"Well, we'll get you fixed up."

I lay in bed all weekend. Took my pills and hoped like hell I'd be well by Monday. I'd be damned if I couldn't train and have to repeat this miserable training all over again. To date, my body had never experienced so much pain in my life. I thought to myself that this couldn't get any worse in the Fleet Marine Force (FMF). I would be sorely disappointed.

I was now a Fleet Marine, meaning I, we, could be deployed in a moment's notice. I arrived at my new regiment sometime in the Spring. On the day we arrived, some marine brought his weapon up to room in the barracks, put the muzzle in his mouth and painted the wall and ceiling with his brains. So after the investigation and removal of the body, a working party was needed to remove the carpet and clean the room. Who better to do such a task than a "Boot." And that's what we were, new boots.

With mop bucket and other tools in hand, I and three other boots like myself entered the room and began cleaning. When ripping up the carpet, brain matter and small shards of skull became more evident. So I kept a piece of the skull as a little memento of the occasion. And rifles were never allowed in the barracks from that day on. Instead, a boot (or a troublesome marine) would stand guard over everyone's weapons until they were back in the hands of the owners or locked in the armory. And, so it was written.

So, unbeknownst to me, there was a reason for the swim qualification. Of course there was. I could swim. Like a fish. All of us new boots met at the camp swim tank. They said swim from this side to the other for starters. No problem. I swam back and forth, no problem. Then they said, swim to this location underwater, and so I did. No problem. Now swim across in full combat load. No Problem. Now swim the length of the pool without coming up for air. No Problem. Now swim with a 20 lb. weight over your head without your head going under. No problem. Now swim to the bottom of the deep end and retrieve the weight. No problem. But this all lead to a serious problem which I wasn't aware of yet. I was securing my position in a "truly marine" unit of the marine corps. Needless to say, we were a pretty white company because black people are sinkers not swimmers. Not that blacks can't swim, well, in general they can't, but it's just that they didn't grow up learning how to swim as something they needed to do. Swimming was not a necessity of survival to them. Learning to swim in America is a luxury, not a need.

Consequently, they couldn't swim. What I didn't know was that I was setting myself up for a Primary Military Occupational Skill (PMOS) that I feared the most; i.e. swimming in dark murky water in order to attack the enemy. Swim in from the ocean or up slowly from a Zodiac, scale a cliff or just walk onto the land. Oh yeah, that was the other indoctrination I failed to recognize: repelling. I hated heights as much as I hated dark murky water. But, what are you going to do? Will you say, "No, I'm not going down this rope because I'm scared." Shit no! You suck it up and you repel. And then to make matters worse, you had to repel with an "injured" Marine on your back. Damn....that fucking sucked! I remember saying to myself, "Well, if I die...fuck it...I die."

I could swim and I could repel. We became a group of Infantry Raiders. That was our forte, we raided. We came from the ocean late at night, climbed a cliff and then fucked you up. Typically we had a SEAL and Force Reconnaissance group attached to us whom would do the "nitty-gritty" right on site as we provided cover and then we would burn the place to the ground.

At first, we began a 6-month train-up for a simple/standard deployment to Okinawa, but in mid-October, all that changed. A group of Army Rangers, Special Forces, and 10th Mountain ran into some trouble in the city of Mogadishu, Somalia. The city formed a giant collective mind, decided to stand up for themselves, and retaliated against American forces. While it was a terrible event for these guys, it was a disgrace in the eyes of America. How could the almighty American Armed Forces (Army) lose a battle against a bunch of unorganized and untrained Africans? It was like the Watts Riots all over again, but this time in Africa. It became chaos and the warfare was completely unconventional with the use of guerilla tactics. Close quarters combat/house to house fighting hadn't happened in decades and here it was again in our face and we (the United States Armed Forces) were unprepared. The casualty rate of this type of fighting is stated to be nearly 75% and after this fiasco, it appeared to be accurate.

And as I said, our train-up for Okinawa changed overnight. Within the same week of the report following this event, our unit was slotted to go to Somalia. The Marines had not been there for several months. They were the initial ground unit in 1992, but when things appeared to be calming down between the clans, the Marines left. And that's when the confidence of the three fighting clans blossomed. And we...well, we were excited. We couldn't wait to get there and kill people and we didn't care who we killed, so long as we killed. But we would have to wait a few grueling months as we underwent some arduous training with a SEAL team and a Marine Reconnaissance and Force Reconnaissance Unit. This was going to be a "no-bullshit" deployment. Or so we believed it to be, as veterans from previous deployments ingrained into our heads.

Endnote:

This was the memoir of my first 19 years. But I am now 38 and so much has changed in me over the years.......and perhaps, not for the best.

**I hope you enjoyed this book. Please visit** Smashwords.com **to purchase Antisocial Manifesto, Volume 2.**
