The Chicken Coupe

I think it is plain evil to beat your children. That said, my childhood's warped perspective has me believing that there were a few times when, arguably, I deserved a beating.

Case in point:

Back when I was still quite confident of my aim with standard objects (not just knives), I would sink paper shots from across the classroom and bean 2 x 4s with rocks.

My grandparents had a chicken coop on the acre of land we had divided into several backyards. The largest expanse was the roaming grounds of our geese. The purpose of the second back yard, the one butted up against the chicken coop, was in dispute. my sister wished for the ducks to nest there. I hated the idea, as they were destroying the cane and grass with their grazing.

I had tossed all the ducks over the fence into the coop to hang with the chickens. The geese had to be segregated; they had a tendency to get lethal in their bullying. My sister, being a stereotypical sibling, tossed all the ducks back into the yard. We participated in this tennis match of sorts for two or three days. After returning the ducks to the coop yet again, I confronted my sister. It, of course, turned into an argument resulting in her trotting out to the coop.

As she rounded up the ducks, I collected rocks. I let her toss over the first few before firing a few warning shots into the coop's structural 2 x 4s to convey my seriousness. To no avail; as she bent down to grab the last duck in the coop, I threw a rock square at her right ass cheek. I missed by an inch or so. Whatever's necessary to miss a bent-over-person's ass and glide right up their side to nail them nicely behind their ear. My sister dropped like a sack of rags, nearly crushing refugee beneath her.

Having injured my sister before, I was well aware of the Standard Operating Procedure: offer assistance and apologies from a safe distance. My sister climbed to her feet, one hand grasping her wound all the while. Then she turned her Medusa eyes upon me. I was almost as pathetic as a dear in the headlights as she rushed me. As she closed half the distance between us, I scrambled to the coop gate, with all the speed of one knowing their life is literally on the line. Goddamn latch! See, the desert heat is no friend to wood; the screw to the latch ate threw the dry lumber as if it were mere saw dust. The latch was wonky. It rarely closed to the point of locking. This day, however, it was in rare form. My sister knocked me threw the damn gate in a pile of lanky limbs, asunder lumber, and the synthetic cactus known as chicken wire. She clobbered me.

After a few minutes watching the stars fade to clouds, I picked myself up, dusted off, rinsed the blood off with the coop pool's hose, stacked the ruined gate against the coop's opening, and walked my personal Trail of Tears to the house, where doom certainly awaited.

Doom indeed. My sister's wails had incensed my grandmother. At the door, she pulverized me as if I were Beetle Bailey. As I crawled into the house, I heard her ranting to my grandfather. Hoping to lose this event in my chores, or at least lose myself in them, I wandered to the broom closet. As I retrieved the broom, I heard my grandfather, The Man With The Ten Pound Hands, holler my name. As his shadow filled the hallway and set the broom aside. I thought: "You deserve this one, so take it like a man."

Rebola

Back when my sister and I were kids, hackey sacks were back in fad. We were given one as a treat on Halloween. We kicked it until it split. Then I taped it up with electricians' tape. That made it too hard. It was painful to kick. So I tied a leather boot lace around it, making a single-stone bola of sorts. It made for fun games of catch, like those fox-tails they'd hand out in P.E.

Being that it had two cords, it also could double as a whip. It could grab branches, chair legs, brooms, rakes, and shovels. As well as high branches and power lines. After several hair-raising rescues of this "toy", out of trees and off power lines, I reassigned it. As it was, it wasn't bad as a bola, either. It helped catch our dogs when they'd escape. Also, it settled them down when they were rowdy with the high pitched screech it emitted when spinning it.

When I fled my grandparents' house, I took it with me. It sure came in handy. All the stray dogs out West. Too many times, I was chased and attacked on the way to my bus stop and such. Eventually, most dogs on my route came to fear the Rebola. Those who were newbies learned fast and hard. It made a good makeshift battle mace. Those who didn't learn, well... I already had Stinger.

After I collected more knives, experience, and martial arts moves from various people and styles, I retired the rebola. Ultimately it was riddled with nails and hung beside a Dragon painting from my friend Echo, along with an old rusty hatchet and short sword.

You'd be shocked at how much trouble that rebola landed me in later in life. Just by hanging on the wall. In California. Maybe not so shocked, for all you California natives.

The Watchman

Back in the day, I was stricken with insomnia, for the first time. This lousy piece was spawned. I say lousy because I've learned so much since then; my views are quite changed. Nonetheless, it is the favorite amongst my family and childhood friends. I have always considered it a work in progress, and still wish to someday both rewrite and finish it.

P.S. Okay!, I already altered it a bit. I'm writing it, might as well rewrite it!

The Watchman

I have written these words for all who call Hell home --
For all the poor bastards who live where demons roam.
Some words for all those dreadful fellows
Who live in an evil nation
Flooded with worries and woes,
In the land of Desperation...

'Twas a bright and dreary light,
Cast down by a moon of crimson hue
Yet through the evil of the night
He sent the Watchman through

The Watchman's training soon began
To sharpen his crafty skill
Alas, too, he had to overcome the troubles of man
Which ripped and eroded his will

As the Watchman struggled to learn
Satan cunningly played his game
And oh, how that devil did yearn
To scratch out the Watchman's name

The beasts teased and taunted him, all throughout the night
The demons came and haunted him, filling him with fright
And though they poked and prodded him, he wouldn't dare to fight
This was his one and only hope: he had to get it right


Satan, like a cancer, tried to get under the Watchman's skin
He called upon the Watchman's family, and the Watchman's friends

He began to weaken the Watchman by corrupting him from within
He attacked the Watchman's very fibers, fraying them at the ends

Although he desperately needed to repent
For the many sins in his short existence
The forces of evil were hell bent:
They would annihilate all resistance

Seeing that the time was near
He took a last look into the mirror
He had to right all that was wrong
Fearing he'd been in the darkness for far too long

All that time, he should have grown
For we must reap what we have sown
Too soon, the demons burst from the ground
With Satan's last lunge to steal the crown

The frightened people ran to hide
Abandoning their daily roles
For they knew deep down inside
Who they'd given stock of their souls

With precious hope, and knowledge at hand
The Watchman stepped forward to take his stand
The Book as his sword, his faith as his shield
No matter the odds, he would never again yield

And with his few weapons,
He took on the damned
Fighting ghouls, beasts, and demons
As well as the burdens of Man

So he renewed the age old fight
Opposing evil in favor of Good
He fought with courage and all his might
He finally did the best he could

After the long and endless night
The Watchman had all but lost
Near the end of our gruesome fight
None could count the souls it had cost

And though he knew he should not win
He chose to carry on
Struggling to breath; wounded by sin
He managed to live until dawn

The truth was at last clarified
As he staggered into the dawn
He accepted then, as he died
He was no knight -- at best, a pawn

But though the realization burned as a phosphorous flame
He knew that a pawn could still win the game
He finally grasped the key to his salvation
With his own heart he must expose Christ's love to Satan

He uttered not a word as the ground opened and he fell
Into the dark abysmal pit; the hungry maw of Hell
The Devil anxiously awaited, he chuckled and he grinned
As the Watchman's memories burned away, every enemy, every friend

And though he saw his sins setting fire to his grave
The Watchman still held hope, felt a reason to be brave
As he closed in on the home of the dreaded enemy
He held on ever tighter to the mighty key

What the Watchman had planned, Satan never would have guessed
How could the devil, in all his vainness, see
What was tethered in the Watchman's breast
So small, but roaring with mighty power, he held the key

------

The roads were paved with infants' skulls
The woefulness rushed in like a flood
Screaming pitifully, infinite souls
The demons drinking gleefully upon their blood

Satan quited the howling creatures
Then stared upon the figure of soul and sand
So tenuous and frail, with such harsh features
One more tenant in this God-forsaken land!

Satan smiled and pulled out his list
Glowering at the man before him
The Watchman clutching triumph in his fist
Yet wearing a face eternally grim

The devil knew, as he went on down his list
The Watchman was finally his prize
Never sensing there was something he had missed
As he read off his elaborate offers and lies

When he finished, The Watchman stood up straight
And refused Satan and his schemes
His cry heard clear to Hell's gate
He had bigger and better dreams

When the Watchman dared to call him The Liar
Satan deafened him with his ghastly choir
Maniacally weaving into their song
Lyrics of all the Watchman had done wrong

Though drowning in pain and fear
The Watchman lay perfectly calm
Struggling to keep his mind clear
His fist unclenched, the key laid on his palm

Satan howled with frightened eyes
He saw a key which was the perfect size
And as key is to lock, love is to hate
The Watchman quickly rushed out of Hell's gate

------

As the Christ collected the souls from Hell
Knowing he was done, the Watchman finally fell
He knew he'd finished his watch, he'd seen us through 'til Dawn
He hoped that 'though he lost most battles, his war was finally won.

Train Spotting

On my trip to Missouri, when I was a kid, I saw a dear torn in half when hit by an 18-wheeler. A few years later I saw the remains of a rottweiler that had been hit by a train.

Asterisk used to play chicken with trains, standing on the tracks as they honked in vain. Not truly a game of chicken, seeing as how the train can't swerve. He stopped after one night, rather than honking, the conductor shut off all the train's lights. Risk described it as transforming the train into a bullet of death cloaked in darkness.

I always wonder how people can be hit by trains like you hear on the news. It HAS to be suicide. How can you not hear a train approaching? Even if your headphones are on too loud, you'll feel the ground rumbling.

-------

You know that feeling you get directly following a traumatic experience? Where it feels like your spirit stepped to the left as your body stepped to the right? A bit like those scenes in Chronicles of Riddick, when the Necromonger tries tearing Riddick's soul out.

Then you're left feeling, not like you're watching a movie or in a movie as yourself, but that you are a deceased actor in an old classic movie. You are not you, You are nonexistent, but there's something going on here and someone should be watching this. Like YOU are Charlton Heston
in the epic Ten Commandments.

I saw a man get hit by a freight train.

I hardly ever mention it. I don't want to mention it again.

Blue Coat

I had several coats growing up. They typically looked military in some way, as this was the unspoken agreement my grandparents had with me concerning coats.

That changed my freshman year of High School. We purchased a blue parka, rather spur of the moment. We were about to exit Harris' Gottschalks, before the Gottschalks, when I sighted it. The price was right. So began the notorious history of The Blue Coat.

It had more pockets than I was used to. depending upon your outlook, that could be good or bad. My grandmother, freak that she was, had emergency supplies crammed into every closet and corner of our property. I, in kind, had survival gear crammed into every pocket of my coat. Regardless of the rules of the schools, Everything from a Swiss Army knife to a butane torch. Dehydrated food, make-shift weapons, first aid, pressure bandages, tools, and a little yellow notebook I wrote all my favorite writings in --Poe to Longfellow-- for entertainment.

When I'd run away and live out in the desert, I would spray deet on my face, glove my hands, use electricians' tape to seal off cuffs, hood my head and bunk on the desert floor. All those supplies were in my coat. In the morning, I'd scratch a hole into the dirt, pour Carbide into it, spit on it to create acetylene and light it. This made fires a lot easier to start than the flint and steel (also in coat) on tumbleweeds. You'd be amazed at how could the desert feels in the predawn hours.

The insulation of this coat was so good that you could remain cool on hot summer days and warm on cold winter days. So why ever take it off? Therefore, I rarely did. I sewed patches onto spots where I wasn't faster than the stray dogs, or where the truck's tailpipe got me, and my coat seemed to perpetually emit a smoky aroma. All those barrel fires! Nate (Innuendo) never ceased to find amusement in the quirks of my coat. It has about as much history tied into it as my chain!

So, it should come as no surprise then, that I STILL possess this coat. When the cold New York winter hits in a couple months, I'll wear it yet again. Only now, my gear is in my Man Bag.

Spit

When we were kids, my sister and I had this awful habit. We thought it was funny to spit on one another. Our abusive grandparents simply did not approve. After two or three beatings for spitting, they finally went so far as to beat me bloody and senseless. My sister had clumps of hair ripped out of her head.

Funny how malleable children are, huh? Years later, my grandmother walked in on the end of a movie, Diabolique, I believe. It was a thriller with a plot twist at the ending in which she had just walked in on. She was in a flurry: "Quick! Quick! It's an emergency!" Whatever the emergency was, Kathy Bates--as always-- was a gravitational force. My grandmother turned to the movie and stood, watching. "Emergency" forgotten. Now, as a kid, I learned the hard way to never ruin a movie ending for people. So, my sister and I were quickly up in arms: "You're ruining the movie for yourself! Get out!" An argument ensued. My grandmother and I were in each other's faces. She was yelling and some spittle flew from her mouth onto my cheek. I rebuked her with the saying that was trendy at the time: "Say it, don't spray it."

You already know what she did next. She spit in my face. So I strangled her. I had the first "red out" of my life. My fingers and toes tingled quickly, and then a burst of red flashed from all four corners of my vision until I saw only RED. When the rest of the spectrum returned, it was like looking through a telescope. Far down a dark tube I could see my grandmother's cold, confident gray-blue eyes staring me down like she was killing me. But there were hands around her throat. My sister was standing on the bed in the background. It looked like she was screaming, but everything was so far away nothing could be heard.

Suddenly, reality snapped back in full. My vision. The screams of my sister. I dropped my grandmother. Some how I had lifted her girth off the ground by her throat. I was quite young, far from 18 years old.

I let go, cast my eyes to the floor. Said sorry as I pushed passed her out the door. She had the mocking smile of a Sith lord smeared across her face. Not the look of horror we would have expected. This turned the full force of all the horror of the situation on to me with the power of a fire hose.

I escaped to the chicken coop out on the acreage. Scratched another mark into the metal trim to signify how often I'd fled there. The scores of marks reminded me of old movies where the prisoners would track time much like this.

The Man, In the Van, Down by the River

The Man, In the Van, Down by the River. That was what Innuendo called me in 11th grade.

I "ran away" from "home" again. Actually, I just walked away. I got off the phone, looked at the bitch, thought better of it, grabbed my infamous blue coat, and walked out.

I camped out in the desert near the house for a bit. One night, on my reconnaissance run, I discovered my mother's car parked out front, the infamous Mustang...oh, the stories I have to tell! I crackered (jimmied is somewhat derogatory against African-Americans. i.e. jimmied, slim-jim, jimmy bar, jimmy rig, etc.) my way into the hatchback and snuck (WTF? it's saying "snuck" isn't a word!) inside. I fell asleep waiting.

My mother played it pretty smooth upon discovering me, keeping 'Risk in the loop but on the down low. We drove deep into the desert night. I didn't need to fill them in. My grandmother had told her story and they'd figured out the gist of the truth from it.

My sister didn't meet her dad until her sweet sixteenth. My grandfather was a stick in the mud toward the cancerous end we were unaware was cancerous. Thus, I was bestowed the honor of giving my sister away at her wedding. Then the urn dropped off the mantle, as I say.

Her father's family demanded that he take on the honor he never earned. Of course, my future brother-in-law being a former gang member didn't have room in his party for me to be a groom's man. I was demoted to usher. Fine, whatever.

So, my grandmother and I get into some tiff. She takes it better than usual. That should have clued me in. See, I had no car or license. My sister was getting married some 200 miles away. My c u next tuesday of a grandmother canceled my suit and left me without a way to get to the wedding.

Guess who took the pleasure of cluing me in. My Aunt. "Murky". So, I got off the phone, looked at the grandparents who now ate dinner without me at the table, and walked out without a word.

My mom was living in a tent hidden in the dead forest. She happened to need a part for the car, so we stopped by her old friends home/junkyard. She put me up there for the night. No offense to the guy, but his place was a junkyard inside and out. Cockroaches had to get around on dune buggies. Visitors were perpetual. I wonder why... I crashed on the crusty couch for the night. Better than sand but more bugs to bite.

The next day, I explored his property. Vast. Think of the guy as an obese Mufasa. At the outer edges of his property, I could just make out the image of a literal oasis. Way the hell out passed way the frig out in the desert on his property in B.F.E. were some trees tapping into an aquifer. Just over the hill from the trees was an old abandoned delivery van. My home for the next seven weeks. My mom brought me dehydrated supplies. The change we could all muster from pilfering and cans I used to buy non-perishables when I'd swing by school.

School meant either bathing with bottled water in a pot, or a midnight hike to the house to hose off. An unreliable wind-up alarm clock was replaced with a wrist-watch missing its straps. Almost 45 minutes walking to the bus stop by 6 am to ride another 45 minutes to my High School who thought it clever to start school at 6:58 am. The homework I'd collect I had to do before sundown.

Of course I stopped. Took a hiatus from school about 3 weeks into my latest adventure. I had this little single AAA battery powered radio I'd listen to for company. I heard Rammstein's "Du Hast" for the first time on those headphones. Then the battery died. After a while, I actually forgot my own name. I don't know; three, four weeks after my last visit to school, no one to talk to all that time. Stopped thinking in words, stopped using 'em. Huh! Funny...

I boarded up the vans windows, carved holes into the cupboard walls with Stinger to erect a clothes-hanger pole, pried out a few boards to hide my supplies from the guy's nosy brats, and rolled an oil drum up to the entrance for before-bedtime heat.

My understanding friend, upon learning of my latest adventure, referred not to his beloved scripture. But, rather, to Saturday Night Live. Chris Farley. The man, in the van, down by the river. Gotta love the guy.

Did it get better from there? Spurred on by the chill of winter, my mom scrounged up the condemned apartment that saw the Dark Time. Where Cruizer and I had our misunderstanding.

Nina

Nina was bought to replace my "brother" and boy's best-friend, Ranger. Nina was half Lab, a quarter Husky, and a quarter German Shepherd.

Despite what you'd imagine, she was as white as the driven snow. She had a brown nose and brown lips, the bottom of which pouted pout, just like my sister's bottom lip. And just like my sister, she had brown eyes.

I suppose I needn't tell you that the dog who was to replace my dog became my sister's dog. She was my sister's dog, and no one else's. She would sometime jump in the air--straight up--to catch low flying birds which she would deposit at my sisters feet. If my sister and I were playing to rough, I could expect to get attacked. The same went for anyone who upset my sister in any way. My sister reciprocated, for the most part: she wouldn't let our grandparents hit Nina. She helped Nina birth her nine puppies. She concealed Nina from my discipline.

Nina was something else; she would "kickbox" when we'd play. She'd use all four paws, plus her teeth and tail to mount elaborate attacks. As if that weren't taxing enough on her intelligence, she learned how to open ALL types of doors and to climb all types of fences.

Her intelligence prevented us from keeping her locked within our property's borders. It also cost her her life.

My Way

I wasn't a trouble maker when I was young. I didn't go looking for it. It just always found me. I suppose it had to do with location and association. I didn't have friends. I didn't drink to get drunk, I didn't get into drugs, I didn't sleep around, I wasn't in any gang. I was an Outcast. I truly believe it's because of a combination of my childhood experiences and the resulting adult insight into life. This confused my fellow youngsters.

Having no friends in such rough places didn't do me any favors. At first, I was prey. A punching bag. I adapt quickly when I want to, though. Soon, it was known that I was no prey. Where it wasn't known, it was conveyed to the general prey at large, in my eyes and in my step. Fellow predatory people could sense that I felt I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

This reputation did me no favors either. It got me profiled. By the Authorities. By good, kind people I always dreamed of becoming. By girls. Sure, they like their "bad boys". But they don't like them as vicious as I was thought to be.

I was an A-B student. When I was IN school. I got along great with my teachers, as long as
they wanted to teach. Still, as an outcast, the Authorities perceived me as the threat that my peers perceived me as. Damn them.

As you can imagine, my reputation eventually brought trouble my way.

After I'd been egested, I was compelled to move to Arizona. My sister had moved there not long after she graduated. To insure that she wouldn't need to come back, she got married. To a former gang member.

In California, fresh out of Camp, as I call it, and right after graduation (for my peers), I got a tip through the grapevine that there was a hit out on my sister. Allegedly she'd been cheating on her husband. While he was willing to slink off and nurse his wounded heart, his remaining "brothers" were stirred to action.

Feeling rather put out by California, I decided to go to Arizona and clean up. After arriving, I tidied up in short order. Then I learned that my sister had, indeed, been slutting around. I know, that sounds mean, but seriously. I moved away from my territory into her husband's turf, defended her honor, chased off her would-be assailants and essentially transferred the "honor-bounty " from her head to mine. I was pissed. Having talked to her Sauncho, I realized he was little more than a witless victim: a pretty girl whining about how she's mistreated, hanging about, drinking, flirting. Few men still exist who wouldn't accept such an invitation.

There I was. Nowhere. I decided to commence becoming a BETTER person. After an exhaustive look at religions, I felt even more frustrated. More disgusted with people. Having left no other stone unturned, I agreed to study with Jehovah's Witnesses. Ultimately, I became a volunteer minister myself.

Typically, something such as this is a source of pride--and it was. But not so much anymore. See, I screwed up. I always assumed that my vice was violence. Then my future wife came along. I fell for her. Hook, line and sinker. That's fine and dandy. Where I went wrong is that I was so insecure and SHE was so insecure that I devoted literally all my time and effort into her. I wanted to be absolutely sure that she fell in love with me and that she had no doubts that I loved her. I left nothing to chance. I left nothing to Jesus Christ, the Savior. I left nothing to Jehovah God.

After sinking all four tires deep in the mud, I realized what I'd done. I had essentially turned my back on those who had set me free. Worse, I held my folly against my wife. I tried not to let it show. But she's quite sensitive. She felt the change. We rapidly declined. We completely stopped preaching. We stopped going to meetings. We stopped associating with our friends altogether.

Not that I could ever say a thing bad about my friend SandSurfer, but he was not a good role-model for me, an aspiring minister with a dark past. My dark side came back in spades.

What'd we do to fix it? We moved 3,000 miles away. Since then, I've held several jobs. Two of significance. I've told NOBODY of my time as a minister. The happiest, proudest time of my life.

I have, unfortunately, told many of my violent youth. I have to keep them at bay somehow. Apparently people think I'm a good person, want to get to know me. No.

I'd never felt truly week before. Honestly defeated.

Our trip out West a few weeks ago revitalized my strength. I floundered a bit, but last week, I started attending meetings again. I can't do too much just yet, seeing as how I got into a wee bit of trouble out West. Once I can show that I'm no threat to the flock though, I'll be up and running again.

Nonetheless, I'm scared. I swear more than anybody I've ever known or heard of. My sense of humor is as warped and morbid as you'd expect from my past and I brandish it like my great-grandfather's sword or somethin'. My wife's happy for me, but she's still not going to meetings. This frustrates me. And I wish I knew how to solve things without aggression, but the best I can usually do is growl at her.

That's not fair. She didn't exactly force my hand. I could have tried having faith. But I still keep kicking myself over it. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I wonder sometimes if I was wrong to marry her. If I was wrong to get married. Sometimes I feel like I was ruined before I ever had the chance. That my poor wife is stuck with someone who is unfamiliar with love. I don't know how to talk nice. I think calling someone a punk, brat--whatever, is affectionate. A love tap on the shoulder is like a hug to ME.

I actually have moments where I crave a beating. When I miss the pain. I have moments where I fear my wife. I think she's out to get me. Do me harm. When she loses her cool, I expect a fist-fight. My body tenses. I find my jaw and fists clenched. It's like I never left the streets. What the hell am I?

I don't hit her, no. But who says you have to? All it takes is coldness, mean words--or no words at all. And that's where I often fail. Afraid of sounding hateful, like I am, I remain silent. How can I help anyone when I feel like I hate everyone? I have yet to know somebody who I haven't envisioned pulverized by me. It's all I seem to KNOW. All I want is to break the cycle, start my own legacy. But it's like all I NEED is to hurt.

And so, knowing that I'm like this, I'll let people take advantage of me. I'll play all tough until it gets down to it, then I'll back down. I don't WANT to hurt people anymore. But I am SO good at it. It comes so naturally.

You know, I actually forget to breathe sometimes. But I've NEVER ONCE felt like I've forgotten how to break bones, shatter skin. As I said, I'll avoid most fights, even worthy ones, because I'm afraid of myself. Afraid enough for the both of us. Me and my adversary. But when I DO get my blood up, I don't know what to say. My wife can get anyone to understand her displeasure and seek to make amends. Me, I just end up choking down a snarl, grasping after my profanities with useless hands that won't grab because they're clenched into fists.

And my wife, she thinks I can't fix any of my problems. That I NEVER stand up for myself or what I want. Basically, I feel that she thinks I'm weak. I've managed to stand up for myself without physically harming someone before. I'm not quite sure that I wasn't abusive, but I've pulled it off plenty of times. Before her. Now, I just let her handle it. She's good at it. More, she won't tarnish our marriage with a visit to prison.

It wasn't like that when I was a Witness. I was still too intense for some of the brothers. Most of the sisters. But I was happy. I felt calm, collected. Secure. Sane. Like I was finally doing some good. Like I had purpose. That perhaps I could forgive myself for not being vicious enough soon enough to protect my mom.

I hope I get that back soon. I miss it. I NEED it. Otherwise, why didn't I join the Army?

Tuesday, January 27, 1998

This is an old journal entry I found:

I saw a picture of a mission in Mexico in my Spanish class today. The frame was crooked, but the picture was straight. It reminded me of my life (or life in general); sometimes you have to move the frame to straighten out the picture, even if it means making the frame crooked.

Cruizer

I've had far too many encounters of the wrong kind with dogs in my life. Both before and after the incident I'll be discussing briefly.

Cruizer was a white pit-bull my mother found limping down her street, thus the name. His previous owner had obviously mistreated him. He was quite hand-shy and distrusted other animals. Despite this, against common sense, she and her boyfriend took him in. My mother is forever in that "can we keep 'im" stage, and believed that she could change Cruizer.

He was an exceptionally strong dog. He had to be kept in the garage because of my mother's cats. However, her boyfriend Asterisk was usually working in the garage. Because of this, they tried tying Cruizer up with a nylon rope. he broke it. So they tried doubling the rope. It worked for awhile. Until he saw someone walking their dog. Then, he just bit through it. Not chewed; just one bite. He didn't attack though. He just intimidated the heck out of them. After that, they chained him to one of the studs in the garage. I guess he got excited, he pulled the whole dang 2x4 out of the frame.

A few months after finding Cruizer, Tecomde and Asterisk had to move. While they were searching for a new home, they left Cruizer with my grandparents and me. Although I'd had many bad experiences with dogs, I liked him. He reminded me of my first dog, Ranger. I liked to talk to him, walk with him (he was burly and intimidating), and sit in his shed with him when it rained. He hated thunder. Once again, though, his territory was restricted. He had to be kept out in the chain-link kennel. We already had dogs. He grew to be even more muscular sprinting up and down the fence, barking with them.

When Tecomde and Asterisk found a place to move into, Cruizer and I moved with them. It was an apartment complex, so he was kept inside. We didn't want him frightening the parents of all the kids who were running around. There were no yards and we weren't even supposed to have animals, but the land-lady was sympathetic. He didn't like being inside much. He gave us heck always sneaking and darting out the door. We walked him often and kept a large tow chain on him to "slow him down" when, and if, he'd dash out. It didn't really work though. If anything, it made him that much stronger and more agile. i still remember the sound of that chain dragging on the kitchen tile. It brings mixed emotions. Feelings of sadness. And terror.

The setting we were at later became what I refer to as the Dark Time. The apartment complex was not legally owned and operated. But cops NEVER came into this town without packing heavy--numbers and weapons. Having been tormented by The Darkness, I had recently started a campaign against it, using, of all things, The Dark Arts. I intended to use any powers I gained for good, to combat Evil. How...stupid. One too many episodes of "Buffy" you think? As a warlock's apprentice, I was studying a certain language I will never name. Not mine, Sezjeghn Koasz, but a dark one. Allegedly you could command animals with it.

As if a town with drug-runners needed sorcerers or a town with sorcerers needed drug-runners. My "instructor" and I had nothing to do with drugs. Or at least I didn't. We were arguably more foolish. Nonetheless, I swear that drugs and demons go hand-in-hand. Several months after my arrival and new studies began, people in town started going insane, then dying. More than a dozen people if I recall. Incidentally, the dark language was being found throughout the town. Most people mistook it for graffiti. I know I wasn't doing it. But, indirectly, try to imagine what was transpiring at home. All your cliche ghost-story occurrences. Levitating objects, doors opening and slamming shut on their own. Hot spots followed by freezing cold air. Our names, whispered when we were seemingly alone. Nightmares. The kind everyone wakes from bolt-upright, sweaty and screaming. Only to try to pacify ourselves wide-eyed in the fetal position

One day, while Asterisk was playing with Cruizer near the "animated" bedroom door, he attacked. 'Risk managed to hold him back and not get hurt. It was brief, but it shook us up. Tecomde wanted to get rid of him immediately. Asterisk and I refused. 'Risk played it down. I said I'd hang around Cruizer, see if he continued to act funny. Talk to him, pet him. Try to soothe him. I tried. But finding no success, I decided to try the Other language. He gave me the funniest look. So human, yet so unworldly.

I was drawing my hand for art class later that night. 'Risk was out looking for extra hands to help him work on the Mustang. My mom was cleaning up their room. The way the apartment was set up, I was lying beside their bedroom door, facing the front door, and with the kitchen behind me.

He had continued to act odd that day, but I told no one. While I was lying on the floor, drawing, I felt a funny feeling. That feeling you get when somebody's staring at you. I looked up. Cruizer was standing in the way of the front door. All his muscles were bulging. His head was down, and because of this, his chain had pushed the flesh up around his head, framing it I suppose. His eyes chilled my soul, I kid you not. They were black, all black - no white. His eyes were lifeless: there were no flecks of light caught in them. Just black. More like holes than eyes. I remember saying: "Why are you looking at me like that Cruizer? You're scaring me. What's the matter boy?" In response, he lifted his head and walked passed me into the kitchen, dragging his chain on the tile. I heard him sit down. Well, at least he wasn't staring at me. Or was he? Even worse--in my mind-- he was now behind me. I rolled over to look at him. He was indeed sitting and his eyes had caught some light, but I was still frightened; now he was twitching. His whole body was shaking, and he was popping his head back and forth. It seemed like he was trying to avoid looking at something, but it demanded his attention. Indecision--and fear, he was surely more frightened than I was. "Come here, boy," I said, "what's wrong?" I petted him and scratched him for a moment, talked to him, tried to calm him. But he was still twitching. At last, he glanced at me sadly, turned his head away, and returned in a flash of teeth. I'm thankful he was so close because his teeth bounced off my face. In reflex, I grabbed his jaws and pulled. I held his jaws open as he whipped and snarled.
Tecomde stormed out of her room, and in doing so, slammed the door into Cruizer and me. We remained "locked in combat". The only thing that physically hurt was the sting of the blood pouring into my eye, turning half my vision a syrupy red. I don't remember too much from there. Tecomde was screaming: "Let him go! Let him go!" I'm still not sure who she was screaming at. Later, she told me that I was yelling at her to get me my knife. I remember her screaming for Asterisk. I remember seeing Asterisk standing in the doorway, holding Cruizer off the ground by his chain. I remember grabbing my coat and telling my mom: "Talk to me, I"m going into shock." I remember telling her to calm down while thinking: Damn! I have to go to the hospital wearing shorts and sandals!

Everyone stared at me in the ER's waiting room. In the restroom mirror, I saw why: I was covered in blood. It's amazing how much blood is in your head. I, as usual, had the doctor "in stitches" as he sewed me up. I joked about it all the way home.

'Risk had him shot by a concerned neighbor ten minutes after Tecomde and I left for the hospital. For many years, I'd wake up from nightmares of eyeless dogs, in a cold sweat. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Sometimes I think I'll never full trust a dog again. Other times I hate myself feeling that I shouldn't be trusted. I trusted that dog, I damn near loved him.

The House was a Mess

The house really wasn't a house-- and it sure as hell wasn't a home.
Nearly eighty years old, the walls were solid cement. The ceilings were mostly dry-wall and all of the electrical outlets were attached to the walls with pipes coming from them to conceal the wires. Nearly all of the switch plates were cracked, broken, or just gone-- and half the light switches sparked when the electricity was on. The bedroom was lower than the rest of the house and had the only normal wall in the apartment. It probably used to be a garage. The apartments were originally built for the workers of the cement plant across the street.

Of the two front windows, one was cracked and the other was a collage of cardboard, trash bags and tape. I had to shove through the front door because it's off two of its hinges. There are piles of clothes and such covering most of the floor, little alleyways meandering through them and framing the bare, stained mattress on the floor. Several crates are arrayed around the mattress; some organized, with gaudy junk and cheap nick-nacks set upon them,others with papers carelessly tossed upon them all helter-skelter.

The trash in the kitchen lines the wall knee high. Dishes overflow the sink and counter. An extension cord runs in through the grease-stained kitchen window supplying power to the fridge and only lamp. There's a puddle on the floor, coming from the leaky refrigerator. Inside the refrigerator is a wet box of crackers, a fermented quart of milk and a discolored pond at the bottom with its countless bodies of drowned roaches.

In the bedroom, once again a pathway carves its course through the trash, clothes, and used dishes while framing the mattress, upon which lays a plate of marijuana and some mirrors with razors slumbering in a scatter of white powder.

Stinger

I know it's really creepy that I name my knives--that I even have them, but hey, I'm Dusk. I've earned it.

What started it all was Stinger. It has nothing to do with Lord of the Rings. It's a Police issue Spyderco knife with a 4" fully serrated blade and partially sharpened spine. That's three kinds of illegal in several states. When I was living OUT IN the desert, I didn't have the luxury of leaving valuables behind. So I took them with me everywhere. Including school. I have never drawn a knife (or gun for that matter) on a person. I have used weapons on vicious stray dogs. And I collected nearly a third of my knives from jerks who thought they could take me on with a knife.

My few friends often joked about me and my formidable knife and "the unlucky fool who crossed my path". Somehow we got to referring to such a situation as me Stinging them, with my Stinger. I think it had something to do with the knife having the word POLICE etched into it.



When I was living in an abandoned van in the middle of the desert, Stinger came in very handy. It got quite abused. Even though knives are just another tool, you shouldn't use knives as screwdrivers or saws unless the need is dire, and even then... Thankfully, somebody actually tried to use a Leatherman knock-off utility knife on me before I got too stupid with Stinger.

Stinger was unfortunately sitting on the table out of reach the night Cruizer went possessed on me. I don't know, I just have a ton of memories with it. It's been a part of me for almost as long as my chain, Pacer. Yes, I named it too. I lost Stinger in late 2002, when I was just starting to excel in my studies to become, of all things, a minister.

On my visit to the West Coast, my sister returned Stinger to me. She was working with the son of the lady I rented a room from back then. He had stolen it. My sister took it back. How? Well, she IS my sister :)

It feels good to have it back. Between seeing all my old spiritually strong friends out West and getting back this virtual talisman, I feel I can really have success returning to the only job that ever gave me a sense of joy and purpose.

Camp II

The paternity test proved that "DewClaw" was my father. Which meant he had a lot of back-owed money to pay. Not to us, we got ours via welfare years before. Now California wanted restitution.

Seeing as how we were living illegally in a condemned building, I had to return to my grandparents.


Did I mention how we were discovered by the marshals? We were in this early 1900s apartment complex. It was being run by a Mexican family. We actually payed rent. We had water from a well. Usually it was contaminated. The electricity was piped in through a complicated arrangement. I didn't examine it too closely.

There was this crazy lady living in the apartments across from us. She was married to this ding-bat who lost his kids to his former wife. Later, his son was literally eaten by a German Shepard while in her care and keeping. The boy lived, but they couldn't do anything with his original face after digging out of the dog's gut. I digress.

The crazy lady. She did a long stint in a psych ward somewhere having murdered her former husband by slashing his throat. Now she was married again. Living across from us. Allowed to roam freely while her ding-bat husband scrounged for work. One day, she can't handle the hyper-abundance of cock roaches anymore. She decided to kill them with a blowtorch that was handy. The only thing that survived on their side of the complex was the three Metallica CDs I loaned to ding-bat. I still have them in my possession!

Angel and Devil

Characters

"Glib" The setting; a demon-infested town of old Route 66.
"Cookie Monster" My Mexican friend with MS.
"Tecomde" My mother, before
Angela - Cookie Monster's aunt
Diablo - No good Cracker
"Rice " distant Caucasian cousin of Cookie Monster
"Mayor" Cookie Monster's Uncle, his Diabetic mom's brother. The head of the Mexican Mafia in that town
"Loco " Mayor's renegade nephew, made all these guys look like model citizens
"Other guy" Your token Mexican gang-banger
"Blitzen" girl in our bus-stop group
"Weedon" boy in our bus-stop group - huge Buffy fan, especially when he was stoned

In Glib, I had this friend with MS. I'll call him Cookie Monster. He looked and sounded like him after all. He couldn't stand without a walker, but he learned how to ride a bike. Because of the walker, he had massive forearms. He was quite proud of them. He was always challenging people to arm-wrestle. I actually beat him twice. That's about a 0.5% victory for me though.

He was inspirationally the only kid in that town to graduate from our senior class in a High School 50 minutes away. He went through some shit, though. Thankfully his uncle ran the town of Glib, so people didn't make fun of him. But most people didn't hang out with him either. My mom says he asks about me from time to time, all these years later. I should drop a line, but I'm not nearly as strong as he.

His mom had Diabetes. She found out when they amputated her foot. By then she was so set in her ways, the loss didn't change her. She had another stroke a few months later. That time the ambulance to her home was a hearse to the hospital.

So Cookie Monster's aunt, Angela, moved in to take care of him and his little sister. She always had car trouble, but nobody knew the extent to which it would go.

The night of her birthday, my mom was trippin' on something but I didn't care. She was laughing and not twitching so I figured I'd deal. She found this old Army cargo/freight belt. It had a buckle like the ones all us California boys wore to bold up our baggy pants. But it was so long that I had to roll it up and tuck it in my pocket. As a joke, I crammed it down my pants, to bulk up my package. Then unzipped my fly and let it roll out. We all thought it was so hilarious, we decided to use it to amuse Angela at her birthday party.

That was A RIOT! She was pretty buzzed, so the look of slack-jawed astonishment was compounded. I can't even think about it without laughing out loud.

For some reason, later that night, she went to run some errand with Diablo who had since healed up from his run in with Chuck. On the way out of town there was an accident. The car flipped, slipped under the barb-wire fencing and down the embankment near the bridge where Sammy Davis, Jr. was said to have lost his eye. The car's roof caved in, crushing Angela's larynx against the steering wheel. Somehow Diablo was thrown safely from the car. The Officials who responded to the scene said she died quickly. Of course they said that.

The next day, at the bus-stop, obviously Cookie Monster wasn't there. Neither was "Rice", this mildly retarded white boy who was somehow related to The Family. Just as we were discussing the accident this car comes screeching to a halt right in front of us. Three guys jump out and run up and over the railroad tracks. Two had rifles, "Loco" ("Mayor"'s other nephew) and some guy I'd seen only once before. "Rice" was with them, and he was packing a shotgun.

We hadn't even collected our breath when the shooting started.

They thought Diablo had something to do with Angela's death, seeing as how they were alone in the car, despite the bad blood between them.

"Rice" wasn't seen at school until the following week. "Loco" went on to be chased out of town by his Uncle, only to return later and stab the man who gave me the carbide that got in so much trouble. As for Diablo, well... he was never seen again. At least not in "Glib".

Chuck and Diablo

Characters
Chuck - my pal, more uptight than me even!
Diablo - no-good cracker
"Mayor" ran the town I call Glib. He was Mexican Mafia, thankfully good friends with me ma
"Tecomde" my mother -before
Dusk - yours, truly

There's this town I refer to as Glib where I spent the time I generally call The Darkness. It was a demon-infested town that I inhabited after running away from my abusive grandparents. It was wedged between Route 66 and a dead forest and had one of the countries only remaining factories across the street. Don;t try to find it. You'd be better off in Silent Hill.

There was this white guy amongst all the current and wannabe Mexican Mafia out there. He was one of the wannabes. He had red hair but you'd only know it from his eyebrows. He kept his head Bic'd so you could see the tattoos of horns on his head.

Being at the bottom of the food chain, he had a hard-on for this kid we called Chuck. Chuck's head was large and round. Looked like Charlie Brown.

My mom was good friends with the head of the town. He was head because he was the MM rep there. This town had a post office and an elementary school, but what it didn't have was a city ordinance. No police, no fire department, no doctors. Just us, our rules, and a whole lot of desert thirsty for anything to drink.

I guess one day Chuck got fed up with Diablo. They were in the MM "mayor's" back yard, seeing how Chuck was his cousin. During a heated pushing contest, Chuck grabbed a nearby chainsaw and fired it up. Swatted Diablo in the head with it. Strange you may think, Diablo survived. Scathed. The guys ran out of the shed and dragged Chuck away before he stopped swatting and started cutting. It was still pretty messy, though. Head wounds are awful wet. I know from personal experience, though I wasn't nailed by something as surprising as a chainsaw.

The Skater vs. The Mexican

I appreciated skateboarding growing up in the '90s and all. Can't say much for the kids trying to turn tricks, I mean...no, yeah. So, not much appreciation for the ones now who wear girls' jeans. How do you do any tricks? How do you move? As if being Caucasian didn't screw with your agility enough already!

Nonetheless, I DID find it screwy that whenever a skater-poser would instigate a fight with a Mexican, they'd use their board as a melee weapon.

One day, as I was walking past my former Middle School, I saw a group of "skaters" (there WERE some REAL skaters in the next town over) messin' with some Mexican. They all looked to be about my age, Junior in High School, what is that? 16? 17? Well, the Mexican takes a fighter stance, the skater takes a feminine hay-bailer swing and gets slugged in the gut. While down there, he grabs his board. But, in a rare, fortunate twist, the Mexican pops him in the nose, snatches away his board, and proceeds to bludgeon the kid with it until it breaks. Much to the astonishment of his crew, who stared stricken at the Mexican rather than looking upon their bloodied hero/leader. Just as they all were coming to their senses, the cops come rollin' down the street. The Mexican, oddly traveling alone, made a clean get away. The others got cleaned up by THE MAN.

If you don't find that hilarious you might want to consider never reading my blog again. In my world, that was DAMN funny!!!

Rasta Imposta

Heh Heh Heh!

I have this new philosophy (No, it's not Rasta --don't jump ahead). I call it NOCCON. Basically it's an acronym for NAME, OCCUPATION, CHALLENGE. It's to remind me that, at work ESPECIALLY, all that people need to know is YOUR NAME and YOUR OCCUPATION. I have a new job (therefore a new chance) and this new blog to tell my stories. Nobody at work needs to know them. I don't have to be the freak anymore. Any story I feel like telling, instead I jot a note and blog it later...

A-N-Y-W-A-Y. My sister's ex-husband's brother is white. Let me redo that: He is WHITE. Alright. he grew up in 29 Palms, California and moved to Where-are-all-the-black-folk-with-soul? Lake Havasu, Arizona. HIS philosophy IS Rastafarianism. He has RASTA tattooed on his arm for all to see.

Knowing what we know about Jamaica's hospitality toward certain types of whities, I'd really like to see him take a trip to the island. It would make for good t.v. I doubt he'd last long enough for a full season. But definitely a mini-series.