Chapter Four: With Speed Comes The Hurricane
EVALUATION shouts the sign. STAND IN LINE!
"What is one of your earliest memories," he asks.
"Stealin' a Robin's chick from her nest!" . . .
Item from U.S. News and Report: ". . .I can guarantee that sometime you will be asked
to do something dishonest. . ."
Yea, dishonest! That's a word that plays no bearing on my
situation. Crime yes, dishonesty no! You know, I could place blame on my folks; society;
poverty; environment; etc. But, in all honesty, my life did not mirror some movie on
neglect, abuse or misuse. On the contrary, my folks worked hard for me, I never went
hungry, I lived on ten acres we owned. Yea, I was afforded all of the necessary tools with
which I should have made use of. My story is one that creeps into your home and devours
your little ones without the slightest warning! Yea, my story begins without great sorrow
nor history, yet it ends in 12 down and ten to go. . .
* * *
I met my "first" wife at the old Thomson Theater in Lawrenceville, Georgia. 25
cents bought admission. But, tonight, I paid a buck and I'm standing here, half blitzed,
half loco: Bullet proof! Up rolls this blonde--with looks that would kill! Only problem is
she's thirteen . . . no problem, her dad will sign the marriage license--good riddance.
It lasts a year: She got addicted to the morphine prescribed to her dying mother. . .
(. . . 'When a horse throws you, you get up and ride again' . . .)
. . . Second time around I and #2--forget the name, we don't need it 'cause I'm jus'
telling som'thin' ta ya!--move to a small, sleepy little town on the Gold Coast of
Florida: FT. Pierce-get jobs-rent a small trailer . . . learn some dope!
It don't work, the trailer thing . . . move to South Beach (FT. Pierce).
South Beach, right on the water! For someone who hated the red-clay and forest of the
country, pristine beaches does something for me. #2 goes to work at Burger King, I as a
machinist in a plastics factory; 3 to 11 P.M. shift. The balance of my days are filled
with sun 'n surf 'n Budwiser 'n conversing with the current--water and other choices.
Soon the Christmas season is rolling around an' we, #2 and I, decide to visit Georgia and
our folks. As we are preparing to leave a news broadcast interrupts our excitement to
inform us--and everyone else in Florida--that a hurricane is tracking towards us!
"A hurricane? Who cares! Giv' me another bud!!". . .
. . . 100 yards off the beach and the water is lapping at our door; around the tires of
our car; #2 and I are frantically stacking furniture. . .
EVACUATE!
Over the now crowded bridge to the mainland . . . then I-95 . . . then on to Georgia and
red-muddy clay.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS! . . . I stay with mom and pop and she . . . with her farmer folks who have
a 0 running water with fireplace heat . . .
. . . #2 an' I are returning to Florida, but, before we leave, I stop at a package store
an' pick up 24 tall Buds--Gotta have my friends, you know . . . helping me with my
choices! Well, folks, guess who I run into? Yea, you know, but I'm not telling . . . yet:
"Hey, wanna handfull of black R.J.'s (drugs / amphetamine / uppers / speed)--make the
trip back a quick one". . .
. . . 2 R.J.'s and a couple of Bud's brings on life in the fast lane with Cruise Control
set at the 100 mark . . .
(. . . 'But, alas, it shall soon prove that Life In The Fast Lane Cruise Control Don't
Make'. . .)
. . . 8 R.J.'s and 24 tall one's later, we are back on the beach in Florida an' a little
sand on the floor. In no-time at all it's back to Sun 'n Surf 'n Bud's 'n Conversation . .
. and a Hurricane Troy of speed!
#2 and her Burger King soap operas are driving me nuts--a continuing sizzling saga (pun
intended!). From 12 midnight till the dawn: "So and so did this and so and so. .
."
Yea, imagine, she is so lonely she's weaving soap operas in to our life to make
conversation . . .
(. . . 'or is it speed an' road kill!?' . . . )
. . . #2 is relating--"so and so"--and I've just lit a marijuana
"dubee". My first.
"So an' so". . .
I'm too stoned to care. I see the well, it's full--I can't jump
in . . . paranoia . . . I'll drown! Help! 'What's that?'--Blue lights flashing! "THE
COPS!" 'Got ta hide the stuff!!!'
Hours later I come to a realization: 'There are no cops--just dope.' Yea, I've come down
an' cannot get up . . . to where I stashed the damn stuff!
"Honey, where did I put the stuff?"
And . . . "So and so did this, and so and so did that"
. . .
"For God's sake woman, there's only a handfull of folks working at that there Burger
King?". . .
Dumping #2 was an easy choice. Or was it? Does it really matter?
('To her it did!
'O.K. mind, I agree! But was it not you who denied me the consciousness to understand and
except the feelings of others back then, only mine!? You know what I'm talking about? For
you swirl and confusion becomes my repast! Yes, I loved her! She meant so much to me!'
'You see, pay backs are CHOICE!'
'Yea, I know! 12 down an' 10 to go . . . BUT WHY, OH! JESUS! CAN YOU NOT TELL THEM I KNOW
NOW-I LOVE NOW-I NEED NOW-I KNOW I NEED AND LOVE AND HAVE CHOICES NOW!--I REPENT AND CRY
THOSE TEARS OF LONGING-OF RECTIFYING-OF RESTORING THE SIGHT OF THOSE BLINDED BY MY
GREED-MY SELFISHNESS-MY PAIN . . . I HAVE WROUGHT. . .')
* * *
. . . "Yo! Man! What the $%^# you wan'! Come on, wanna try a piece of me!" . . .
. . . Hear them crazies outside my tomb--yelling at each other? Yea, them echoes are
forever--and forever breaking my thoughts . . . my temporary insanity in a world of
permanent insanity . . .
. . ."SHUT THE HECK UP!! I'M TRYING TO THINK HERE!!! TELLING A STORY HERE!!!!".
. .
. . .Yea, that's better. Back to normal . . .
('In my mind that is'.)
. . . Why don't you imagine peace reflected by abnormal events perceived as normal. Yea,
that's right, like animals--we are. The cage has brought upon an evolution of the
perception of peace: one identifies with the violence of struggle and anger in here. Heck,
if it gets too peaceful then watch out, something is amiss! Yet I long to talk of better
things; of a better world; of CHANGES AND CHOICES! Yes, of changes.
Ninety-nine percent of the inmates in here would like to tell you they have changed; they
are ready for society; they plan to . . . but just listen to them, watch them! Proof? Yea,
I got their change--for I know change. To change, one must desire change; a base of
thought from which to begin their quest. Yep, those whom begin with the desire to change,
then choose the deep, dark, journey of self-conscious question and anawer in quest of
self-discovery, end changed. Yea, that's right, my journey brought a quest whose base for
existence was change; a base created through a desire founded in change; a change proven
by deeds; by words; by actions--as in TRUTH.
Yea, but now I live in tranquillity on the brink of horror. See it? Hear it? That is why I
have invited you into my tomb--full of thoughts--of mind. . .
(. . .'YOU MUST TELL OTHERS OF MY PLACE; OF MY THOUGHTS; OF MY CURE; OF MY HAPPINESS OF MY
QUEST TO EDUCATE!'. . .)
. . .Yea, I have gazed at the floor of my tomb to discover the truth I fought desperately
to hide. Yep, found it locked up, entombed as my body am I--in my mind, I was. Yea, a
quest's ending which beget beginnings--for once there, I had to dig deep and pull my youth
from the depths of life's debris; buried in an avalanche of 'cause and reaction to choice.
Yea, I know both change and choice! Yep, those POWERFUL words: CHANGE & CHOICE. Words
which brought me into the midst of this fierce battle where the victor rules over all . .
. consciousness and unconscious. . . Hey, are you there? Oh, still on my right. I was
afraid I bored you--you know, your waiting for action. Well I got some coming up, soon:
Crystal-Meth Labs and Porches! But first, see, down there, our reflections, see? They
mingle as one now . . . our memories! We are now forever joined, you and I, linked in
memories until death. . .
(. . .'If a butterfly flaps its wings in Australia, will it spawn a hurricane in Miami?
Old question new butterfly!'. . .)
. . .By the way, the noise . . . does it not bother you? Seems people in here can only win
an argument by demonstrating who's the loudest! Perhaps I should resume our journey. Yea,
help drown the commotion by being a little louder. . .
* * *
It's '73 and most of the guys have done moved on up: Remmy is dealing; word is Dean is
hittin' the big times; Troy an' I? Best of friends. . .
Yea, Troy is now 6'2" an' 220. "Top Bubba" in the County; rumored to have
fought Willy Sunday McDurn . . . and his brother--both at the same time! Yea, was at the
Winder American Legion. But anyway, we began as drinking an' "party" buddies an'
grew into business partners. Roofers an' we're fast!--have to be to make the bucks. . .
(. . . 'But soon the bucks brought you know what . . .')
. . .We're renting an apartment,yea, an' the parties are wild. An' the women?--young and
easy. No sleep anymore: purple pills the size of a watch--Desoxen. Speed, if you will. It
begins on the weekends. Friday night till Sunday night. But soon, Sunday becomes Monday.
Then Monday becomes Tuesday.
Then . . . it waxes weeks on end . . . to those swift, dependable roofers. . .
. . . an' it's Friday night again at the VFW. Two purples apiece. Our brains are jumping;
random thoughts burning their neural pathways like race cars on that there drag strip of
years gone by. I'm wearing jeans an' a leather vest--which the bouncer don't like. We go
to my car where I put on a shirt under the vest before going back.
Once in, I go directly to the bar for a Bud--slow that brain you know! Troy disappears
only to reappear and inform me that Remmy has an ounce of reefer--Red Bud. Up until now my
experience with pot was limited--but we're flying, so I walk out, pay the twenty, an' put
it under the dash in the car. Returning to the VFW I meet some chick who gives me the eye.
Soon we're party animals, so I tell Troy I'm leaving with her and will come back latter to
get him. He says he will get a ride, to go on.
The chick and I party at the apartment till 1 A.M. when I begin to worry: Troy hasn't come
back and the VFW closed at 12 A.M. So, we load up and head out to find him. About a half
mile from the apartment a legion of County Mounties, both clean an' full dressed, lights
flashing, sirens popping, surround the car.
"Out of the vehicle--Now!", the detective orders.
We get out and them there heat go straight for the dash, reach
under, and pull that ounce of pot from its recesses?!
"What is this?"
"I don't know!"
"It looks like pot to me!"
"I don't know how it got there!"
"Listen wise-ass, you are headed down a dark road! Yes, and
I'm the only one who can light the way! YOU LISTENING OR WHAT!!"
"Yea, I can hear ya."
"Hey, smart ass, my names Sessions. Got that?
S-E-S-S-I-O-N-S!! I'm going to keep an eye on you--YOU HEAR ME!!! You're not the first one
that's made their momma cry."
A grand, one years probation, and wondering how they found the stuff later, my CHOICE
track record has begun. . .
* * *
I've made a lot of contacts in the drug world: "Try them, its only THC from pot in
pill form" . . .
That's Nolin, remember? Yep, Gramps an' peaches and boots an' silk hankies Nolen? Yep, my
second cousin; mom's cousin. More like an older brother/father to me. Never lied to me.
Steady worker. Money. Sharp as a ten-dollar-razor! Works at G.M in Lakewood--where most of
his choice drug contacts are.
". . . its only THC from pot in pill form. If you sell them
two bucks each."
Well, enticing [he] is. . .
He don't slow down non an' soon tells it all: "The process
originates at Georgia Tech; finished product to Phil--a scooter tramp who owns a bar at
Fort Mac; then to me; then you--$35 per hundred [if you take a thousand]."
. . .I Do!
One tablet blurs the vision; two crosses your eyes; three . . . well, you see out the back
of your head. I got one thousand on the cuff: CREDIT. Imagine that, credit!
* * *
Making money hand over fist. Parties all over again--in an apartment with black lights,
posters, walls painted flat black, and a bedroom with a solitary waterbed. . .
The usual: twenty of us smoking dope, downing THC, drinking . . . in a trance 24 hours a
day. No wonder my last companion left me . . .
('or was it 'cause of Cindy?')
. . .so, like I was saying, twenty in here and "KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! SEARCH
WARRANT!!!"
Its the police . . .
FOR REAL!?
Yea, it was for real: Police are everywhere! Yea, an' I'm toooo
stoned to care--like an out of body experience. You know, watching them search the place;
everybody. Stacks of illegal stuff piling on the floor. Yea, this is it! Twenty ounces of
pot! . . .
('And eight more over the carport!')
. . . yea, an' I'm thinking gone when . . . UH OH! THEY DISCOVERED THE SAWED OFF SHOTGUN
UNDER THE COUCH! . . .
Yea, man. I kept getting away and away and away. A slap on the wrist. A little cash here
and there from Mom & Dad! Gramps and his pull and "I fought for you a zillion
times." Yea, I had a great run. Well, this is the big one . . . Wait a minute, what
did he ask? Who's that? . . .
. . . "Wait a minute, your search warrant is wrong! I'm on the lease, yea me,
Rogers--the address is wrong too!!!". . .
The cops are white faced. "Hold it, this apartment belongs to so and so!". . .
. . . Here it goes again. It's so and so all over . . ."I can prove it!" I say,
making for my papers . . .
. . . "You will all have to leave. . .but the stuff stays!" The detective
demands as twenty stoned zombies make swift for the door--before they get called back.
. . .Yea, like I waz stating, an outer body experience. . .
(. . . 'Yea! Bullet Proof!'. . .)
* * *
You still here? Oh my, funny how things occur. Here we are on page ummmmm--well, we're
just at the beginning. Yea, I gotta give you the background before we go on to the big
stuff--wait until you see what happens in the lab! Yea, an' what happens to . . . wait,
I'm getting ahead of myself! You know, before I was hounded by the GBI, FBI, and DEA, I
had to acclimate. Know what I'm saying? You see, one straight-shot story a criminal don't
make-it takes a journey, you know? And now, for you, I travel that road in reverse.
Reverse to go forward. Reverse to offer change. Reverse to my beginnings . . . to begin
anew. Wow! Incredible what staring at this floor will do. Very spiritual and stimulating.
Calls for advice. You listening or what!?. . .
. . . "One seeks the way unto God as if one were in the midst of the war-torn fields
of old: all that one sees affects him--burning an impression upon his being.
These impressions 'cause one to develop a distinct outlook concerning the spiritual path.
But, one must discard personal outlook . . . becoming selfless--an empty vessel. This
vessel is placed into the storm--it may be filled with the wind; the rain--or just the
sounds of the storm echoing within it. When man becomes an empty vessel, searching for
truth, he is filled with that truth. Whether it is a quiet, humble truth, or a raging
inferno, moving one to true actions. One obtains truth, experiences truth . . . becomes
the art of truth!". . .
. . . Great Stuff? Heh? Got my real education in here; even a Doctorate in Theology! One
of my truly great choices: Rehabilitation! Education! Motivation! Yea, the stimulation of
boredom (one is stimulated by boredom to do whatever it takes to cease their monotony)
beget the education which provoked the stimulus to motivate me to stare at the floor and
look inwards and outwards!. . .
('"But, 12 down an' 10 to go", says Doc.
"An apple a day shall keep me away", says the Patient.
"But, there is no fresh fruit! Just a bunch of
canned-social-leavings! Patient, multiplying bacteria is infecting all of the
"fresh" ones the minute they arrive--all packaged and sweet!" says the Doc.
"But I need some fresh fruit!" says the Patient.
"Look, over there . . . that's B.J.. Came in here at 19
years of age, back when I first arrived. Remember? Back when I carried my anger and blame
like a bright-red neon banner of hate? Yea, fresh means battles! Yea, B.J. came in sooo
sweeet! He left carrying his own banner! Yea, left infected and returned twice-infected!
Now he's just another bad apple dropped back into this can infecting others! You see,
fresh fruit is extremely rare; they have to have lots of care when they begin their
growth, you know? Not enough care produces just too many of them damn bad
apples!!" so cried the Doc. '. . .)
* * *
Remember the Cindy I thought of? Well, she is 15 and pregnant: married once more--Looking
For A Mother Figure Or What!?
(. . .'Yea, one thing's for sure in the South of my South, there's always a thing going
about our women. Sort of like "Days of Our Lives" or something! Yea, this one
after that one while with this one's after that one while that one is with that one who is
after that one . . . on . . . an' . . . on! . . .')
Yea, so I'm married an' living with Cindy for a week (yea, can you believe this is for
real or what?) when she miscarries . . .
('GOD protect thy children.')
. . . Two weeks later I miss the first 100 tabs of THC--I ask but no one knows. . . (Am I
going nuts or what?)
Another 100 come up missing--now I begin to really wonder!
With one car between us, Cindy has been dropping me off at 3 PM and picking me up at
eleven PM, from work. . .
('. . . Yea, even with all the bread coming in I got to work, you see. Yea, I'm thinking
of that big fat lie: "All drug dealers make money!" Well, for all of them out
there whom think that 'cause that cat got the dough and is living large he is "making
it", think again! Most dealers become users, or have associates who become users. The
high only lasts a short time. That's right, even the money high--an' soon the devil takes
his own . . .')
. . .but I need some bucks 'cause it's Friday and I decide to party an'. . .
(. . .'I make this decision most often!'. . .)
. . .I go to a friends house to drop some stuff off and he inquires: "Your new wife,
why's she always in the Huddle House Restaurant with that dude at nine, every night? Yea,
an' how come your charging a duce a piece for the stuff when she's moving it for a buck a
pop?"
. . . Single and partying
Cindy tries to follow and apologize . . . but I see myself in her, yea, know what I'm
talking about? I ask her to quit following me three times!
She don't quit!. . .
. . .I find myself placing a loaded .38 to her head and telling her "if I ever see
you. . . "
* * *
You know, this is what I'm telling you about: a world-wide, evil soap opera--with half the
cast residing in these here tombs--you know? YEA! THIS IS WHAT I'M TELLING YOU ABOUT!
Real-live-back-stabbing-snitches-thieves an' murderers whom prostitute themselves--an'
others! Yea, the criminal drug culture! At its
lowest.
That's me. . .
. . .a drug dealing druggie--the worst kind: on my way into 12 in
an' 10 to go!
But do I see it?
[To] hell [I go] no!
Pure craziness!
That's what I'm saying!
Yea, the first time I pulled a gun and would have used it . . .
. . . SOOOOO EAASSSSYYYY!
'cause I got the power!
I'm right, right?
('See what I'm talking about? So easy. Different strokes for different, crazy folks! The
old me I'm thinking about. IMAGINE THAT! You know, you can see them obvious choice
patterns. Yea, my reputation is growing an' it don't take long before The Big Guy's gonna
hear me! That's what I'm doin, setting up a Choice-Killers-His-Story!')
Chapter Five: The Mafia Began In Dixie!
The drugs are kicking my butt. Not feeling so good. I think it's those tab's: THC. Oh yea,
remember Nolin? Said they waz refined pot? I said he was "honest"? Remember that
there article, U.S. News and Report? Well, they're tranquilizers-Powerful and Devastating!
. . . Yea, way out in left field now: shoulder length hair; Grateful Dead; Deep Purple;
Alice Cooper; Z Z Top; smoking dope; tab's; beer--bathing on occasion . . . it rains or
something!
. . .in my twenties and . . . the "she"? Well, it's a new one. Peggy. 15 looking
20. Yea, you know, I definitely got to have them young: gotta be the boss you know. She's
the youngest of three of the hottest sisters in the county! The sister of Troy's wife.
Yea, you remember him: the smoking-
baptismal-on-the-run-roofing-veteran-of-the-Willy-Sunday-McDurn-War-at-the-VFW? Yea, and
speaking of VFW, sometimes old wars become new wars: Grandpa used to run shine, had a
moonlit still! Peggy's dad sold shine, for Gramps; owed Gramps a bundle--then got locked
up and blamed Gramps for not bonding him out--wonder why, DUH!
(. . . 'Anyway, forget those shine wars, heck, we got a new generation with shine floors!
12 in an' 10 to go, Dixie-Mafia coming up soon'. . .)
. . .Peggy's mom has heard the news: her daughter and I!
Like a banshee she is!
Chasing me everywhere!
Calling everywhere!
Showing up everywhere!
Watching everywhere. . .
. . . Sis, Denise, making our rendezvous work!
Yea, she's now a teen and helping me with my relationship
. . . making the meets work . . .
. . .Today, Peggy's mom got involved in a car chase.
Yea. A car chase . . .
one with my sister--
mad 'cause she discovered Denise was arranging the rendezvous . .
.
. . .Denise steaming. . .
. . .that is--
after she lost the banshee!. . .
. . .Banshee won't let up. . .
. . .We, Peggy and I, snatch the drugs and, with Troy's wife in tow--she with someone
other than Troy (See, I told you: The Young And The Restless or what?--split the roost to
the Dixie-Town Party Town!: PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA!
. . .Doing construction work and partyyyyyy!--until the drugs, well, they run out . . .
Nolin drives to Panama City for his bucks. Yea, all the way to collect my debt! I got some
and give him what I got, it satisfies him--but I can see the look in those girls faces
when he and his crew (and their dope) packup to leave.
Yea, an' along with Nolin goes my charisma. Yea, it leaves with them. Uh huh, I'm only
King Pin when the dope flows. Yep, when dope flows the women flow. Yet, along with Nolin
goes something else: my reputation for taking care of business! Yea, The Big Guy, you
know? No? Well, jus' you wait 'cause, meanwhile, back to Atlanta we go--yea, Peggy can do
more drugs than me! . . .
(. . . 'Choices, I'm talking about, yea, choice! I chose to be outgoing, not introverted!
Yea, I chose to be popular! I chose to be Outgoing!! Yea, well, OUTGOING I desired an'
outgoing we went!!!'. . .)
* * *
Are you ready? Listening? Come closer . . . I don't want everybody to hear this. . .
. . .I often hear so much of the "Wiseguys" of the Italian Mafia. Yea, those
fedora and leather strap-down guys? Code of Silence an' stuff? Yea, you know what I'm
talking about! Well, these Southern Boys I'm gonna talk about have been Mafiaing long
before the likes of Don Maranzano and Lucky Luciano. Yea, long before the Civil War, even!
And, they're still here: SILENT and STRONG!
In fact, you can drive by an old shack-looking-building on
Highway 29, in Lawrenceville, Georgia, and see a guy weighing 300 or so pounds sitting on
a dilapidated porch, hands gently clasped over his protruding belly, chewing tobacky while
rocking in tune to a hoard of flies buzzing his head like an army of dedicated, miniature
sawmills. He'll probably still be wearing a faded and stained, green-checked shirt over
tan khaki (looking like they should have been retired long before the depression). Yea,
an' you'll think nothing of him, of the whole picture! But, lurking behind that
illustrated facade is an evil, creative mind; a skilled surgeon in the throws of intrigue.
Yep, for in his world, his pleasures are few and easy. His minions will include crooks;
dealers; contractors--both the building and "wrecking" kinds; cowboys; farmers;
housewives; lovers and losers; business men; policemen; bondsman; politicians.
Yea, he wields more power in his world than twenty Dons in twenty
cities all put together! Yea, an' some of his partners are those very Italians . . . and
Jews; Christians; Moslems; Atheists--Black, White, Yellow and Brown Peoples of all races,
cultures . . . CHOICES!
Oh, and yea, more than a few Sheriffs to boot . . . for he is a Godfather: his soldiers
choose to be brothers in brotherhood. Yea, The Old South Has Risen Again: Loyalty;
Dependability; Unwavering Brotherhood I'm talking about!
Yea, here are them choices again. That's what I'm actually
talking about. Choices! For my introduction to the "Big Guy" and his "Good
Ole' Boys" will come at a cost one-hundred fold the despair and wrongs I have thus
far perpetuated against my friends; their friends; my girl friends; yea, even my family.
Yea, more than I had ever done or could ever imagine; heartache is minor compared to the
devastation which shall be wrought in The Brotherhood--devouring many of those whom you
have met--and will meet! Most shall be promptly vanquished, some will linger a'while. . .
. . . ultimately. . .
. . .it will devour me!
Yea, 12 down an' 10 to go . . .
* * *
Welcome to Winder, Georgia, and the River Rats . . .
Yea, the Good Ole' Boys Network--connecting the bodies buried in
the red-clay with the Dixie-Mafia . . . yep, the Good Ole' Boy's Network; a loosely
structured organization made up of small cells or groups--yea, like those spy stories
where the Top Dogs hardly ever get caught! Yep, them Top Dogs are the Dixie-Mafia. They
supply cash, connections, an' heavy work when needed--yet one can be connected an' do
their own thing; leverage against those not with the boys! No weekly meetings, check-ins
or dominance . . . but just remember, "you don't refuse a call or do against the
Brotherhood" once you are excepted! Yea, strictly capitalism an' pure business--with
plenty of mergers! An', when one is merged, he don't complain none--'cause all complaints
are settled swift an' silent like.
There is no initiation as such into this Brotherhood, just a proving ground on which one
travels on up that vague, dusty road of criminal endeavor an' finally gets introduced.
Yep, it's like they know everything about you; your background; what you've done; who you
know and who you've done; whose your relations an' relatives. Yea, proven relatives carry
weight. Like Gramps an' Nolin. Yea, like I say, it's reputation what gets you noticed, an'
introduction what gets you invited.
Yea, like I say, reputation what begins your journey . . . but proving that reputation
secures it. I done got the first an' am working on the second. Yep, thanks to Nolin's
intro, I got both the Big Guy's nod an' his cash! But, so many of my buddies. . .
(. . .'those jealous ones who wish they could be in as I'm in'. . .)
. . .keep telling me about bodies buried in the red clay slopes of Winder. Yea, bodies of
others and brothers . . . of the brotherhood . . . but, you know, I think: 'Heck, all I'm
gonna do is make some bucks! Yea, an' what's death got to do with that?'
I mean, I'm not a virgin to violence or nothing, but death death?
Yea, something I'm not familiar with.
Yea. Then I think: 'Those brothers must have deserved it.'
Yea, they had to really do something wrong . . . I'll just
River-Rat my way into some bucks an' stop after I get mine . . .
. . . There's a mix of us here boys making things turn: from die-hard, extreme, top-up
Dixie-Hitters such as Ronald Buck--eventual Dixie-Mafia bomber of the She Club in
Atlanta--to bottom-down renegade mercenaries like Dean "The Bully" Raymond--now
pot smuggler/dealer an' Cowboy Contractor who likes to kill using anything he can get his
hands on. It's been told he can wield an ax (to chop up P.K.)or car jack (to crush M.D.)
as quick as a Hawkbill Queen's Steel or Smith & Wesson--yea, an' Dean stays alive an'
kicking 'cause of his network of fear, intimidation, and the unpredictable Cowboy Plowboys
he tends to associate with! Yea, an' then there's that part of that concoction which
includes me: I'm what's called a River-Rat. Yea, mid-level runner, dealer, an' smuggler
like Ronnie L., Remmy, Johnny, an' Mike. Yea, Johnny an' Mike have been acquainting me
with some of the work. Yea, the Mexican an' Canadian portion of the Network's massive
international drug smuggling an' money laundering operations. Check it out, I've been
introduced to some of the Network's bankers an' contacts! Yea, I'm gonna learn as much as
I can in as short of a time an' then . . . the big times!
Well, until them there times, I gotta take time to listen and pay attention to everything
Mike an' Johnny say an' do--yea, like those Italians, I'm being groomed. . .
. . ."We lost that plane-load over at Winder Airport two weeks ago." Johnny
states matter of fact.
"And last week, Andy and his plane went down in the
mountains . . . found it shot up. Andy's extra fuel tank--a "Waterbed" he
customized for the trip--peppered with bullet holes," Mike adds.
"Reasoned it happened sometime before or after his turn offshore into Jacksonville .
. . You know the heat wouldn't cop to that one!"
"Heck no! But, check it out, HE MADE THE DROP! Yea, the
mules had a front seat. They were picking up the bales he dropped before he went down;
heard the sputter of his engine before he plumb dropped from the sky."
Johnny and Mike continue their story ending with: "So we're
gonna use a land route an' The big Guy sez for Bo-Pee here to make his cut". . .
( . . .'To Mexico. Fully paid! Mike, Johnny . . . and yours, truly loyal: me . . . making
dem "bones" as the wiseguys up north say'. . . )
. . . Brownsville, Texas. No ID--but the usual twenty and we're in an' Halfway to Monterey
and some Federales . . . their sitting in one of Mexico's "green gas" service
stations waving us in; curious as cats on the hunt--maybe green Gringos you know? . . .
He's pointing to one of the loose speaker boxes hooked to the
stereo. It's a problem: there is a pistol hidden inside!
"Hey, Mike, turn the stereo up." I whisper through my
smile as I lift it up and hand it to him . . .
Jethro Tull is Screaming "Got Them By The B---s!" as the green flash of a twenty
fractures his slush-dripping smirk into a cheerful, slush-dripping smile. He throws the
thing back an' waves us down the road. . .
( . . .'Yea, memories I recall by the dark slimy stuff dripping from the corners of his
mouth an' onto that there twenty'. . .)
( The following sung to the tune of "On the first day of Christmas! )
"On the first day of smuggling Good Ol' Boys gave to me, One Monterey, Mexico. Two
pockets full of cash! Three happy Gringos! A four lane black top road. Five pockets full
of Pesos--each pocket to the Dollar!"
. . . Yea, three Gringos, pockets full of paper, cruising a four top with plans when a
brown-shirt Mexican police officer begins blowing his whistle and waving us over. . .
('My first trip and already I think the planes are a much better idea-bullet holes or
not!')
. . ."$&^%*&^^(^(*(*^*"
"What he say?", I ask Mike.
"We illegally changed lanes."
"We didn't change lanes illegally? What's up man?"
"*(&^%$@#%$%*&^((*&*%#@$#@!^%"
"What he say", I ask again.
"Give him a ride to the police station so he can charge
us."
"Give him a ride to the police station so he can charge us?
ENOUGH OF THIS $%^#!", I shout as I pull a wad of Mexican pesos from my pocket and
peel off a handfull (yea, I'm learning to bite on this here tooth-cutting trip!).
"Bastante, NO!" He demands.
Rolling off notes.
"Bastante, NO!" He continues to shout. . .
. . .I keep rolling until he motions for the wad!. . .
('It's the same everywhere!')
(The following sung to the tune "Oh, give me a home!)
"Oh, give me a plane, instead of this pain, an' the sky
isn't risky at all!"
. . . We stop in a bar to kill some time before we meet our guide. We have one drink each
(good thing 'cause a short time later we have to grab for the steering wheel 'cause Mike
was slipped a "Mickey" )and leave to pick up our "guide" our at the
"arch" (a traffickers secret rendezvous).
Our guide and we head south to a small village on top of a mountain. Local top-cop handles
all transactions: Pot, $8.00 per pound. Cocaine, $28.00 per gram. Same price no-matter the
quantity! Yea, like I said, the same everywhere!
We make a deal but decide to wait until we call for a plane to
carry the dope on the return trip. Yea, we're not stupid, between browns and greens and
spittle down the lips, a plane is gonna make the return trip!
I call: "We'll get back."
I call: "Just hold on."
I call: "Too close to the International Airport. It's their radar, can't get close
enough to the ground. . . "
. . . I'm mad enough to eat nails: Three weeks and 14 large ends with a pilot with cold
feet and me with broken "bones".
Nobody speaks on the return drive to Brownsville where I wire more funds via Western
Union.
* * *
New deal. Yep! The time has arrived for sure-fire change! Forget Mike an' Johnny! Yea man,
you guessed it: after the fiasco in Tex-Mex, I'm approved running solo on full charge--why
should I share with them?
Yea, from one climate to another, I go . . . from Sun 'n' Shine
to Blow 'n' Snow -- the flaky, GIANT, WET, an' COLD kind!
Yea, Detroit, Michigan: Chemical Capitol Of The World--settin' up
a deal for the boys back home an' catching a return flight: A pound of D.M.T.!. . .
. . .Back in Atlanta I pick up some Good Ole' financing: 8 thou. . .
an' I make another trip--in a new Thunderbird. Cruise Control. Moon roof. The works!. . .
an' I'm moving cruising outgoing on up. . .
an' back to Detroit. . .
an' the US/Canadian Border...
an' a large and beautiful cabin with four fireplaces, polished wood paneling, homemade
furniture . . .
an' a Detroit river the ole' bootleggers used in the late twenties to bring in the booze
floods right on up through the carport . . .
an' mules who purchase the D.M.T. legally in Canada gotta use snow mobiles. .
an' canoes to deliver the goods!. . .
an' chemists who teach me how to cook D.M.T.. . .
an' I become a bona fide chef!
an' my specialty is D.M.T.--right off the cooker!. . .
an' . . . PHEW!. . . for some reason, my minds out of breath?!!!
\* * *
. . .Back in Atlanta. Peggy has tried my "cooking"--D.M.T. rolled up in a Kool
cigarette: 2 minutes and her pupils vanish!. . .
.
Yea, I'm finally straight! Done paid the eight grand--an' all in large notes--plus $23000
profit! Yep, $64000 an' The Brotherhood gets $33.000.00 right off the top. Yea, The Big
Guy is looking with a smile an' calls me "The Wizard"! Yea, my new name is
Wizard! Yep, the Big Guy's nodding and my Boys are connecting everywhere. I now have a
whole list of goodies for sale. I got guys off-loading all over town! Things are CHOICE!
Yea, CHOICE . . . that is . . . until Troy, now one of my crew, decides to sell to some
chick he ain't got a rhythm about! Yea, not a single stand-up to say who she is!
Now, the first thing you learn in this business is to know whose who. Yea, like check it
out. Well, Troy tells me about some chick named Susan B. She tells him she wants 100 Lb.
of pot and 100 hits of Acid. I tell him it's a lot of bread for the area. Like, one person
dealing that size I would know, you know?
My mind tossing and turning, I have Troy call her to confirm while, on a hunch, I call the
Big Guy's man with the local police (Undercover police drug work was relatively new in
Georgia. With so much coming in, the cops were using old moon-running-busting techniques
an' many took it upon themselves to get a bust.):
"Yea, Wizard calling for a Susan B?"
"She can't come to the phone right now, can I take a
message?"
I immediately call Troy: "Yep, the lady's out!"
"But I already made two sales of D.M.T. to her!"
I hang up and go to a secure phone to call The Big Guy. Got to
explain: it hurts--but it could be fatally painless if I don't! So, I jump to a pay-phone
and call. Someone picks up and after I give him my number, I'm told to wait, he'll call
back.
There I am, at some lost in the boon docks phone booth, waiting an hour, when the phone
rings. I pick it up after five--the custom, you know.
"Yep."
"Drink some lemonade for a while! An' the boy--he gotta go
underground!. . ."
'Underground--not in the ground! PHEW!'
". . .Take this 202# . . . to a computer bank in Maryland.
Use it before using any line to call anyone. Get a busy signal, hang up and use another
line!" Click.
He knew already: The Street-Wire you know!
Troy's under and I move the last of my D.M.T. for 11 large and chill out; gotta, those
were the orders.
* * *
You still with me?. . .
I knew you were. Didn't I tell you it was gonna get better? A lot
of ground work in a short time, Eh? Yea, gotta save your memory for the big one!
You know, sometimes I stare at these floors and think 'What would it be like if there were
other colors mixing and mingling upon my canvass; bright, happy, cheerful colors?' You
know? If my choices were different? Or rather, if I made the proper choices. Yea, that's
what I'm saying. The purpose of our being: To light the dawn with an array of vibrant
color; assisting others to paint their own canvass; become masters--teaching others.
Yea, your choices eventually are colored by your deeds. But, as far as the Network went,
loyalty was more than a personal choice an' color. Yea, the Network's loyalty is a choice
whose memory is the color of black death! Yea. Colors. Colors. Those Colors of memory . .
. choices that I'm thinking about.
Well, got to get back to the journey, you know. There's a gale a blowing and you gotta
hold on! . . . Here, have a seat . . . I'll move over--come on, I don't bite!
. . There, that's betta, huh? Yea, I know, it's awfully hard, ain't it? Yea, it's HARD
TIME AND I'VE BEEN SLEEPING ON IT FOR 12 YEARS . . . AN' I GOT TEN MORE TO GO!
Chapter Six: Widows In Black
Must be a sign we're moving on up: Dean an' his plowboys gettin' jealous--word is Nolin,
Troy, an' you know who, are hurtin' his business! Yea, but I think his rosey memory is
'cause for his thoughts--know what I'm saing? Yea, but we ain't got no time for that there
dime! Heck no! We've got all kinds of business and the dough is flow; even opened a car
lot in Loganville--though trying to get a dealers license in my name is proving rough
'cause of the felony stuff . . . Yea, Nolin and I are now straight up . . . partners: in
the lot . . . an' a Mexican import business they don't give no licenses for. . .
. . .Yea, Nolin, like Troy, is now as close ta me as fleas on a houn'. Yea, closer then
brothers could be! But there is a difference 'tween us. Though he's connected an' deals
like me, unlike me, he carries himself with respect for others; always giving--a true drug
dealing Robin Hood!
While I'm not white-washing motive nor fact of his ways or what we do, we both have it in
our blood from generations ago; some how inbred--what we are doin. Like Moon Running Shine
of the olden days, the demand side was up. We're talking capitalism and bootlegging. Old
man Kennedy did it an' his son became the Pres . . . an the word is alcohol done did more
in then any other drug ever will! So, I'm OK with the whole thing. You gotta show me a
slippery slope before you throw the mud. Yea, prove to me that drugs an' dealing kills.
HA!! Drunken drivers an' mad drunken husbands with guns what kills! Yea, that's what The
Big Guy sayz!
Yea, I know you cannot equate all this stuff. But, believe me,
I'm not using excuses, only facts. . . you know. Who has time to think of the other guy?
Heck, he's making his own choices! Know what I'm saying? Their addictions and miseries are
caused by their own actions. Pain is relative you know, 'cause I got my own--an' that's
'cause enough to run the tide's ride!
Yea, but speaking of Nolin an' tides, imagine this, he keeps trying to limit my intake.
Yea, the one that got me really going is preaching all the time about my consumption
leading to problems. Yea, but I keep tellin' 'im "it's only a rollar-coaster ride an'
I'm having the time of my life just riding the hell out of it!". . .
Well, just wanted to tell you of Nolin carrying my well being in
his heart: can't seem to destroy it no matter what I do--unlike everyone else I come
a'near ta . . . Yea, if it weren' for him, I'd sure-enough be in the Big House or Nut
House by now . . .
* * *
. . . 'in the dark, steamy, humid Jungle a rollarcoaster rides: fast and furious--winding
around and around and around in the deep, dark, humid Jungle . . . A screaming!!!
"SOMEONE'S GOTTA KILL IT!" In the front seat . . . with a giant, stainless steel
stiletto . . . LARGE . . . cutting away the Jungle--SLASH: "STOP" . . . screams
bay urgently to cease! "STOP! STOP! STOP!" An' cut. . .cut. . .cut I CUT . . .
"OH! NO! NO!" IN MY MIND THAT JUNGLE IS IN MY OWN MIND DESTROYING MIND'. . .
. . .The hallucinations started the second I licked the dust from a butter knife I had
used to chop the latest D.M.T.. Fuzzy, it began, everything in my sight, then brown, no
black or white--only brown! I lay down. . .
Sooooo Stroooong!. . .
Run a bath and jump in! WASH! WASH! SCRUB! 'Gotta peel this here
%$%^ off!' . . . NO GO . . .!
Won't stop! Try lifting weights! Too high!
Drink some booze. . .drink. . .drink. . .drink. . .still the
same!
. . .Nolin stops by: pissed off--"You gotta stop this %$^#! We're supposed to be
running a business! Your killing yourself! Your profits going up in smoke. Your systems so
saturated you are overdosing before you begin!"
"OK . . . Brother Keeper, OK!" . . .
but it goes on and on. . .
for 7 days!. . .
Yea, for 7 days I'm reading minds. . .
. . . and Jesus: if you save me this time, I will handle the next one!!!
But it only continues . . .
to Underground Atlanta. . .
where I'm fried and refried and jump from a train . . .
. . . bust the entire foot: everything below the doggone ankle!
. . .Nolin: to Northside Hospital, to Dr. Richard Hurd, to the folks, to get $3700.00, and
surgery, pins, and a cast to the knee later put Humpty Dumpty slightly crooked together
again. . .
"CHILL OUT!" (The Big Guy!)
. . .had to move the business to Snellville on my Pop's land. Built a 40x60 shop. It's
cars and construction once more. But I know you know by now that stuff never really works
for me! In fact, me an' Nolin are still going as strong as ever: the business of cars and
construction makes good cover!
Troy's underground. His estranged wife is staying with Peggy and I: loyalty you know--or
The Young an' The Restless. And, though he's been hiding out with Robby--you know, Robby
of the "Half-Breed Wizard"--he's just arrived from Brunswick. He's gonna spend
the afternoon--ticked off--with his kids while I finish bagging 5 Keys of pot into
pounders and ounces.
After completing my endeavor, I place an ounce inside a speaker and leave him and the
others to visit while I load up and make my deliveries. . .
. . .The following morning I'm awakened by someone in Military Fatigues tapping on my
bedroom window.
'Now, who in the heck is this guy?' "Who's there?" I
question him through the glass.
"Jerry sent me . . . got some weed?"
"Jerry who!?" Something's definitely wrong: I reach for
my 12 gauge as Mr. Army guy pulls a 9mm and screams for me
to open the door.
By now Peggy is standing there, in her bra and undies, freaking
out: she's sure we're gonna get dead!
The Guy is shouting ". . .open the damn door and put a hurry
to it!"
Peggy trying to get dressed but the guy is relentless. .
."POLICE, OPEN THE $%$#^&%$ DOOR!!!"
She relents and opens the door. . .
Immediately we are overwhelmed by a platoon of assorted cops.
They rush into the bedroom where I am standing: twenty guns aimed at poor, faultless,
virtuous, blameless, inculpable me!
. . . A convention of cops ransacking the place, breaking and tearing everything to shreds
in their determination to find something. A shout identifies that someone has found my
"kitchen" (triple beam scale-lactose-baggies-etc). But they don't find my dope.
Detective Sessions (rememba' my nemesis?) picks up the
speaker--I'm just freaking out!--looks at it before placing it down and orders them to
continue searching.
"Got a hit!" shouts from the bedroom--They discovered a
shoulder holster and pistol with its serial numbers ground off (Collateral for a loan to a
friend!).
Charged with possession of contraband I take the fall: arrested, booked, and questioned .
. .
. . . After a grueling interrogation as to my associates, I'm bonded out by Pops. Yea,
he's there prompt-like, before even The Big Guy knows! (Yea, place the blame but never the
credit!) He came through like he had on numerous occasions. Should have left me in, but he
loved me. Thought he was doin the right thing. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Yet, had he
left me in, would I'd be in here anyway? . . . Well . . . you know it--and still blaming
him! Like I said earlier, blaming those who love you for not loving you!
* * *
(. . .'I don't wanna play, cried Bobby' . . .)
Stop staring at the floor! Yea, we gotta talk this out, me an' you! Got to figure this
thing out! You know? Your the straight one--looking in from the outside. Help me make this
decision, why don't you? Yea, I know it's a done did deal: what happened. But this is the
world of memory. You know? A place one travels to discover the past to change the
future--not solely mine, but others who are brinking it. You know, on the verge of
becoming patients of the system: Fresh Fruit, you know? What do you think of Troy? Have'
ya been paying attention? Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?. . .
Yea. So what does it take to think things out? Remember that bag of pot that was under the
dash? Troy was the only one that knew! Yea, and that DOGONE Susan B. stuff? Fishy . . .
until this one! Yea! Wow! You know, it ain't that I'm not bright, you know! Jus' that I
never thought about it! TROY? Man, it can't be him! MY BEST DOGONE FRIEND! MY BROTHER!
But 2 + 2 does make 4 x 3 an' your out . . . though . . . looking for the snitch--while
trying to convince your logic that Spock sense it does not make. Yea, talking of the
snitch! Bitching of the snitch! As the Wiseguys sez, the streets begin to talk . . .
"remittance of retribution!" Oh! It's not your fault, is it?'
But your best friend? He is waz like your BROTHER!
Oh! Yea! But: I have forsaken my own family for him and others!
That there brotherhood I'm talking about! Put down, Crap down, Slap down! Always taking!
That selfishness that one denies . . . until the sorreeeez break through 'cause you need
them: those whom have stood on the ends of their ropes throwing the shrinking line to you;
rescuing your drowning tears and then? You Put down an' Crap down an' Slap down! Gluttony
for punishment you cry in the denial of blame by placing blame.
"Yea, waz them there the ones who asked for it! What the
hey! They did'n have ta do nuttin', did they?"
Yea, but, meanwhile, the streets were a buzzing with excitement
an' rumor! Even Dean waz wetting his lips! Yea, sayin' stuff like it waz Nolin an' Troy
an' stuff. Yea, that Nolin was fed up with my abuse an' used Troy! Like right! Yea! But
whose gonna listen? Yea, Dean jus' a'talkin' an' Troy deeeeep underground!
(. . . 'Yea, but I did keep looking . . . didn't I . . . ? Yea, talking all over--not
direct threats, you know, just inquiring ones! But, it's all over the DOGONE place! All
over Atlanta, Lawrenceville, Snellville, Lilburm, Winder, Brunswick. . . yea, an all over
The Big Guy!'. . .)
* * *
Yep, like I was remembering, I looked for what seemed like a good long time while waiting
for my own look at the judge and another felony--the first time ever in Georgia a gun with
altered serial numbers goes to the books as contraband and is tried and won! Yea, one for
the records and books--and a 5 year prison sentence . . . only 'cause Shine-Running Gramps
was Court Bailiff and Big Guy had a pull did I luck out and get all but 30 days actual
time suspended and 4 years 11 months of probation . . .
* * *
Upon a desolate hill, 50 yards from the end of a black-top road--slashed with due haste
through a huge stand of luxurious green pines and budding hardwoods--the configuration sat
alone. Silent of clue nor meaning, its heap of cracked and moldy, shifting brick, and
mangled, rotting timber created more than simply an eyesore, it seemed an aberration of
antiquity sprung from the depths of someone's inequity. Surrounding this lonely,
foreboding memorial to time elapsed, a wide swatch of naked, muddy-red-clay bearing soil
bore down upon either side of the hill until it made obligatory contact with the sprouting
forest floor: an encounter between demise and vigor proven high above the forest floor,
where, upon cool and fragrant drafts of spring's wispy breeze, rose a flock of sing-song
birds, their twittering, twisting, graceful flight suddenly halting where ever the forest
green met the muddy red . . .
. . . Yes, my friend, it was at this place, a province of life, death and renewal, that
two men met; one a hulking illustration of towering, harsh grizzly, the other a slight yet
smooth and swift rattler--no ground was to be given, no apologies made:
The Grizzly knew what was up, he had more than experience--he had
proof of circumstance: he was the one running from so many faces and places. Yet, he would
survive, this he was sure of. Touching his right hand to the small of his back, he felt
the reassuring hard bulge of the Smith & Wesson .38 as he took the high, desolate
ground and waited for the meet with the Snake. He knew he would come armed. Everyone was
armed lately; especially in a location as far out as the one he was presently using as a
hide out. In fact, if the Snake was not armed, he would shoot him on the spot--"can't
take chances on some sort of trickery or what not!"
It was late-afternoon when the flock of birds, ruffled from
something moving in the brush of the forest floor, tore out and over his look-out point.
All morning long, they had never ventured beyond the protection of the tree-line. Yea, he
was sure the Snake was slithering through the forest. His keen eyes began their search.
Slowly, tree by tree, he searched until he glimpsed a movement that less experienced men
would have missed. Immediately he was on his feet and crouched behind a pile of molding
bricks.
His right hand upon the butt of the gun in the small of his back,
Grizzly watched the Snake suddenly appear on the edge of the tree line. Remaining
concealed behind the bricks for protection, his voice boomed to the forest's edge:
"Up here, in the open. You armed?"
Now out in the open of the muddy patch of earth, the Snake lifted
a sawed-off twelve gage high in the air in response to the question as he slowly made his
way foreword. Maintaining the gun above his head, he trudged through the mud towards the
direction Grizzly's voice had come from: "I got sum'thin' for ya!",
Waiting patiently until Snake got within five feet of his
concealment, Grizzly stood so quick, he caught Snake unprepared. Affording the Snake as
slim a target as he could hope for, Grizzly turned his body slightly, right hand
maintaining a hard grasp upon the butt of the .38 behind
him:
"You can stop right there and put the gun down, what's the
message? You got the stuff? Is the Big Guy OK?"
The Snake stood five feet away wondering how Grizzly had gotten
the advantage. Even though he had a sawed-off, he had slim room to drop a bead. And, he
knew, a pistol was surely resting in Grizzly's grasp: "Yea, I got the stuff. An' it's
OK! Yea, you have no problems--you can meet with him later."
"You sure about that?"
"Yep, I don' taked wit' 'im! He ain't holden no grugdes or
nuttin'! Your cool. Jus' gotta stay under a'while."
Even before the conversation's inception, Grizzly had proven his
reputation--he was perennial when the question of readiness breached the present: He knew
he was being set up--The Big Guy's never before met with him or Snake--an' he sure
wouldn't begin now!
'Did he slip because he's nervous!?' he thought as his steely eyes bore
into Snake's very being in search of a clue if he had turned on him. Snake was supposed to
bring him some fake identification, that's all . . .
"Honist, you know I'm in wid ya! I got your stuff righten here--in my
pocket. . ." Snake said as he made a move to pull something from his left rear
pocket--causing his body to turn and hide his right hand . . . which seemed to have begun
to bring up the shotgun.
Yep, his body language had said something else . . . Grizzly knew
he had to make a move before someone, anyone, came up from behind him . . . leaping with
the swiftness of an attacking wild animal, Grizzly struck a blow to Snakes head with his
left forearm as he pulled the .38 from behind his back . . . Snake reeled from the blow as
his shotgun went flying to his right. . . Grizzly shoved the .38 into the back of Snake's
neck and pulled the trigger . . . nothing . . . no explosion of sound . . . no flash . . .
no smoke . . . no tearing flesh splattered upon the air. . . only a dull click . . .
before Snake dove for his shotgun . . . aiming . . . pulling the trigger . . . again . . .
again . . . several more times . . . as Snake placed his right hand upon the shortened
stock of the shotgun . . . Grizzly threw the gun at Snake and plowed forward .
. . the struggle for the lone weapon became a desperate battle for the two soldiers of the
Brotherhood . . . into the fray with life itself upon the block, Grizzly's mass gained
dominance with the trivial Snake . . .. . . the battle one-sided . . . blows pummeling
Snakes face . . . his head smashed . . . smothering into the now bloody-red earth . . .
his hands desperately clawing gouges into the soft muddy clay . . . the ground . . . and
then . . . a deafening explosion that rocked the very earthen ground . . . a split second
blast which tore the body in two. . .
. . Yes, my friend, it was at this place, a province of life, death and renewal,
that two men met; one a hulking illustration of towering, harsh grizzly, the other a
slight yet smooth and swift rattler. No ground was to be given, no apologies made; a Dodge
City reminisce of outlaw meets traitor (or rather the murder of Jesse James) and the land
echoes in blood and guts as a glorious receding sun caste its rays of warmth upon the
beauty of God and nature.
* * *
. . .Second day of my 30 day in-time sentence a "Run-around" comes to my cell
with some news: "Somebody cut Troy in two with a 12 gauge. Yea, it was Jerry L.. Yea,
it was the Snake, Something about self-defense!"
(. . .'Did he say Jerry L., isn't Nolin buddies with him?' . . .)
Yea, them there streets, they came a'calling Troy. . .
* * *
Though your presence besides me is reflected in the waxed mirror, your emotions are absent
from the ripples that course my tomb--the drip, drip, drip of tears immersing the currents
of my memory. What are you thinking? You understand, my eyes are not as clear and free to
see as yours. They remain, for the moment, imprisoned subjects of my grief. My memory and
your facts can not mingle in comparison. Though you look, do you see? Though you listen,
do you hear? Though you speak, does your words fall as leaden sheets of rage; impervious
to all but the searing heat of blame? Aye! Or are they all-encompassing with the sorrow
and forgiveness I desire yet know I am unworthy to receive?
Troy and I? Truly? Brothers in the streets . . . an' hearts . . . of
stone! Roomed together! Fought together! Loaned and borrowed together! Partied together!
Dreamt together . . . of foolish dreams; dreams of power; dreams of opulence; those
destitute dreams of desperation! Dreams which became the leavings of our memories . . .
his to die and mine a perpetual tomb entombed! Yet, for whatever reason he was drawn into
her sticky web of deceit, the Witch Widow in black who consumed him remains. Yes, she
waits for her next prey: sinister and pitch as black death. . .
(. . . 'The "Vessel" is half-full and the "Path" this "Brave
Heart" has occupied remains a winding, stuttering one. Yet this "Way" will
prevail, for it is the "Path" to spiritual enlightenment, or God, EXCITEMENT--I
have Chosen! Yes, it is I whom desires to fill the "Vessal" to brimming
wretchedness; to endure rather than perish the thought of forsaking a journey whose quest
is illustrious thrills--at any and all expense . . . 10 down an' twelve to go . . .')
Chapter Seven: The Widow Comes A'Calling-Again
Good Ole' Boys a'calling . . . looking for another deal. Besides all the
"little" stuff, $32,000.00 on one crop is enough to more than wet their
appetites: hungry folks will take care of the farmer . . . even rid him of the pests
consuming his mind. Yea, I didn't ask questions back then . . . unless it had something to
do with earning some dope!
. . . Detroit again and a load of red 'n black Amphetamines. 10,000 of them. Sealed.
Pharmaceutical. The boys are tied in with General Motors. Got a willing, waiting, army of
hungry customers! Yea, them very Democratic-Roosevelt-Southern-Baptist-Union-Men (an'
woman) are the Network's most loyal army of clients. Yea, NO PROBLEM! The Boys spot us the
dough and . . . a trunk full of cash later and . . . . . . they turn out to be plugged
with caffeine, the pills that is!
('But the farmer will weather the storm by taking care of the bank!')
* * *
Early 1900's, the United States plants "Hemp" in Kansas for making rope. In the
late '20's someone discovers one can cure the stuff in dry ice and smoke it! By '33,
everyone near the stuff is either making money or getting high-it's outlawed.
They try killing the stuff, but it's liken to crabgrass: it takes
a licken but keeps on ticken. The end result is a spray program in an attempt to alter its
composition . . . the only composition that gets "changed" is in the folks who
smoke it: Killer Weed! It is! (Remember the movie: "Reefer Madness"?!). . .
. . .What are 3 tents, 6 automobiles, 4 dirt bikes, 12 Fine Good Ole' Boy helpers, and 6
South Georgia Plow Boy runabouts (those up an' coming wannabe good ol' boys whom are
forever trying to make their mark) doin' up north?
You guessed it: Nolin, Peggy and I (leg still all cast-up) are in
Killer Kansas. Yea, Lake Perry and picking pot.
In the short short Nolin scoots south with our first load to
off-load while I and the crew continue to pluck the bucks from mother nature.
We soon realize our pocket green is darker then the pot . . .
. . . mixing this "hard" stuff with Green Mex produces
a perfect combination to the almighty dollar. In fact, we got mules bringing loads of Mex
from you know where (Yea, let them brave the green gas and too high to fly folks!).
With a growing off-load, I decide to leave our brand new Lincoln
Town Car and fly down to assist Nolin. Leaving 18 deadheads (doping while roping, you
know) to continue working our lucrative head-mine, Peggy and I hop a flight to Atlanta.
We no sooner arrive when Nolin appears. He's still got 50 pounds in the trunk. He wants to
leave it at my place. Imagine this! Heck, I'm always hot! My place remains a solitary
mushroom on a log in a sea of scavengers--Cops just a'waiting for opportunity.
"Nolin, listen man, not here! Can't stash the stuff
here!" I inform him, "Yea, the crew's gonna bring in another load shortly. We
gotta expand our storage facilities!"
Yep, I think, as Nolin drives off to find somewhere to stash the
excess(?), we gotta expand. . .
Well, those are the last facts, last thoughts, my last
conversation with Nolin. Yea, man. You know where I'm headin' . . . to that Pitch Black
Widows Nest.
Yea, friend, it was the last time I saw Nolin alive. . .
* * *
Colors.
Yea! Colors!
Those Memories-
of color!
I'm alive sayeth he!
No, said the Widow-
don' visited you . . .
an' tempts and connives.
Two Fools an' I
tells lies!
But her grasp remained,
her subjects pain!
The Widow, she's dropping them like flies into a cauldron of steaming
desire to be among the being! . . .
(. . . 'Oh! These memories! Nolin, my cousin! Nolin, my brother! Nolin, my partner! Nolin!
Nolin! Nolin! Another has called you. Silence!--I choose as your memory. Yes, silence the
key to ending an eternity of wondering why. The voice that crept the dark whispers sweet
nothings; only emptiness echoes from your leavings. To absence your choice by endeavor. To
die mortal thy bread which feeds thy memory' . . .)
. . . My friend, Did you not hear tell of my other friend, Nolin? He was, at heart, a
decent folk driven by desire and vague opportunity.
Yea, you may sit as I stand in his memory.
It's fine to have you hear. . .
To have you see.
To have you speak the silence of your thoughts.
Contradictions?. . .
You think!: '. . .he fooled you!'
You say?: . . ."remember the THC!"
Well, enough of that, for listen and hear . . .
Nolin was murdered. Pure and simple. Yea . . . when they found
him, his brains splashed upon the seat covers of his desire, dripping and wet, he was
alive and babbling. Yea, in the grasp of the Widow he went out praying
Yea, I KNEW NOLIN!
Nolin was religous. Yea, you know what I'm saying. Many believe
they are with God and continue to do against His wishes and lie about it: whom ever their
God is! Nolin was not like that. Right or wrong, he stuck to what ever principles he
believed in. It is not my say, is it, what it meant or what he thought deep in his
privacy? Only that Nolin told me, in all seriousness, that he had witnessed Jesus Christ.
Yea, man. Imagine that? Nolin Witnessed his God, Jesus Christ, and he did not become like
all of the rest who have claimed to have witnessed Jesus! Went on about his perpetuation
'cause he thought it right or something!
Yea, he was intent when he told this to me. Not stoned or
nothing. Even said he spoke with Him. Who am I to tell you what's up? But, yea, I see that
look: more like an urgency to discover how it happened. That's why you bought this book
and continue to read it; to learn and discover and at the same time to be thrilled,
shamed, disgusted, entertained, made to laugh, made to cry, et al. And I, the living
character of this trial and tribulation, consider this more than a confession for
pleasure. Yea, I consider this an awakening; a teaching--informing you about truth! Yea,
check it out, come on, look at me! THIS IS TRUTH! EVERY MEMORY OF IT! ALL OF THE EVENTS!
Yea, written within the lines lines lies further exposure of my soul. For it is my longing
to please my Creator.
So, now, since awakening you with my anger, I make a choice in sharing what ever love I
possess and apologize--I shall tell you of your burning question. . . but later . . . when
I discover it . . .
* * *
Laying in a dusty field. A full plate of moon reflecting its bounty upon the darkness.
Kansas. Yea, Kansas ain't the same with out ole' Nolin! Yep, enthusiasm don't come
a'knocking; just fact and reality. Got ta do what I began: the codes, you know? My senses
are dulled with the exception of smell. Yea, the odor of 100 degrees of heat and sweat and
cow dung and the aroma of a funky, sweaty cast overrule the orders of depression to shut
down.
150 lb. weighs over 500 lb. green. Yea, wet as all get! Ready and
waiting for p/u. Static fills the air waves of my Walky-Talky as I code-key the thing--no
talk, just code. No answer.
Gravel is crunching on the other side of the ridge between us and the dirt road.
Weird! 12 midnight and the Hemp looks towering and alive. I can
see the lights now and wonder who it is? 'Maybe our people', I think as I code-key the
mike again.
Thoughts rush, 'could it be the man?' The lights becomes
brighter. Like the light of the bible: Genesis 1:29: Then GOD spoke, "Behold. I have
given thee every plant yielding seed that is on the surface of all the earth, and every
tree which has fruit yielding seed; it shall be food for you. . ."
I look up and a towering hemp drops seeds into my face. The light is closer; close enough
to blind me. ". . . And to every beast of the earth and every bird of the sky and to
every thing that moves on the earth which is life, I have given green plant for food and
it was so. . ."
Nolin's dead now. Troy's dead. I'm on 5 years probation and lying
like a wounded animal in a hemp field in the middle of Kansas waiting for someone to put
me out of my misery . . .
(. . .'but the Widow don't come yet, just the pick-up, you
know'. . . ) |
