Chapter Eight: Angel Dusted 'n Goin' Straight---Down!

"Hey, Wizard, we got the mounties on our rear! Yea, that there canine unit we passed back there!. . ."
     "Yea, I know!"
     "Wizard, he's pulling on up, man!". . .
     "Yea, I know!"
     "Wizard, we gotta' lotta dope back there!". . .
     "Yea, I know!"
     "%$^& man, he's on up on our bumper!" . . .
     "YEA!!! I %$^& KNOW!!!!"
     "WIZARD!! HE'S PUT THE LIGHTS ON!! . . ."

. . . Yea, dried an' stashed the last load in US Mail sacks then stuffed them up in the back of the U-Haul and packed our bikes and camping gear in last. Yea, the final end to Kansas--eight of us cruising in the Continental, pulling a packed-up U-Haul when we see Christmas in the rear view! But instead of Rudolph The Red-Nose Reindeer riding under them lights, it's Santa's an' he's gotta dog . . . an' that dog's goin' wild!!!. . .
     Yea, but he just checks us out and we resume our trip!

(. . .'Yea, choices and lots of luck. Two memorable words: Choice an' Luck--the first mine . . . the second? Well. I never really thought of the second 'cause it was always the 'cause of the first!'. . . )
* * *

Ronnie L. and I are now partners. Yea, though my minds a'looking for 'cause an' reason to Nolin's death, I gotta have a running mate, you know? Got used to having someone to share my misery or something. So, yea, I got a new partner an' a new company: L&R construction. We got lots of masonry work--as in stoned--an' 14 employees. Our motto?: Who ever's straight comes to work--that there masonry work load is a heavy loaded! But, now, don't get me wrong, I still got the network, you know. Don't forget that! Heck, L&R got two Genuine Government Contracts to build homes!
     Yea, like I said, a Good Ole' Government Contract an Angel delivered . . . yea, that there Widow's Black Angel, that is . . . for along with Troy 'n Nolin's body, my dealer's choice has been laid to rest--'no more nickel an' dime pot and Kansas Fields'--'cause a new drug of choice is the rage, an' we, my partner an' I, are cashin' in!. . . Angel Dust! Yea, Angel Dust from the West Coast! Yea, P.C.P. (Phenylcycledine Powder) and Hells Angels = Angel Dust; Running TEA; Dummy Dust; Superman Powder . . . an' the irony is that it all began with the government, once again!

Yea, you see, they gave us more than contracts to build homes! Yea, the government wanted to develop a drug to treat Heroin addiction an' gave us P.C.P.! Some Heroine substitute it turned out to be: besides it's pure addiction power, the side effects included hallucinations and a superman complex--combined! In fact, in California, the Police once actually requested Dum-Dum Ammunition. Yea, 'cause some of them there people whom smoked the stuff became so crazy with both of them there side effects the cops couldn't put them down--not even with bullets . . .

. . . Yea, for months the pickings have been good. Yea, on both sides of the spectrum. You know, if we're not collecting the off-load cash, we're collecting the construction dough. Yea, check it out, enough large to keep the head in large dope . . .

. . . It's Friday an' Ronnie an' I are makin' our rounds picking up checks. It's raining a light drizzle an' the grounds slicker then quicksilver on a hot-plate. Yea, like I said, we're just walking normal like, stoned on P.C.P. an' beer, across a muddy construction project an' I step on a scaffold board and ZAP! . . . on my butt with a sharp cracking sound . . . coming from my lower back . . . warns me that something ain't right! Yea, but my Butt don't never mind my mind 'cause my mind is like Supered out on that there P.C.P.. Yea, so my P-C-P'd butt's mind jus' gets up an' resumes its prerogative without much due haste to that there warning!
     Later on that night, I think back to that there cracking sound an' call the Doc to relate the story.     

The Doc asks: "You feelin' any pain?"
     'Pain? Heck, I don't feel my damn brain!': "Nope."
     "Any discomfort?"
     'Discomfort? Heck, I don't feel my body!': "Nope!"
     "Do you want to come down an' let me examine your back?"
    'Come Down! Heck, it costs to much to get up to where I am now!': "Nope!"
. . . Party three nights--an' days--in a row at Good Times, in Lathonia, Georgia, an' wake up          
     Monday mornin' an' I can't get up! Too much PAIN! In that there minding mind an' butting butt! Yea, the brains on stutter 'cause the drugs done wore off an' I can't get UP! An', to make matters worse, I ain't urinated in three days . . .

(. . . 'Yea, Butt them choices I'm minding!'. . . )

. . . A broken back an' neck an' I'm cruising to that black an' blue tattooed arm territory of massive shots of Demerol an' screws in the head from steel body braces an' stuff. Yea, plenty of time to feel sorry for myself--an' I don't have room for no Troys nor Nolins . . . 'cause I'm still getting adequate supplies of my favorite earner: Angel Dust! Yea, imagine that, Peggy is keeping me both updated and sedated . . .

. . . Demerol an' Angel Dust an' blood pressure 90/60 an' them there black an' blue highways extend their territory: my butt's butt is now static with tattoos from Demerol. . .

. . . They got me strapped on some giant wheel injecting Iodine into my spine to check if the cracks leak an' it ain't no carnival or even fair!.. .

. . . Yea, them there highways are now located on my thighs . . . an' in my brain. . .
. . . Lying on my bedroom floor for months with Mepragen Forte an' placing two pills at a time in a silver spoon an' bicking it an' cooking it an' hitting it an' cruising it . . .

. . . an' I discover Ronnie has done sold everything an' moved on to partner with Good Ol' Dean 'cause I can't stop riding that there highway no way!. . .
* * *

Well, what do you think? Will I die from an overdose or something? I guess you can answer that one with out much prompt. Of course I didn't die! Heck No! In fact, I went straight for a while. Yea, Peggy an' I split the roost an' The Network an' Dixie-Town an' my 5 year probation an', with brace an' all, got a real job an' a real house in Valdosta, Georgia. Yea, an' that job? In a plastics factory . . . yea, I got that there job by hiding that there steel brace that began at my lower back and grew to the neck--an' soon was kicking other butt with a steel brace of work ethic. Yea, like I said, I was moving to a different tune an' had kicked the Butts of both the Network's Desires an' the Bogey Man of Dope.
     But, then, there are many ways for one to die, an' many deaths one can die. Yea, maybe I'm dead already. Yea, maybe I don got killed after Troy an' Nolin! Maybe I'm double whamming you! You know? Like I am telling you about 12 down an' ten to go an' I got out already an' got killed an' came back to tell you this His-Story from my grave?

Well, anyway. What ever is ever an' I got ta go back to the gig: Yea, so like I thought, I went straight off the drugs for a year or so until the back brace came off an' them there sirens began blasting away in my head once more . . . the temptress, enchantress, seductress, sorceress sounding sirens. Yea, that there Black Witch Widow kind--she jus' wouldn't give up . . . an' her invitation would come up in the form of a Widow's guest list; as in the death of my Good Ol' Moon-Running-Court-Bailing-Gramps!

. . . Yea! Dixie-Town a'running back an' back an' back to Murder On The Southern Express Blows the Snow Of White Ice . . . 12 down an' 10 to go. . .
* * *

Though I would arrive in Valdosta broke an' addicted an' leave clean an' full of choices, my return to Atlanta would not be one of my own choosing. Yep, Gramps done went to his maker. Yea, an' I arrive in Atlanta heart broken but can't go to the funeral 'cause the man is looking for me. Yea, instead, I go up-top Stone Mountain an' my heart is laid as bare an' cold as that there rock hard granite I sat upon. Yea, cold and so very hard my heart is, until, like the rising sun that beat upon the breast of that there naked rock, my heart soon beat warm with the memories of Gramp's . . . an' then cooled once more with evening's sorrow's return . . . an' I returned--to pick up a load of Angel Dust--an' returned to Valdosta a changed man no more. . .

. . . Arriving back in Valdosta after the funeral, I went to work and discovered I had been promoted to production manager and a large raise . . . yep . . . and then was raised off the farm 'cause I left without leaving a number an' got caught up in the dust . . . yea, but who waz goin' to work anyway? Heck, got my new friend Angel Dust an' its power to change . . . choices . . .

. . . Columbus, Georgia, an' I'm rocking again. Yea, rocking my brain with a quarter ounce of P.C.P.! Yea, I done smoked some an' the sounds of a police car, its radio chattering on megaphone, invades my space. Yea, paranoia quakes an' my earth shakes with convulsions as heart racing to the front door!
     . . ."Wizard, don't go out there, the police are sitting out there. . ." Peggy warns. . .
     . . . Yea, no hallucination this here paranoia is . . . yea . . . no attack but getting back . . . to the real world an' my endeavor: freaked out I slip into that world of no return an' pick up a Bic pen an' begin stabbing poor Peggy all about her upper body . . . an' realize after her screams finally break the fog what I'm doin'! . . . an' I'm running into the bedroom crying, begging . . . OH! JESUS! OH! PEGGY! OH, SOMEONE FORGIVE ME . . . yea, like sobbing, convulsing, begging . . . while flushing $700.00 worth of the Angel down the commode . . . $700.00 worth of the Black Angel traveling at what seems to be jet-speed down into the depths of that sewer it came from . . . 7 full grams of Hell's Angel's best . . . Down, Down, Down . . . an' I'm reaching for it! Yea! I gotta make a choice here! A choice here! A choice here! . . . but the choice is not mine! Oh! No! The sewer is claiming its own!!! . . . an' I'm returning to my own . . . sewer an' that there Widow's calling again . . . to Atlanta an' another trip back to the place I was in the beginning!!!. . .

24 Buds later in a motel room in Swuanee with Jerry, my buddy, an I do my first hit . . . an' instantly travel where the light is blank . . . an' freezing cold surrounds me in total silence . . . but I feel a presence . . . a beckoning . . . its that Damn Widow!
     An' she's not asking no more!
     No temptation here . . . it's a done did thing! . . . my thoughts are demanding me to speak my freedom . . . But I can't say anything 'cause once sound breaks that there silence, I know the screaming will shatter the pitch-black ice into jagged crystals . . . yea, sharp an' treacherous . . . an' the screaming will never stop! . . . an' I try to put my feet upon the earth . . . the ground, something solid to let me know I'm bound to something tentative and real, but, I'm floating, suspended in her grasp . . . damp, cold, dark . . . darker than imagination could be . . . yea, floating in a frozen zone where I continue to bump into other frozen with fear victims . . . their souls . . . an' I cry silent . . . immortal tears that remain as dry, hot welts upon my sunken cheeks in mortifying silence . . . yea, I can feel them . . . as real as those searing ruts of thought . . . of choice . . . beating against that shroud of eternal ice . . .
    
 'I'm dead!'. . .
. . . "You're alive?!"
     Yea, it's Jerry. He's telling me I died an' he tried to revive me. Yep, he left an' returned with a crew "to straighten up things"! Yea, an' found me alive! Yea, I was dead--'cause Jerry, he spent 18 months on the ground in 'Nam . . . and he knows dead!. . .
* * *

Hey, you know, it ain't about Glory an' The Dixie-Mafia at all! Oh! No! You can see, can't you? Forever warned, forever drawn, forever deaf! Those drugs were my choice. Yea, the rest was the way. Yea, but not "The Way" . . . to spiritual enlightenment. I like to think I eventually found The Way or Path through the maze of life by living my life . . . yea, like my life was something planned by my God! Imagine that? My God not only hearing my prayers but giving me that road to travel on His purpose (Those prayers in which I asked for foriveness and at the same time gave notice I was only asking for temporary assistance so I could do it again!). Yea, I could tell you that what's up, but what comes after? Yea, what about all the others whom were effected and affected by my endeavors? What about them? That would clearly be your thoughts . . . an' mine! 'Cause, even after another 14 month down 'n clean time afta' that there near death thing, I resumed where I left off . . . the Black Angel Dust . . .
* * *

. . . Peggy an' I in Atlanta picking up some Dust when I'm given a hand engraved invitation to a meet between the Hell's Angel's and the Outlaw motorcycle gang. Yea, but it's not about a party or anything, it's about a territorial dispute! Yea, a meet on the Georgia/Alabama line which separates their respective territories. Yea, an' the invite reads: "I ain't an Angel an I ain't a Devil. I ain't a Outlaw an' I ain't an In-Law--just a concerned citizen!"
     Yea, an' the Charlie Daniel's Band is gonna play their new hit song "The Devil Came Down To Georgia" at the meet (FOR REAL!!!). . .
     . . . The Outlaws are giving the Angels a choice--those choices again--"Let the Outlaws handle the Dust or get out of Georgia."
     Yea, but no matter, seems the Outlaws have there own discovery. Yea, better than that there Dust: METHAMPHETAMINE--Powdered Snow Crystal White Ice! An' the Angels from hell want in!
. . . 6 Outlaws turn up dead outside a Meth lab. . .
. . . War in the air an' then settlement: no dust in GA . . . an' no Angel Colors neither. . .
. . . Yea, but the 'Hood, you know, still wants the stuff! An' I go to Miami, Florida to get the stuff. An you know it, I do some an' wake up . . .
. . . in a mental ward!. . .

Yea, smoked it in an apartment at 135th an' 6th Ave an woke up in a hospital.
     "What kind of drugs you been doing?"
     "Phenylcycledine."
     "What was that, Phenylcycledine?"
     I realize what I am saying an' play it off: "Phynal what?"
     That's when the doctor asks if I ever heard of schizophrenia?
     "No", I reply. . .
     Yep, an' Peggy decides to leave after she comes an' gets me. She leaves an' I follow --missing them there river cops who show up at the apartment after I'm gone--an' two brief interludes with her an' it ends for good!

Well, one more trip on Dust an' I dislocate my arm, which leads to the hospital, which leads to the police, which leads to "We lost track of you, where have you been?", which leads to jail, which leads to "Leave the state an' we'll forget everything!"

(. . . 'Choices'. . .)
* * *

35 an' got a new wife, Pam--16 years old!
     Yea, living in South Carolina an' married a couple of months when Pam walks in an' catches me cutting up my new drug of choice: Cocaine! Yea, Whitehorse road just outside Greenville, South Carolina. What a coincidence, Eh? Whitehorse Road!
     Pam says: "It's the drugs or me!". . .
     . . . so, what up? . . . single again an' on my way to Atlanta to catch up on what's up with the boys an' make some deliveries when I stop at an' old buddies house. I'm introduced to a nurse with two kids who sells pills she rips off from the hospital she works in. Yea, I buy some of her pills an' sell her a gram of my Coke at cost. Two weeks later she asks for an ounce. Yea, an it's up to three ounces if they like the first one stuff! Now, it's not the money that really moves me, it's the realization that I can feed my needs only if I sell the stuff. Yea, so I pick up three an' call her for the meet--but something is bugging me . . . I call her again and change the meet to a rest stop on I-85 at 7:30 an' give her a bare 30 minutes to get there.

Yea, tooling along, one hand on the steering wheel the other tuned to the plunger . . . rocketing full speed ahead. I pull into the rest area, park the car, hide my .357, the Coke, an' some used    needles under a trash can, an' plop down on a picnic table. . .
     . . . 8 P.M. sharp an' a silver sports car pulls aside the table. Two men, dressed down in army fatigues--yea, them there army clothes bring that there memory back--get out an' approach me. One asks for a light an' I reply that I don't smoke. . . yea, I don't smoke but I'm smoking when they grab me an' throw me down.
     "What you traveling in?"
     "I'm waiting on someone."
     "What do you mean, waiting?"
     "A friend is picking me up, he wanted to go to his girls house alone."
     "Whose Camaro?"
     "I don't know. . ."
     Yea, but they knew all along! Yea, they just snatched my keys an' searched the car: "What's this?"
     It's him again! Now Lt. Sessions! Yea, He's got something in his hand. Yea, but it's not the stuff he wanted, only Lidocaine Hydrochloride. Yea, some cut material I had forgotten about!

Yea, I drop a dime an' a "friend" picks up the stashed merchandise an' I make the $50,000.00 bond. Yea, an' the Big Guy's Attorney Large, James Venerable, fights that there "major" Coke bust an' gets the thing dropped. . . but the fights not over! Yea, remember the Nurse? She had gotten caught way earlier an' was working the Law by selling stuff to 125 people an' getting those 125 people to sell stuff to her. Yea, she was walking an' talking an' those other 125 were sitting silent waiting for time . . . me included! Yea, me! 'cause the gram, remember? Yea, that there gram of Coke I originally sold to her is dead-caught-red-handed coming up . . . !!!

Yea, but down I'm not! Yea, the Suit is gonna keep me out for a while so I can get some bucks to pay the Big Guy back . . . before I go in so the Suit can do his thing an' get me on the streets  again! Well, I got an idea, you know? Why buy the stuff wholesale when I can make stuff cheap? Yea, that there background as a chef? And remember the meet--the Crystal-Meth an' them Outlaws? Tied to the Brotherhood I am! I see tell that the cost is small an' the rewards high. Yea, so I'm experimenting with the Guy's nod. So far it's "inhaler speed" but I'm learning.

Yea, on bond in Jacksonville doing Coke an' experimenting with Meth. It's better than Snow, got more kick, and is just as pretty an' crystal white! Yea, Murder On The Southern Express Blows The Snow Of White Ice! 
 

Chapter Nine: Come And Spend Some Time With Me

In Jacksonville, Florida, on the telephone--my self-limited direct link to my brothers. Yea, though they make occasional forays to visit, an' I handle whatever local I can for them, I ain't been back to Atlanta in months. But the pressure's been large 'cause the boys are warring! Yea, Dean an' them are goin down against others in the 'Hood. Yep, an' I was the one that began that hot-wire to war with buzzing questions of Dean's involvement in Nolin's death. Yep, he done it--but how and why? Well, later, 'cause free-time is up an' I'm calling to let mom know I'm comin' up for my final court appearance--yea, an' I get some news--bad news, that is. Yea, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . . Grandma has gone to meet her maker . . . they buried her already. . .
. . . Cancer had got ahold of Grandma; pictures of her beautiful hair falling out in clumps from the chemo remain a vivid memory--more then her terrible pain, 'cause she always praised God for her pain. Oh! How sorry I am. Yep. I feel soooo sorry . . . for myself and blame everyone what's been to the funeral an' stuff whenever I think about that call. Yea, 'cause to do more; perpetuate more; blame more! In fact, even place blame on mom. Yea, the only one who really comes through and through and through--over and over. Yea, the only time I call her is when I need something. Yea, she don' even know nothin' about the money or much about the drugs an' stuff. Yea, 'cause the only time I see her is when I'm broke, in trouble, or plumb wore out. By the time she sees me, I've just lost everything to something. Yea, keeps her feeling sorry for me! Boy, this sorry stuff really works.
     Well, back to Grandma, it's so easy to feel sorry 'cause I was not there, you know what I mean? But, what could I have done? Yea, that's the question that should ease my mind--if she didn't tell me she was leaving her Guardian Angel with me after she left!. . .

* * *
". . . Where's that Guardian Angel now, Grandma? I know your in heaven, 'cause if your not, HEAVEN DON'T EXIST! Listen, I'm hit in the left leg, yea, a large caliber . . ."
     "BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
     ". . .more rounds zipping my head! Hey, Guardian Angel, there's four of them and one of me!! I need your help! I only got two rounds left! I promise, if you help I won't. . ."
* * *

"The Junction" night spot in Valdosta, Georgia, wasn't anything spectacular or even ample--just a night spot, you know. A place where a little Ajax could go a long, long way. You see, I'm on my way to Atlanta and another big day with the Judge. Yea, once more! That there Cocaine charge, you know. But this time it's different: gonna mean real time. So. What-up!? Just wanted to party one more time, you know? Just a little one. By ourselves. That is, me and my old friend: a gram of Cocaine. Yea, Cocaine: still the rage! A rage which caused me to down quite a few Dewers, doubles you know--straight'en up. No problem though, other than the superman complex I inherit when ever the two are present in my system; the Dewers and Coke, you know.
Yea, talking of The Junction, Ajax, Dewers, an' Coke, I had had my fill of three of the four . . . and thought I needed a little of the other: Ajax--a clean up, you know--before I saw the Benchman (rhyming with henchman). So. I'm leaving the place--honest!--and run into four South Georgia Plow Boys; the coward kind of "wannabes" whom become John Wayne the minute there's more than two of them (remember?). Yea, they're on some sort of mission. Though ignoring bullies and punks is something I've learned to be good at, flags and buzzers go off immediately. It looks . . .yea, it definitely looks like a set-up. . .
     Yea, so I cautiously begin tracking to my car, the cat calls getting louder: "Hey Pops, whatcha doin' in our club! . . . You messing with our women!" . . .
     Scooting the sour notes ringing in my ear, my mind on making it to my car, I glance at them         
     South Georgia Plow Boys and take a mental picture: two Drop-Their-Head Cowards, a Look-To-The-Right South Paw, and One Bold Boy. Yea, the picture is sharp and clear: something about Bold Boy makes me want to pistol whip him; teach him that spitting into the wind sometimes spits back, you know?. . .

(. . . 'Yea, 'twaz the Widow calling from the deep pitch of her Immortal Web. You know, that filigree of sticky memory: Dewers an' Coke! Yea, Troy, Nolin, Gramps and Grandma entangled within the catcalls of the snake--and some snakes rattle before they kill you!' . . .)

"HEY, COWARD!" Bold Boy blasts as he and the trio begin to advance . . .
     'Yea, they're sure on a mission! Not backing off none!' I think as I'm headed to the car counting steps to keep flight or fight impulses from taking over. Yea, an' three more steps an' I notice the reflection off the rear passenger window: my four new fiends are right behind me, spreading out . . . a snake on the verge of striking--Bold Boy definitely the venom!
     I increase my strides.
     They're steps away as I approach the front passenger window--which is down--and reach over the sunvisor, grasp my automatic, chamber it, and click the safety off as I swing it towards the four South Georgia Plow Boys. Bang! Bang! Two shots over their heads; South-Paw manages to disappear and the Drop-Head Boys hit the ground like Carp diving the pond. Yea, this snake is gonna have its fangs pulled!
     I immediately look for mouth. I see him: he's almost at the front door to the club. I follow; ready to pistol whip a Plow Boy Hitter. . .

(. . . 'YEA, BULLET PROOF: SUPERMAN SAVING THE NIGHT. . .MARE OF TWILIGHT MEMORIES!!! THE WIDOW DEMANDS A FEAST OF AGONY: A GOOD OLE' BOY'S REVENGE WILL DO!' . . .)

Bold Boy enters the club the moment I am ready to whack him where he stands. Through the front door, classic Police Stance, two hands an' sighting, I enter the club to screaming, dropping patrons all over the place! I'm zipped out over misjudging the distance of Bold Boy's escape, but time is on the Widow's side. Yea, I'm gonna be the trapped if the cops come!

My ears tuned to sirens, I ease out the door backwards before turning to scan the parking lot and roads: only silence and slow motion breathing in the night greet me. I know South Paw and Dropping Heads are somewhere out there-- 'Plow Boys want to prove everything, you know'--and that part of the lot remains blind to me. So I begin carefully crouch-creeping towards the glaring light separating me from my car. I'm no sooner wading through ten feet of bright light a Widows nest makes when I recognize the mistake the moment I make my next move: three step-crawls into the light I pause to scan when I see the muzzle flash 20 yards to my right and hit the ground rolling as two more blasts breaks the Widow's silence . . .

(. . . 'Scared and frightened this ole' boy's pleasure!'. . .)

. . . Yea, a Good Ol' Boy's Southern-Mafia situation and I'm running in a crouch computing the situation!: 'Some snakes don' rattle before they bite--large caliber; .44; three rounds down; not an automatic; revolver; three more to go!' . . .

(. . . 'I'm high as high can be' . . .)

. . . the shooter beading in on me on a misting rain dampened road and I'm slipping and sliding all over the place as I enter the ditch; heart racing, cocaine willing me clear and cold as the icy danger zipping my head!. . .

(. . . 'Yea, I came to love it the moment I quit the foot stomping!' . . .)

. . . Top of the bank and I clear three strands of barbed wire fence: "BOOM! BOOM!" . . .

(. . . 'cause I'm not scared anymore, Pop!'. . .)

. . . hot lead'en sounds whiz my head as I come down among a farmer's cornstalks! Yea, thoughts of Hemp cross my mind--and Nolin and Troy and cow dung. . . and the Widow's defilement corrupts my vision . . . fouling my sunny day before I'm into the corn and color me GONE!

(. . .'I'm a man!'. . .)

. . . Lungs fired up and smoking as sweat beads large as lead-shot fly off me I crash through the corn and into The Plow Boy's turf of rutted fields.

(. . .'who desires to be your little boy'. . .)

. .dropping dead weight upon the muddy ground. . .praying to my Guardian Angel. . .

(. . . 'once more!' . . .)

. . .Rousing in a plowed field, flat on my back, with a loaded pistol pointed straight towards the heavens: "I'm alive, Oh! Lord! Thank you Guardian Angel! . . . What? . . . No, I was just pointing it, you know?"

You know, I'm sure enough glad to be here. Yea. That copper-drop-head-south-paw loosed some rounds into a two inch circle in the door of a Datsun parked right where my chest would have been had I not rolled! Yea, he was waiting for me to take another crouched down step! Yea, one in the leg above the ankle was all I recieved.

Oh, an' the cops came an' the Plow Boys were forced to cover their butts by taking out a warrant for aggravated assault. Yea, one which demonstrated the fact of there being Plow Boys who want to be Cowboys an' not Good Ole' Boys (before "Good Fellows" there waz always
"Good Ole' Boys"!).

By the way, it will be dropped--the charge will--'cause I'm the only innocent one who got the bullet . . . connections!. . .
* * *

Am I entertaining you? Well, we're gonna hit the big-time coming up. But first, check this out: there was another floor before these wax-shiny floors. A time I should have recalled with due memory and change and harvested the crop. Yea, a time when I discovered this new-world; back when I was but an explorer whom freely traveled the 7 sins! You know what I'm saying?
No. No you don't. So, let me teach you. . . . In here we look at the world outside our tomb as the real world--as if our reality isn't real! Yea, we do everything we can to convince ourselves that our time is static or something. You know? Like when our time is up--those of us with an ultimate "up-man-ship" to sail one day--we're gonna step through some mystic portal and join the world as we left it . . . only to discover that the "real world" has done moved to some place we cannot get to!

Yep, once out, most of us are faced with such drastic change--both in us and in the "real world"--that we begin our lives again in journey to make up for lost time. No excuses, you know! Just that we're still the same and attempt to make that real world our world as we knew it. Our perpetuation to perpetuate don't lose stride. In fact, it picks up 'cause our memory has not changed and all that concentrating has taught us new perpetuation's!

Well, anyway, I gotta take you back to my road-kill an' stuff. Yea, my road to 12 Down an' 10 to go!. . .
* * *

Remember our trip? The one we were taking to see the Benchman? Well, I believe that I can better explain myself by telling you what happened. Yea, The Big Guy said . . . "go, and if you have to, take the fall an' wait! We'll take care of you!" Yea, an' the Big Guy's sharkskin, James Venable--rumored at being a big time Georgia Clan Organizer--refused a D.A. deal worth 10 serve 3! Said: "Hey! What are you doin, trying to give my client life?"
     Well, The Benchman (did) turned out to be my Henchman!: "15 serve 7!"
    
(. . .'What in the heck is up!'. . .)

Yea, my memory was wondering what they was thinking and doin', 'cause I got 15 serve 7 for a gram of Coke!

* * *

B-Cell, Gwinnett County Jail. My first big-time stay. Yea, B-Cell. Should have been called 3-D-C-U Cell: Dim, Dirty an' Disinfectant Covered Urine.
     Yea, a place of easing paint peeling its way off steel bars, walls and bunks in sheets of memories of ancient cover-ups. Yea, an' with its two rows of steel bunks sprouting from steel reinforced concrete, it was a manured mushroom garden whose blooms were an endless 22 revolving time travelers waiting transfer to The Big Garden! Yea, a place with nothing to do besides sit and stew in your "If I had not's."
. . .But I know what your thinking, we had TV! No, I didn't forgot that luxury: one to pacify rather than signify--channel 17 only. Yea, and always those English sub-titled Chinese Kung-Foo's blaring to the brain-dead, uneducated subjects whom imitated their speech. The dialogue, that is. Yea, always mouths a movin' a mile a minute an' nothing being offered!
Oh, an' yea, there was something else they offered: drugs. Yea, I see your face. You know about that, don't you? Yea, you got A&E, Discovery Channel and TLC, don't you? All those exposés? Well, that is one thing that proves my earlier point: I could not bring myself to give 5 to 10 bananas for a pin wheel joint after harvesting hundreds of pounds myself! Same for the speed and coke!. . .

(. . .'I'll jus' wait 'till I join the Real World again'. . . )

. . .Twenty-one days into B-Cell and I'm getting transplanted to the Big House--'more like grafted!': Shackled hand and foot and on my way to the bus and the Big Garden and fifteen do seven.

Yea, fifteen and do seven and we're all feeling the same way, all of the new crop that's going together, that is. Yea, it's a frightening journey into the unknown. Not like County lock up--this I am assured by the few whom are making a return trip. They're already talking about this and that and this one and that one. Yea, either attempting to fool their eyeballs or truly psyching themselves up; acting like their making a visit to their long lost family! Yea, like I was saying, their memories haven't improved and they think they miss the cooking or something!

Well, anyway, I'm attempting to evade the stench and get whatever comfort I can, so I shuffle my way to a seat no one seems to want: above the wheel well of the worn-out DOC bus. Yea, the kind of bus you always see on the side of the road-their windows all covered and stuff with steel grating? Yea, the ones with them there prisoners dressed in whites wearing bright, neon-orange with DOC (Department Of Corrections) emblazoned across them in black. Well, anyway, it's a mistake: legs and feet are well asleep by the time we arrive at Jackson, Georgia.
Yea, Jackson and a six week layover similar to Ellis Island and the immigrant, except in here, we're not emigrating of our own free will--an' we're all gonna be excepted!. . .
     . . .A hair cut-shave and shower, then it's E-Block and a single man cell. . .with a number already in it! Yea, and the number got the bunk-- I get to take the floor. Yea, sardines, two to the 6X9 foot can, and the testing begins: Medical the first week; WRAT the second; 551 question M.M.P.I. personality test the third; IQ the fourth; and the fifth, well they add up your "score" and classify you. . .

Six weeks and I'm METRO C.I. bound. . .
. . .Yea, Metro Correctional Institute . . . in front of the medical section there is a light red spot staining the concrete. No matter the stuff used, no one's been able to remove it; say it bleeds red every time it rains! Yea, someone's impression of "couldn't do the time": dove 30 feet to his death. . .
. . .Yea, and in front of the mail room you'll find several other spots, including those of a con who walked out of the barber shop and was stabbed several times. . .over a love relationship! Now, get that one, why don't you. Yea, the Young and the Restless an' stuff, again, inside a prison! In fact, Capt. Perry took the shank from the hitter himself! Now, that took . . . guts. . .
. . .yea, an' I'm "yeaing" you to death ''cause, yea, check it out, in the gym, mail room, barber shop, medical section, cells, dayrooms, showers, walkways, you will discover the minute tell-tale signs of past and future, ceaseless, unfolding violence that effects everyone, one way or another, even the prison guards. . .
. . . Yea, the Metro Correctional Institute--but it's either luck-out or Big Guy, 'cause where I get assigned it's like laid back! I'm not kidding. First day in I wind up snaring a room with four other numbers who are connected one way or another! Yea, educational an' not so very bad. . .
. . . We'll call him Danny. Yea, Danny K.. Danny bunked above me. At 6' 3" and #230 on a scale he don't have to do much to give his attitude: don't mess with me! He talks a lot and considers himself a real convict; but he won't talk anything to the screws. Yep, says talking to screws is like the worst thing a convict can do. . .

Danny's in for murder: life! See, he and his bust partner robbed a drug store in Alpharetta, Georgia, and got away until their car turned over: a robbery charge and he could not make bond! Well, anyway, he calls his friends and gets them to bring him a bottle of Vodka. A sheet run out and down the window delivers the stuff an' a deck of cards later he's drunk himself into oblivion.    
     Yea, poor guy: wakes up with a hang-over . . . and a murder charge!
     But Danny's not the only one in jail and he can't remember why? Yea, his there choice delivered the rest of his life; a life sentence . . .
. . .So, like I was saying, Danny an' I live in H-225. A four man cell. Chip and Shorty live in 223; they sell dope and Chip pays his child support from his profits. Yea, a sergeant brings the dope in for Chip! Yea, that's what I said, in the joint, now! In fact, he keeps his cash in the door control! Occasionally, when he has to much cash in his main "safe", he brings Danny and I rolls of hundreds to hold for him. Now you figure that one out!

While your thinking, I got to inform you of the kicker: Chip is black an' says he can't trust his own people. Yea, most black inmates rather have a strange white inmate hold their stuff than trust it to one of their own!. . .
. . .Speaking of dope, I don't want any! Yea, the dope is finally wearing off. But impairment and sickness from the lack of care of my body and injuries fill the void with intense pain: arthritis; bursitis; calcium spurs on the spine; hairline spine fractures; neck; kidneys--yea, the problems run rampant! Didn't know what I'd done until now!. . . and the hard, cold steel don't help much. Yea, I pray some, but it's the "if you get me out this time I'll take care of the next one" stuff! Know what I'm saying? Well, I'll explain later. . .
. . . lifting weights. (Yea, injuries or not, lifting weights keeps the physical impulses to a minimum, know what I'm saying?), watching my back (not the back-backbone-back type back, but back as in ass!), and Massey Business College fill my time and my mind. Yea, I got seven big ones you know?. . .
. . . and then, ten months after I began my journey in Gwinnett lock-up, there is a strange occurrence . . . I get PAROLED . . . WOW!

(. . .'15 do 7 and Parole in ten . . . months!? I ain't gonna complain, now! Heck no! Yea, you know by now . . . yea, 'The Big Guy, you know . . .was right! Ten months on a 15 serve 7 an'
I'm headed back to the REAL WORLD'!')
* * *

Back in "The Real World" rumors of death an' retribution are running as fast and wild as my celebrations--had to catch up you know--yea, running rumors as fresh an' quick smelling as that there cow-dunged hemp field in past Kansas memory. Even as fresh as my final Real World memory: the one with the corny-fielding-plow-boys!
     An' that memory, combined with them flying-in-color-rumors, soon motivate me to halt the party an' find out the 'cause of cowboys! But discovery of that 'cause brought a 'cause of another color--as in memory: Nolin's death . . .
     Yea, fifth day out an' someone stops me an' says: "Hey, Wizard, I don't know if them Plow Boys had anything to do with your boy, Nolin, but, did you hear? Cowboy did it! Yea, Dean Raymond shot Nolin!!"
     Well, I already new that. Everyone in the four surrounding counties knew that the day it occurred! But the reason? Heck, the "public" version of Nolin's death had made it's rounds long before my lock-down! Now, that was sumthin' else all together. Yea, an' me being a closed mouth connected Brother, I didn't spread that there kind of gossip none, you know? Yea, I was known to perpetuate just about anything but rumors: Imagine, Nolin shot up over some woman!   
     No way! Or stealing pot? No way. . .
     Oh! Yea, you don't know what's up. . .

Nolin was shot. Yea. Shot dead an' gone and the next thing anyone knows is this here story makes its rounds: "Nolin is dead 'cause he was messing with Dean's wife!"
Imagine that! A lover's triangle between Dean, Nolin, an' Dean's wife got him killed? Right!
Like an episode from some way out Scarface Ponderosa An' The Southern Restless, it was said Dean desired to do battle over his jealousy when he caught Nolin with his old lady. That during the battle, Nolin made for his car to get his gun with Dean right behind. An' during the struggle which ensued, Dean came up with the gun and shot Nolin in self-defense
. . .Yea, an' the lame excuse Dean gave to everyone in the Brotherhood of River-Rats was that he killed Nolin because Nolin had stolen some pot from him.

Let me assure you, though most of the characters you are reading about are, and were, connected through mutual crime and mutual women, Nolin didn't die over no woman or theft. Heck no! He wouldn't have gone to mess with Dean's wife unarmed and with five witness's if he was doin' something on the sneak! And that there pot full of un-luck story, Fat chance?--'cause fact was Nolin and I were, at that very moment, profiting from our exclusive and bountiful Kansas pot operation! Remember?

Whether it was rumor or fact of Nolin "knowing" or having anything to do with this whacko's "Run-Around-Fair-Hair-Southern-Lady", it was neither 'cause nor reason for his demise! 'Cause long after Nolin's death, when accusations of lover's triangles and crooked pot deals squared off one against the other, I tried picking up some vibes on the Street-Wire an' got nothing but a few Plow Boys blasting caps up my butt! And, thus, upon my release, when I was finally about to color in Nolin's memory, the Hot-Wire version of his death tore through the Underground Network. A Network having an uncanny track record which has held firm and true through hundreds of prison terms, life sentences, love-affairs, crimes, and deaths on the streets of Dixie Town, USA; regardless of rumor or innuendo. Yea, it blasted above all those rumors an' right into my bank of memories! Yea, and this one I BELIEVE WITH ALL OF MY HEART to be no rumor. . .
(. . .'no-matter what 'cause, a set up it was!'. . .)


Nolin left my place and cruised on over to a house in Swuanee. After parking his bird, he went
inside the house and joined five members of his crew and the estranged lady in question. They were seated, carrying on the bull, when, unknown to anyone, Dean Raymond, Benny B., and another younger fellow (Said to be Deans teenage son!) pulled into the drive in a truck and parked. The younger fellow then got of out of the truck, went to Nolin's Thunderbird, and, knowing exactly where it was, and that it would be there, snatched Nolin's .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. . .

(. . .'Yea, it was planned, you know: leaving poor Nolin defenseless!'. . .)

. . . Once the gun was secured in the truck, Benny B. got out of the truck and walked up to the door. He entered without waiting for an invitation and, once inside, pulled a gun; warning the crew not to do anything drastic. Yea, then he informed a freaked out Nolin someone outside wanted to talk to him. . .

(. . .'Nolin had no choice, he had used up all of his choices long before that fateful Widows call!'. . .)

. . .Once outside, Nolin attempted to buy time by launching into Dean, the shooter. After a scuffle, in which Nolin successfully maneuvered Dean close to his car, Nolin broke and made for the car's interior and his weapon . . . he would have realized the gun was gone about the same time his own .38 was pressed into his skull and fired!

Yea, they found him sitting in the Thunderbird's front seat, hands still reaching into the glove box, mumbling, with his brains scattered about the car!

(. . .'Nolin! Oh! My brother Nolin' . . .)

Yea, the pay backs do get dead: Brothers shooting brothers for shooting brothers for taking care of brothers! And I have no brothers left!' . . .

(. . .'Well, the up-side memory was 10 months on a 7 do 15! Yea, gotta think positive, you know'. . .)



Chapter Ten: The Real World & Choicing Sides

I'm back: but you don't look so happy to see the prodigal son?. . .
. . . Whatcha been thinking? 'Yea, we gotta fix that there system, too many of them violent ones are getting out too soon! Yea, let's keep them longer! Give them more memories?'. . .
Well, fools on you! I ain't gonna get drawn into that there argument! Oh no! But, I will add a little to the question: Why cannot such a great and educated country such as ours understand that it is not the reason they must look at when viewing those in trouble with the law, but the 'cause? And, though rehabilitation is out and punishment in, why is co-habitation not part of the cure! Yea, just look at the floor, 51 one years and counting! And, if I live to 2007 (an' all facts point to that as of now ) I'll be on the streets once more! Yea, the prodigal son arriving again to do what? Ask your      self that question!: to do what!
     Yea, check your history out. In the old days of easy hanging, twenty year sentences all the time, and prisons the likes of "The Rock", criminals continued to perpetuate crimes, even those arrested, sentenced an' eventually released. Yea, an' though crime is on the rise, so is a rising youth population and their drug 'n gun culture violence. Yea, and remember, a tiny fraction of those who break the law wind up with life. What, you gonna sentence everyone who violates the law no matter what to twenty and thirty year sentences? When's it gonna end?
Our youth, whom grow up watching violence on the tube, in the paper, on the streets, in their homes, in books and movies which glorify violence, what about them? No matter the punishment, they're gonna remember them there memories, eventually hit the streets, and, once more, someone innocent is gonna get hurt.
     How many innocent till the life sentence?
     Yea, though tough law should be fact, reasoning goes a long way.
     Yea, in here, we see the changes, feel the changes, but we don't understand the changes. Yea, like the cancellation of a program which taught reading skills and such. Imagine that, "we're being cuddled or something"!
     OK! Don't cuddle us with no education, we're just not gonna have those memories. . . yea, punish us you!
     Well, I'm not gonna say that I'm crying to you, oh, no. 'Cause I was afforded good memories an' education. In fact, I was one of those in here who say over and over: "When I get out I ain't ever coming back!" Yea, an' mean it . . . now! They'll always be back though! Just like me!
     Yea, back again! And having excuses to prove it!
     Yea, we gotta help those there young'ens discover 'cause to stop being young-guns! Get it? We gotta do more than lock them up! Yea, I was the exception to the rule! Yea, bright an' educated with good Christian folk to show me the way!!! Yea, poverty was not 'cause, drugs were--a weakness for drugs! Yea, a inferiority complex was 'cause an' drugs seemed to be cure! Yea, 'cause my His-Story proves that money was never my real goal--yea, money was my conscious goal, but lurking in my sub-conscious mind was them there drugs an' women! Yea, when was I not smoking, dropping, shooting or ingesting more than something to get a high? Imagine, if someone would have smacked me on the head with that one? Yea, demonstrated what I now know? Oh, you can think that I'm older now, more mature--age settling me down an' stuff . . . stuff you been assuming since humanity! Yea, face it, everyone is pulling their hair out an' nothing concrete is being done--that is but the pouring, you know? Yea, pouring of more concrete for more prisons to house more nightmares for a while!
     Yea, blame an' fault come together as no excuse. An' this goes for all sides--even my conservative, Born-Again-Christian up bringing and beliefs! Yea, a revolving door of a different color! Yea, 'cause before God came looking for me, I went looking for him! So, after a brief excursion into that doorway of faith, I will expose more memories in demonstration of my philosophy . . . Yea, later, when you know more, I'll tell you about Him and I. But first, you must read on and know the truth, for the truth set me . . . 12 down and 10 to go!. . .
* * *

I was born and raised a Christian and yet Christianity became one of my problems before it became my cure. Yea, you see, my problem was my personnel interpretation of our Christian Biblical Scriptures: Once we except Jesus as our Lord and Savior, He forgives us--of everything--past and future! Yea, I took that literally; even in my prayers during hard times: "If you help me now, I'll take care of the next one!"????
     Imagine that? I'm asking my God to forgive me and help me and telling Him at the same time I'm gonna do it again!
     Yea, the Church was awfully powerful in my decisions an' destinations! In fact, let me tell you of another memory:
     My second visit to the old Thomson Theater where I met my first wife was different than the first. There was a show--or revival for us Christians--orchestrated by a splinter group from a large church: Faith Tabernacle, a non-denominational church with Pentecostal leaning (Speaking in Tongues--Holy Spirit Healing-Shouting-Crying-Singing Bliss).
     Yea, we're there, in the back of a packed theater; Peggy, my mom, and me. I'm looking for something. Yea, looking for some kind of answer to some kind of question to the chaos in my life, and all during the service I feel the pull to go to the front of the assembly. Yea, all through the service I felt that there pull. . .
    When the reverend has us come down for alter call, I proceed on down. I look behind, there's Peggy an' mom right behind me. The rev lines us up and begins to speak in tongues. He takes some oil from a vial and walks left to right using it to make crosses on our foreheads. He steps back and says, "Jesus, I dedicate these people to you as Spiritual warriors for the Kingdom of God. Yea, an' tears were streaming freely down the cheek of this here new warrior. . .
    Yea, so what's the point? . . .

Like I was relating, I was accepting Jesus, as a spiritual warrior, with my mom, at a Christian Revival, in a theater packed with Christian Folk in Spiritual Blissful Enthusiasm, yea, an' Peggy an' I were as stoned as stoned could be!

(. . .'Yea, another revolving door of sorts'. . . Yea, I chose to go to that there revival zipped out an' my God chose to remember it later'. . .)

Oh, an' poor mom? She didn't have a clue . . .

Yea, brings back a memory from my old Church goin' days: "Peter said unto Him, Lord, why cannot I follow thee now. . ."
. . ."There will be times you cannot understand why you cannot do what you want to do. When our Lord brings you a blank space, do not fill it in! Wait, this blank space may come to teach you! Do not run before God if there is the slightest doubt He is not guiding you!". . .
But running before my God is something I'm good at!
. . .'Yea, and running right back into the arms of the law of man!-yea, givenin' Ceaser what is Ceasers'an' stuff!' . . .
* * *

I'm on parole. With my business training I begin a construction business. I own a hammer, a nail pouch, a nail apron, and a '69 Olds wagon. A couple of advertisements and some hard work an' I have enough business to hire a crew. . .a different kind of crew from them there olden days. With 14 people, including 4 ex-cons, I go a building-busting down the construction highway plowing through the calls of the Network.
     Yea, I kind of chill, you know? After that there Troy an' Nolin stuff, well, death did touch me. Yea, their bodies were not buried in some hidden-from-view-red-clay-muck-grave of Winder! Oh no! They were buried in the blood-red-clay of my brain! Stuck there with nowhere to go . . . forever! Yea, thoughts of revenge welled against the slime only to be sucked back down into that muck of memory. For now. . .
     Yea, regular business. . . for a while. And, for a'while, I go to my parole officer; a woman who is not on some mission or crusade to put me back in, you know? She's concerned that I do right right. Yea, if I buy something for the business, she goes along with it. No permission, just do it an' let her know. An' business is great--I'm grossing 10 grand every month! Yea, 10 grand a month an' I meet Gina, an Italian girl whom gets along well with me. Soon it's working hard by day, and work-outs in a martial arts studio she works in at night. Yea, everything's going right right until that hurricane blew into Wilmington, North Carolina an' took every roof. . .
     I call West Lumber and have them consign a flat-car of shingles to me for three days. Yea, I got plans! Yea, I'm gonna take two crews and hit that town dropping shingles on those bare roofs to the tune of an estimated 20-30 grand profit for three days! Yea, forget those good ol' boys for a while and. . .
. . . I call my parole officer and learn a new one has taken over. A retired military officer. I explain my plan and tell him I need permission to go and make the dough . . . He denies my request!
I call the Atlanta State Office. Yea, there's something wrong here!
Denied.
Yea, that there hurricane also blew into my life . . . the second time . . .

(. . . 'Yea, I'm sure enough gonna do the right thing: place blame you know. Bo-Pee don't wanna play'. . .)

. . . an' I immediately make a right right left an' right into the arms of the family of the brotherhood. Yea, I make a choice not to chill out an' deny the calls of the boys anymore.
Yea, so with that new parole officer came new choices an' changes; first one is buying three acres at Holiday on Lake Lanier in North Georgia and getting Gina to move in with me--my parole officer don' like it at all, think I care!!

We soon take a trip to help her folks move to Orlando, Florida. A trip that allows me to connect with some Brotherhood Hell's Angels and a haul of "Stuff". . .

After arriving home, I make my rounds picking up the checks from completed construction work and discover one of my employees, Clint, has already picked up one of my checks! I stop by Clint's and question him about the money. He just says he spent it, so I leave with Gina to pick up a check from a sheriff's deputy on the south side of town. Afterwards, Gina and I decide to spend the night at my moms.

The following morning we arrive at our place to a group of people in my front yard; three working on my telephone junction box!
     "Who are you?" I ask patiently.
     "GBI."
     "What's the GBI doin' working on my phone line?" I ask in amazement.
     "Your employee, Clint, was found this morning by his landlord dead from an overdose of P.C.P. . . ."
     Yep, Clint dead and me the last one to talk to him or something'. . ."So what's that got to do with you messing with my phone line!?"
     "Installing a tap". . .
     'The reason he is telling me this is 'cause they had no clue I'd arrive an' catch them . . . or are they jus't setting around waiting to trip me up?'
     ". . . If you don't want it on the phone your gonna have to state that Mr. Rogers" . . .
    "Well, I don't want that thing on my line!" I say.
     "Disconnect it!"
     Yea, "Mr. Rogers" . . . "it's a wonderful day in the neighborhood, a wonderful day in the neighborhood, will you bug me, will you trip me!"
     Yep, they never did or planned to disconnect that there caught red-handed bug they put on my line!!!
    . . . I was subsequently called down to the Parole Department where a Urine Analysis was performed before they revoked my parole . . . an' Mr. Military asks me to sign a waiver--yea, a waiver after the fact! . . . new you know!
    I refuse. After 30 days of lock-up, during which time Gina takes everything that ain't nailed down an' splits for Florida, I'm finally taken, handcuffed, to a hearing in Atlanta. . .
. . .It comes down to Mr. Military revoking my parole for buying 3 acres of land and a chopper motorcycle! Yea, that's the only legal excuse he has!
     James Morris, head of the parole board, reinstates my parole and Mr. Military retires. . . once more!
    . . .'Yea, choices: I got break after break and yet I still chose to break the law using excuse after excuse! Yea, always finding something or someone to place the blame on!'. . .
. . . My new parole officer notifies me that he has gotten a job for me. Yea, a job: at 3.90 an hour:
     "But, Mr. Masters, that's $160.00 per week! My payments alone are $900.00 a month! This is only $620.00 a month!"
     "That's not my problem, if you wanna stay free you be there!"
     Well, you can be assured you know what I did. Yea, this was an easy blame-choice for the likes of me. Yea, I done chilled out as long as I could. Yea, I ain't gonna wait for no one until my parole is up. Yea, I pack what ever I can an' haul it an' my butt across the state line an' into you know where: FLORIDA--land of the easy dope!