Thursday, March 22, 2018

A NIGHT IN THE NIGHT LIFE

For all my security family whether you are bouncing, working with a company or an artist, I think that you're going to be able to relate. 

A NIGHT IN THE NIGHT LIFE


Damascus stood with his arms folded. His hairline and fade would pass a laser beam test. It was his birthday and as usual a happy birthday for him was being at work.
 People paid good money to come to a club, listen to the hottest Dj’s , smoke a little bit of hookah, have a couple of drinks, watch the  strippers asses clap, maybe smoke some weed and hope that the Dj would say their name. Damascus got all of that for free, in fact he got paid to do it.
 The Dj was definitely going to say HIS name several times. “There he is ladies and gentlemen real niggas and boss bitches, the 8th wonder of the world ‘The Wall’ my nigga I hope don't get no bigger, Damascus!”
 Dj Mon-Tanner, had worked with Damascus for 3 years. When Mon-Tanner's car was in the shop Damascus had given him a couple of rides. The young Dj was earning his money that night.
 The music was thumping and as he surveyed the crowd over his massive folded arms Damascus couldn't help but nod his head along.
 As an especially explicit song came on a nearly naked patron decided to rub her ample bottom against him. Damascus looked at her with a blank unreadable expression, causing her to move on to the next person.
 The Dj choose that moment to chide Damascus. “Yo Wall what are you 50 now? Make sure to tip security, that old ass nigga ain't running unless you pay him.” He laughed at the Dj's good natured ribbing, but the fact that he was much older than the patrons and the Disc Jockey didn't escape Damascus’ notice. He had been thinking about trying a new career, but the easy money in the strip clubs kept calling him back.
 He was uniquely qualified for the “Night Life”, an athlete that had never lived up to his potential. He had played football at a small community college and remained undrafted he had tried out for and made the practice squad of the Falcons. Only to be cut a little bit over a month later.
 Damascus had gone on to train as a heavy weight boxer, and had been considered a contender until he was caught betting on his own fights.
 Depression crept in after that disappointment and Damascus had broken the jaw of a bodyguard who was attempting to move him from his seat. He had taken the bodyguards place that night. Over the 20 years since, Damascus had gone from being simply a big guy from Alabama to being one of the most sought after security officers in Atlanta. 
 In the interest of maximizing his craft Damascus, who had embraced the nickname ‘The Wall’ mastered Jiu Jitsu and Krav Maga. In his field his size was a non-factor, 6”5' is big for a garbage collector, not for a bodyguard.
 Despite the fact that it was his birthday Damascus was bored. The offers of some head in the bathroom didn't have the same appeal it once had.
 The years had loved him this student of violence, the man called the Wall's, hairline was still stationary and his prodigious beard held very few grey hairs. Most people would have been surprised to discover that it was his 47th birthday. He didn't feel 47. He didn't feel 40!
 Damascus believed that he was as dangerous and  threatening as ever. He felt that if anything his age made him all the more of a threat.
 He had been in enough situations to predict how the average opponent would behave and to know how to react. Thoughts of retirement always went through his mind around his birthday, and as usual he was talking himself out of it.
 Even with the nude women scattered around the 5 stages, and the hypnotic quality of mumble rap, Damascus caught the movement across from the VIP area.
 Damascus was in motion even before the complete scene played out. A local record company executive had chosen to sit at a table outside of the VIP the executive and his entourage were still buying bottles of liquor and acting like important people.
 The waitress that waited on them also had to deal with the regular patrons. The entire reason for separating VIPs from regular customers was the extra attention. Big Bug from “Bugged Out Entertainment” wanted his cake and he wanted to eat it too. He didn't understand why he wasn't the waitresses only priority. So much so that he grabbed her as she got near.
 Damascus didn't play those games, he took disrespect to the staff personally. Damascus was there holding Bug's wrist and instructing him to let the waitress go. 
That was the moment things went bad. An overzealous entourage member, one of those generic average height, average build, but well above average attitude having posers that would be celebrities surround themselves with tried to prove his worth. The Wall saw the man’s haphazard punch in its infancy and slid out of its reach. He stiff handed the would be assailant in his Adams apple. He yanked Big Bug’s wrist up, and then down turning it in the opposite direction and effectively eliminated him from the fight.
 He wouldn't have broken it except for the fact that more of the street celebs minions were in motion. The eight carpal bones were quiet as they were broken, but the radius and ulnar sounded loudly as they popped. Before he dropped the now useless appendage, Damascus used the large man as a spring board that drove his knee into another attacker’s nose shattering the cartilage and chipping the orbital bones of either eye.
 Like a ballerina the Wall spun on his toes using an elbow to blind a 3rd attack dog and got airborne to deliver a crushing superman punch to the final lackey. 
Then he felt something punch into his kidneys hard five times and his hand once more. 
 He recognized the sound of a .38 snub nose but couldn't reconcile that to the burning pain in his side and back. “I been fucking shot.” He thought.
 He was still in motion and had his own gun out. His bullet proof vest had stopped the bullets from shredding his internal organs but fuck it hurt.
 He felt like sitting down. 
 The room was becoming blurry Dj Mon-Tanner was yelling something, but all Damascus wanted to do was sit down.
 The music had stopped and people were screaming and running towards the door. He heard rather than saw his shooter reloading. The sound gave him a focal point and he leveled his Glock 1911  .45  at the man. “I will kill you, bruh drop the pistol.” 
The man gave no indication of complicity, and snapped the now reloaded .38’s cylinder closed.
 Damascus lined his huge pistol up on the foolish individual’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The .45 sounded like thunder, and the stricken man's face took on the pleading, questioning look that humans get before the soul realizes that the body isn't it’s home anymore.
 Damascus found himself on the floor and felt his back. “Jesus Christ I'm tired…” He said.
 He noticed his hand at that point, and was staring through the hole in his palm, at the paramedics that were coming to get him when he passed out.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Winston Winning part II


If you liked part 1 I humbly submit part 2. Follow my Blog for more


The back to work training program building smelled like urine, sex and shattered dreams. 
He hadn't seen this much Sean John and Roca wear since he left Milwaukee. The people who had money in the city were wearing True Religion and Robin Jeans these people were like him, poor. Winston had come to the harsh realization that he was a bum.
 He and Dave had turned half of his EBT into cash by buying the pirate cigarettes from a Bodega and selling loose cigarettes. He had already flipped the  $125 twice. He couldn't believe that cigarettes sold so well here. 
Winston had begun a conversation with the security officer at the front desk, that might benefit him. “Excuse me big brother I just started this class and I am from out of town. What does it really do?” 
The officer was all set to dismiss the bald young man in front of him. He had decided not to answer questions long ago. However Winston reminded him of himself when he first came “A foreign”. The burly Jamaican sized Winston up and said. “Souljah you da one day say have loose?” Winston had learned to listen extra carefully to every syllable that people spoke. Three days of useless mock interviews and skills assessments hosted by an international community had forced him to fathom the depths of different accents. Not realizing that he could be putting himself in a bad predicament, He responded truthfully. “I got loose. You good for one on the strength.” 
He had been talking to Dave a lot, but he stubbornly held on to his own brand of slang.  Gordon, the barrel chested Jamaican security officer told the other officers. “I am going to walk around the block. Nobody without High Dee sine?” The officer extended his hand for the offered cigarette. Winston provided it. “You know that selling loosies is against the law?“ Winston had not. Dave had some explaining to do. “Nah, for real?” The man had lit up and coughed when he laughed. “Yah mon. Hill-Eagle.” 
Winston noticed that the other cigarette peddlers had started vacating the block as he walked beside Gordon. “You ever do security? Yankee boy?” Winston shook his head no. He was willing though. Gordon stopped and crushed the nearly untouched cigarette beneath his shoe. “Hall-right my youth. Two things what Gordon gone do fa yah I'm not gone let hinny one helse sell loose ear.” He looked around till he spotted Dave. “The lickal Puerto Rican kid hold-den ya bag true?” Winston was shocked that the middle aged rent-a-cop had noticed so much. He had to admit it. “He is.”
 Gordon gestured for Dave to cross the street and Winston nodded the okay. Gordon spoke to Dave in Spanish effectively cutting Winston out of the conversation. As the two men wrapped up the unintelligible conversation Dave looked at Winston and shook his head. He was smiling. 
“Hall-right now youth don't be out ear when ya supposed to be hen class sine?” Winston agreed that he did ‘sine' or understand. “I go on talk to the had-ministrator, hand we go on get ya a job sine?” Suddenly the back to work training program was less of a burden. Winston had hope. The other people in his class started speaking to one another by the fourth day.
 Winston remained silent. He sold loose cigarettes at break time and talked to Dave. Dave was trying to convince him to say that he was homeless and get on the list for an apartment. Winston had seen through Dave by this point, he knew that his one friend in the city was a two-bit con man but he had some good advice. 
As the two week program wrapped the administrator called Winston into her office. His weight caused the ancient chair to creak alarmingly. He felt as if it might collapse at any moment. He tried to be patient as the elderly woman read his small folder. Her eyes looked enormous through the thick lenses of her glasses. Ms. Kolinsky seemed to be reading every detail of the senseless assessments and his resume. Finally the old woman cleared her throat, she sounded like a car fighting for ignition.  “I have a good friend, who attends temple with me…” Myrtle Kolinsky looked up from the file. Her original line of thought appeared abandoned. “Are you a religious man Mr. Turner?” Winston replied “I think that I'm more spiritual than religious ma'am.” The older woman's laughter sounded more like a death knell then a sound of mirth. “I am sorry Mr. Turner it’s just we don't hear ma'am until you out of town people come through.” She pulled open a desk drawer her tiny pale arms riff with age spots. An index card appeared in her hand. “These are friends of mine. They own a spice warehouse in Manhattan and they need a warehouse associate can you start on Monday if we get you some money for work clothes?” Winston had wanted to say why wait he had clothes. But Dave’s admonishment to “Get whatever they'll give you Yo.” Rang in his subconscious. “Yes ma'am I will be there. Is there a specific uniform?” The woman handed him a package of paperwork instead of answering and signed a check blowing her signature before handing it over. As an afterthought Ms. Kolinsky  asked “Your middle name is Churchill?”
 The check was for $150 and instead of buying unnecessary clothes Winston gave the money to his landlord. He was a couple of weeks ahead and he intended to stay that way.
The train ride to the job was nerve racking. He was not used to depending on transit to get to work on time. Winston checked his cheap wristwatch at every stop until he reached his.  He arrived early bought a cup of coffee and a bagel from a kiosk and sat at the corner of the building.
 The warehouse was old. Not like established in 1975 old. It was turn of the century antiquated machinery old. The smell of over a hundred years of cinnamon, coriander, thyme, red pepper and work hung heavy in the air. The brother and sister team that owned the warehouse stayed in the office. 
He had one coworker, at least in name, but the man really did no work other than teach Winston how to use the outdated systems. The older black man wore a pristine Dickie’s one piece and it remained pristine all day. Winston on the other hand was filthy he had learned the hard way that grinding 300 lbs of red pepper was a difficult task. One that caused his nose to run, his eyes to water, caused him to  choke and gag. 
When he switched to grinding cinnamon it stuck to the tears, and mucus creating dark lines down the front of his shirt and his face. He next had to mill black pepper from peppercorns. When Willie, the other employee came to announce that it was break time he strolled in the pepper dust filled room wearing a ventilator. 
He lifted up his goggles for a millisecond. “I forgot to get you a mask. My fault. It’s break time.” 
Winston wanted to punch the old bastard in his neck. 
The two 15 minute breaks and the 30 minute lunch all went by too fast. The end of the day came and the senior citizen siblings, thanked him and told him that they looked forward to seeing him the next day. 
He was embarrassed by how dirty he was as he rode the train. By the time he reached his front door Winston was tired to the bone and he had to spend time getting the mixed spice out of his crevices. 
He wasn't certain that he wanted to stay in the warehouse long term, but he was on his way.
 He dug through his last unpacked piece of luggage and found dark brown Dickies,  a pair of safety glasses and two bandanas. Winston was not going to wait for Willie or anyone else to provide reasonable accommodation for him. He had his own. It wouldn’t be long until He was doing well, Winston thought.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

The Great Airplane Adventure

Hey I am posting another true story, I hope that you enjoy it.


THE GREAT AIRPLANE ADVENTURE
I was seven years old and wise beyond my years.
My best friends were also intellectuals of the highest order. Before we could skip ahead to college at MIT my duo of friends and I had some grand adventures to participate in. 
We would create a comic book company. A company with our own characters that we had created. The hand drawn books featured our own original story lines. 
We also would produce the great airplane Adventure. After discovering the Wright brothers invention, my friends Jay, Jerry and I had an epiphany.
 We were the greatest trio since the three musketeers, we  decided if we had enough lawn mowers we could rig up an engine powerful enough to power our wood frame airplane. Oh, our protractors, compasses, rulers, angles and the single  calculator (neither Jay or I had a calculator) were used the way God intended. 
Our scientific research began in those tiny desks at West Kemper elementary school. With painstaking care we created the blueprints. What awesome  blueprints they were too. Designs that the Air force and NASA still haven’t caught up to.
  The engine designs that we devised would rival the finest things that Lockheed Martin and Boeing were coming up with and the body designs could probably make our fortunes right now if for no other reasons than the outlandish shapes could be used for science fiction. 
I can’t remember what we should have been studying as we spent hours designing the perfect aircraft. I have  to say that the three of us all had perfect grades, the academic side of our report cards always stellar. I haven't seen that many A’s since.  The behavior side in my case was deplorable. I couldn’t focus, didn't get along with others, I was disruptive and demanding, but the duo that I had as my inner circle and I got along with awesome result. 
The comic books we created were classics man. We created superheroes and Super groups that would rival earth's mightiest heroes. The league, pifft, wouldn't stand a chance. With such scholars by my side our success was a foregone conclusion. 
 We discussed the parts that we would need. The components of our airplane, In the minds of we three seven-year-old geniuses, we thought that if we scavenged enough motor parts from lawn mowers tillers, chain saws and various sorted and sundry gas-powered devices we would have all the power we needed. Perhaps we got lost in the new-found infatuation with air travel, or we underestimated the amount of power we would need to become air-borne.  Maybe we didn’t factor in the weight of the wood that we intended for the body of our vehicle to be mostly made of.
 Since my father had been an aircraft mechanic in the Air force, and like Wile E Coyote I was a genius extraordinaire and so were my co-conspirators. We were confident that soon we would build our aircraft be terrorizing the skies like the red baron. In hindsight I have no idea why I even thought this harebrained scheme was going to work. 
However, I was certain we could cobble together a working jet engine. Ambitious, I know but at seven the only thing that is a limitation is your imagination, and I was a no limit soldier. I believed that the Millennium falcon “Made the Kessel run in 12 parsecs”, I believed that Wookie’s, Klingons, Kryptonite, and Vibranium were all real things. I KNEW that if I was shocked, or bitten by a radioactive creature, struck by cosmic lightening, or any number of other fortunate accidents I was going to be a superhero. I studied sci-fi television. I didn’t just watch Buck Rogers, Star Trek, and Star Wars, I analyzed the entire genre. I was a swashbuckler, a Han Solo style smuggler, a pirate of the air and this aircraft was going to make all of our fortunes.
 It might have taken us two days to complete the blueprints and they were flawless. If I remember correctly we even had notes on the prints. Forget about Xerox we drew three separate sets of the complete prints.
 For my part I had begged, borrowed, and stolen every lawn mower, tiller, wood chipper, moped, and three wheeler, anything motorized that anyone in every neighborhood, in every direction in walking distance would part with. I was cute at the time so I amassed quite the collection. 
My older brother laughed like a hyena when I revealed my plans to him. I didn't want to reveal our top secret plans for world domination, but I needed the help. Jerry, Jay my apologies for revealing the blueprints to my brother, I needed help to move the heavy stuff.
 My brother was six years my senior which meant he was grown. At least to my 7 year old eyes. He laughed, until his green eyes, so like my mother's, were wet. “Oh little brother you made my day!” He attempted to compose himself. “You know what?” 
My brown eyes widened as I looked up at him. He was unbelievably tall. Probably 5”8'  at the time. 
He lowered his changing voice, attempting to seem conspiratorial. My brother glanced around. “let me see those plans.” His voice cracked and he sounded like my sister. Despite the octave change he had me. I figured Danny recognized the intellectual power of these plans.   “I'm gonna help you out Chubby. “ Yeah I was already shopping in the husky boys section and wasn't doing any push aways. “Come this way.”
 He said. I followed doing my best to be as cool as he was. He walked over to the impressive stash of Detritus. He stroked his four hair goatee. “I (deep ) see (high) some real (falsetto) potential here.” I was bouncing up and down. “Danny.” I said “What the hell do I need to do?” I had to cuss in order to establish the pecking order, this was my project.
 I was the one in charge. To emphasize my point I stood just like Batman, the coolest of the super friends.
 He first made me promise to NEVER tell anyone, ANYONE that he was involved. I gave him my word, and though I know he is passed all caring, I apologize for spilling the beans now.
 My beautiful late brother directed me to my father's tool box. Also known as heaven for a curious child genius. Ecstasy, bliss, this was going to work we were going to have the best airplane in America and the Communists were going to try to steal our plans, and Bond, James Bond, (the good one not that new Roger guy) was going to have to kick that Russian dude with the purple stuff on his heads butt. I had it all worked out.
 As I eyed my father's tool box greedily my brother whispered. “You have to keep this cool plan a secret. “ I knew that. I wasn't some dumb little kid. I was like Johnny Quest on steroids. I was Reed Richards, No I was T'Challa. Yeah that way. I looked at my big brother with a look that said “Are you awake?”
 I had read Jack Higgins. I knew about plots and subterfuge. I watched “Bugs Bunny”. My chubby cheeks formed into the same “Get to the point!” expression I have till this day. He leaned down to my level. “Don't let Pops know you got his tools.” 
Okay, red flag. I knew better than to sneak and touch my dad's tools. What a conundrum. I had to keep these top secret plans secret. However I needed those tools. My brother Danny was right. I had to use the tools in secret. My brother instructed me “Don't get carried away fatso and put Dads shit back Captain Eat-a lot.” 
 Because I begged him to, Danny brought over the plywood for the wings and I used my father's tape measure to get the computation just so. I marked them, ready to cut them to our detailed specs but by that time Danny had finished his performance. 
 “Aye no neck if you touch that, (falsetto) fucking saw you don't have to worry about Dad. “ I didn't realize that he had been yanking my little chain. I  thought. "Aha jealousy."  I must be doing something right, Danny was jealous I knew that this was going to fly.
 Jay, Jerry, and I would be Richie Rich wealthy. I just needed my teammates. So the next day I let my fellow scientists know what I planned. To ensure I would have my fellow eggheads I attempted to talk my father into allowing my friends Jay and Jerry over to our house to build it.  I didn't tell him what we planned I just asked could they spend the night. No such luck. My Dad was tough, and he was not allowing me to have any company at the time.
 I couldn't let this pedestrian stand in the way of scientific progress. So the instant my father left for work I found all his tools. Three entire tool boxes full.
 I didn’t know which tool to use for which thing, so I grabbed them all. I didn’t know how I was going to combine the engines once I disconnected them from the original devices, all I knew was that somehow with all of these tools I was going to get this engine built.
 I laid my tools out like a surgeon. I worked hard for an entire shift. So hard that time got away from me. I had wanted to have the jet motor ready on Monday morning.
I don't know how I was going to get the completed motor on the school bus, but I had already made tons of assumptions.  When I heard my father pull up I panicked. 
I forgot about the top secret status of the great Airplane Adventure.
 If I explained it to him He had to understand. He couldn't be upset about such ingenuity and brilliance. There was absolutely no way he was going to punish me,  I reasoned, but he did.
 The great Airplane Adventure crashed and burned immediately. The fire was confined to the places I was hit with the tri-braided switch my Father found. 
I was so afraid to touch my fathers tools after that! I honestly believe that is why I never learned mechanical work from my dad.
 As further punishment I had to get rid of all the lawn mower carcasses and recover my father's tools that were spread from one end of the yard to the other.
 I  did so while I cried. I had learned my lesson, at least until the next time.

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Thursday, March 15, 2018

Roadside Assistance

Roadside Assistance
His wife had warned him.
 She had told him that his 3036 Cadillac Star Cruiser was on the verge of breaking down. He thought it wasn’t. He thought he could wait for the next deposit of credits for this job.
 It was the best paying jump he had ever been offered.  He had thought that the faster than light engine optimization could be put off. At least until the halfway point where He had been scheduled for a complete overhaul on the client’s credits. He was not being irresponsible, was he? The maintenance should have been able to wait. He had even added STP “FTL optimization in a tube.” It was guaranteed for 100k light years.
 Now he was drifting outside of the shipping lanes. He had pressed for space way assistance. The Gala-Star representative, obviously an inferior AI, had informed him that he had 48 hours to get his affairs frozen. He could not. He knew he was required to by law. Not only Neo-Jamaican law, galactic law. Law set up somewhere called earth. The place where supposedly the original Jamaica was. He was not sure that he believed that it was real. 
 He was normally transporting Cannabis produced in his star system something that was easy. Something low profile, but he had needed this economic boost. His wife was pregnant. 
 She legally could not go into ‘Cryogenic Pausing’ it was a way of keeping forced Cryogenic Sleep casualties from benefiting from his, her, their, it's misfortune. The system was well set up. 
 Normally Couriers had a mechanic to them within a day. The longest Xander had ever waited before had been a month. Some of the more successful Couriers had a mechanic on staff. Those Guys made a Cred.
 He had considered hiring a Xylothian, their system was so overcrowded that they worked relatively cheaply.
 He was tired of just being a courier though. As happy as he was, he like his wife wanted more than competing to transport “non-digitized” goods.  Only making enough credits to keep them housed.
 He had trained to serve his star system. Albeit covertly.  He was meant to be more to do more. He was smart, and He suspected that the highly militaristic branch of the star system government he had served, conspired to keep him from getting ahead.
 With this score he was supposed to buy a newer better equipped ship and start making the credits it took to get out of the ironically named Paradise Road star system.  
 He had promised to get his wife out of Neo -Jamaica. She had always wanted to “Go AH Space.” The expression meant the settled systems outside the ‘Paradise Road’ star system. He had promised her. ‘His Neo-Jamaican Rose’ that he would take her out of the system. 
 “Fuck’d Cryo!” Xander screamed “What dah Rasclot!*” He screamed loudly, inside the ship his scream was earsplitting. 
The sound would have died out here even if he didn't have dampening fields and the best materials available. At least the best upgrades available to a 24 year old GMSC luxury vehicle.
 He had gone out of system for those upgrades.
 Xander really didn’t want to go into Cryogenic sleep. He had been in Cryo twice before. Those had been Cryogenic Punishments, his mind had been forced through 20 years of simulated prison. On two occasions. 
 Oh he knew that this would be different. That his mind would not be forced to live through every moment. Subjected to a prison program.  Knew that a technician would awaken him. He even knew that because his body had undergone long Cryogenic sleep before that it would be easier and cause less damage. He also knew that, because of the fact that his family could not be made to go into the usual forced Cryogenic tanks he was going to be a wealthy individual. His situation was atypical, so much so that he was the big winner. Which made him uncomfortable.
 He had never been the big winner before. Things never worked in his favor like that. Yet, Intergalactic law was clear. If a courier was unable to deliver, the family received his reward. If they were lost and the family left waiting they received an additional match from the company, government, or governments involved.
 It was why if a courier was delayed his family were also made to go into Cryogenic sleep. He had always thought that law was evil. He had been delivering from the 6 governments of the Interstellar Union to the 8 government Non-Terrain Federation. On the one hand this loophole had served to completely reverse his fortunes. On the other hand, his whole life would be different when he awoke. He had been required to rebuild enough times.
 “Bludfire, I really don't want for have a do this love.” He whispered into the microphone built into his pilot’s yoke. Lillian, was going to be angry. Xander could picture her perfect nostrils flaring and smiled despite himself. She was His wife, the 2nd woman he'd ever loved, third counting His mother.  Lillian, would be nearly 70 and his child 35. He would still love her, them. 
It was difficult to wrap his mind around the fact that his unborn son would be an adult before they met. They would be wealthy however.
 The 14 governments had contracted to exchange gifts via couriers. As part of the ongoing diplomatic relations. None of them had wanted to make direct contact with the others and had farmed out the gift exchange to the lowest bidder. Zap Space-way Courier Company, was the lowest bidder, and Xander’s employer. The only space ferrying company willing to give an ex-con a chance.
 The trip was a long haul in real time. The path was virtually from one “end” of known space to the other. It was supposed to be a couple of years traveling at FTL speeds. 
Xander, had experienced a massive surge in his FTL engines and been tossed into approximately the middle of nowhere. The low budget AI had informed him that his Assistance would be there in 25-35 light-years. He sent a personal message to his wife begging her to forgive him. He composed a video for his progeny and he got into his ships Cryogenic chamber.
 To him it was only a moment. He opened his eyes but could not see anything.
 “Fucked Cryo twice! I bludklat* blind!” Xander yelled. Or at least he attempted to yell. He felt groggy and his voice wasn't its usual deep rich bass. He sounded old, very old.
 As his eyes began to work he looked around. 
Too many guns for a service vehicle.
 He quickly deduced that his entire vessel was inside a hold. A hold large enough for another 20 ships like his. 
“Wait a Rasclot minute...” he thought. Speaking of his ship where was it? He was on something that was holding his Cryopod upright. Just him, on his Cryo bed immobile in the middle of a cargo hold. It was just the Cryo bed, him and these... He figured they were pirates.
 “Emperors balls! He's functional alright!” One of the heavily armored beings spoke. The voice was in Imperial Standard. Xander noticed that the voice sounded surprised. If a technician were waking him, they shouldn't be surprised. Why were these people surprised he was awake?
 “What da bumbaklot*?” Xander thought to himself. Body honed. Mind even stronger. Xander strained to get into a fighting stance. His body would not obey his mind. 
 They didn't sound like pirates, their standard sounded too crisp. They didn't look like pirates. Their armor was too shiny, and uniform. Pirates weren't that organized, then too the armor while uniform and well made, was also well used. Military, he figured but why would he be in a military ship hold?
 Xander was accustomed to acting quickly and decisively for survival.  Xander was a former member of the best kept secret army in the universe. One of the cryogenic punishments had been for telling his then girlfriend the truth. The other cryogenic punishment had been the Neo-Jamaican government’s way of further destroying Xander. They had framed him for her murder.
  Regardless of the thick accent with which he spoke Xander possessed a high-level intellect. A keen mind that was agonizing over his body's inability to respond.
 One of the large armored folk’s helmet slid down into her chest plate. She was obviously the medical tech, she spoke to him in accented universal standard. He had taken enough meetings with government Dr’s to recognize the archetype. “Mr. Hope, can you understand what I am saying?” Xander, managed a slight nod. As they healed him the nanites sheared the dreadlocks that had coiled the entire length of his body, internally causing them to fall off at their previous length. Had he known he would have been irate. His locks were his pride. He had never cut or trimmed them.
 The tiny robots, trimmed and manicured his nails, that despite their growth being slowed to being imperceptibly different from death, had continued to grow.  The minute mechanisms turned him into a semblance of the man he'd been. The simple A. I’s brought him to a new and improved version of his last scans. Stronger, healthier, and nearly indestructible. 
 He heard the Dr’s voice through ears that could now hear a dog’s whistle. He gave her the slightest once over and raised one eyebrow. Ignoring the gesture, the Dr. continued. “You are going to be fine our scans show that your vitals are acceptable. Your sight and mobility will completely return within seconds you might feel it now. I have injected you with nanites that will heal any damage done in stasis.” Xander attempted to stand but his muscles didn't seem to be cooperating just yet. His voice however had returned.  “I a ear ya.” He said, using vocal cords that were newly healed. “Ya talk a lickal bit odd.” Xander’s Neo-Jamaican accent wasn't as thick as many of his fellow natives. He had traveled well beyond his small cluster of planets. An 8-planet system in a peculiar rotation around a small hot burning star.
 “Fucked long I been a sleeping?” He noticed a glance from the Dr to a still helmed soldier. The symbols glowing on his chest earmarked him as an officer.
 The officer’s armor split with a hiss and the man's face was revealed. For Xander it was like looking into a fun house mirror. Those were his features, his eyes, just slightly different somehow. The military haircut shocked Xander, to his core. Why would a lion cut His mane?  His distorted reflection nodded at the doctor.
  A combination of sheer will mixed with the currently Billions of microscopic machines coursing through his bloodstream, Xander stood. His 2-meter height was normally impressive and served to intimidate others, but all these soldiers were at least a couple cm taller.
 “Ah Rasclot go on Mi youth?” The translator sent his words to the rest of the crew as. “What the fuck is going on my boy?”
 However, it could not convey the depth of his need to understand. He stared into the face that so closely mimicked his own. 
This man was obviously in charge. He answered him in the dialect of Universal Standard Xander had grown up speaking. 
“I an I come fah take ya home. I Commandant Xander Fulton Hope dah 3rd. I yah grandson. You been sleeping a while grandpapa. If you hadn't been a Con and been on the long sleep afore we a no be talking.”
  The man had to be lying his own child was yet to be born. 
He was having a hard time grasping the amount of time that had passed. The commandant respectfully stood shock still as his Grandfather processed the information. 
Xander (the first) took the measure of his alleged grandson. The man had that stuck at 45 look that came from Galactic Grade gene meds and military grade nanites. He guessed the same kind the doctor had injected him with. He could have been any age from 50 to 150.
 He couldn't guess how long he had been in Cryogenic Sleep without more information. 
 “I reckon I owed ha lot ha money from me Gala Star Assistance Company seen?”
  It was the type of joke that his wife always cautioned against, and he winced inwardly knowing she was probably dead, but his descendent laughed heartily. “Oh, Grandpapa you’re not only going to be Wealthy, you're about to stop a war that we've been fighting for 217 years."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

RESPECT

I learned a lot about life from my Great-grandpa and this is just one of those life lessons. In everyone’s life there are defining moments.  You decide who you are based on the things, people and experiences around you. This story is about one such moment for me.

RESPECT
The honeysuckles filled the air with a poignant aroma. Blackberry vines were blooming and the soon to be succulent fruit had started to produce. 
The Mississippi Sun as always was scorching, causing the dirt road that my great-grandparents house was on to crack and blister. The red clay produced a fine coat on anything or anyone unfortunate enough to have the misfortune to be nearby.
 We, my Great-Grandfather and I had been working since before the hellish sun rose. We had picked cucumbers while the dew was still coating the tender plants.
  “Papa Red” and I had loaded his old green Chevy truck’s bed to capacity with burlap bags. Those bags had been filled to bursting with small jerkins, which we took into town to be weighed and sold. After we harvested the “pickling cucumbers” we would have breakfast.
 Normally breakfast was biscuits, eggs gathered from our chickens and sausage that we made from our pigs. My “Grannie Maude” would cook a large pan of biscuits and sit in the kitchen to see if we needed more prepared.  
Once breakfast was done we had a myriad of other chores to perform.  We would handle those tasks until noon when dinner was served. If my Grannie said “Dinner po today chile” it meant that there was no meat to be had. Those were my favorite meals.
 Black eyed peas, were often on the menu, or sliced red ‘maters’, squash, okra, turnips, collards, or as it was this particular day my Great-Grandmother made “Ice taters and Anglish Peas”.  For those of you who are not fortunate enough to have grown up in the deep south, that is Irish potatoes and English Peas. I have been cooking for 30 plus years and have never been able to make mine taste half as good. After a hardy meal of Ice taters and Anglish peas, hot water cornbread, and sliced tomatoes with salt and black pepper, we rested. 
 The three of us, my Great-Grandparents and I would lay sideways across their bed and nap. After a brief respite there was more work to be done. 
 Well this day Papa Red and I had put in a mans work. I had been plowing Papa’s brand-new mule, Johnny. Why he named that stubborn S.O.B., Johnny I will probably never know.  What I do know is that I hated that Mule and the feelings were reciprocated. 
That strong and head strong beast had beat my 10-year-old body up, and I was sitting on the porch having a cup of coffee and a Prince Albert. (roll your own cigarette) Remember I never said that my Papa Red was a good influence I said he was defining. 
 In our part of the world in the early 80’s there was a gentleman who sold Raleigh items. These were salves and snake oils that probably served few if any beneficial purposes. 
Well the “Raleigh Man” as he was known would extend credit to the elderly people in our community from one “Check day” to another, as most of these folks lived on a fixed income.
 Well as we relaxed on our porch, drinking our coffee, with a little nip of brandy, and smoking our roll ups the Raleigh Man arrived.
 Now I can’t speak to anyone else’s frame of mind, but I was pissed that Mr. Dan the Raleigh man had stirred up the red dust.  I held my tongue though because grown folks were doing business.  It’s probably for the best that I held my tongue.
 Mr. Dan seemed to be upset from the outset.  He approached my Grannie Maude, with attitude already on his mind. He insisted that my Great-Grandma owed him $20. She was adamant that she had settled the debt. The pair went back and forth for a moment until Mr. Dan, who was white, became disrespectful. “Look hear-ya gal! You owe me and I wants my money!” 
 Papa had been silent up until that point. He still didn’t speak. He leaned back in his rocking chair, slipped one hand behind him, and gently moved his 30-0-6 rifle behind his chair. At which point he cleared his throat and said in the reasonable voice that I emulate with my family. “Pardon me Mr. Dan. If’n my wife says she paid ya. Then she paid ya.” 
While calm and fraught with wisdom his baritone held distinct menace when he proclaimed. “Now I’d appreciate it if you don’t EVER call my wife no Gal ever gain.” 
 I distinctly remember the pale parlor of the man changing to the same red of the unripe black berries. He seemed to fall all over himself getting back into his car. If the first dust cloud had been a storm this was a tornado. He spun his tires on the sparse gravel intermixed with the red clay.
 Before the dust could settle good, and as I watched the angry man drive away, I heard my best friend, my coffee buddy, my icon, my Papa’s melodic laughter.
 Still angry with the interloper my Grannie spat, before she asked her husband. “What’s so funny Red?” My Great-Grandpa sipped his brandy coffee mixture before he answered, and when he did I could still hear the mirth. “Now Maude, you know you owed that man don’t cha?”
 At the time I didn’t grasp the seriousness. Here was a man whose father had been a slave, who had served ten years in the than new, Parchman Penitentiary Farm, who was black and in Mississippi in the early 80’s.
  Here was a man who had every reason to be afraid, to acquiesce, and to allow his wife to be disrespected, but he would not stand for it.
  Not only that but he knew that his wife had been wrong.
 My Papa couldn’t read or write that well, but he knew money. He knew to the very last penny where everything was assigned. 
 He knew that his wife had owed that debt. Papa would not let her be wrong, not in front of someone else.
 That moment in time 36 years ago, was defining it helped shape my opinions on how you are supposed to treat your woman.
 It taught me to respect my woman, and to support her even if she is wrong as two left shoes. I can always laugh and tell her she was wrong later.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Hard Lessons

The very first story I ever posted was a semi-fictonal story about a young man moving into a small wooden house.
This is Kevin as a slightly older, young man learning a hard lesson about life, love, and complacency. Please enjoy.


Kevin Delaney had been living in his own house for two years now.
He had fixed the roof.
 He had re-wired the house, fixed the porch, the foundation and even wallpapered.
He used his Wal-Mart paycheck and his pay from hauling wood to virtually rebuild the interior and exterior of his house.
 Kevin, had installed vinyl siding.
 He had a garden. His house looked nice. Like a home.
 He had brought very few girls here. Mostly girls from his hometown even though most of the more attractive girls from his class had gotten the heck out of town fast.
He seldom saw any of his classmates any more.
Even Jay and Tony his best partners had moved away. He lived in Butler Alabama, but he worked across the state line in Meridian Mississippi.
 The guys there were petty, spiteful, and vindictive.
 Kevin had learned that the hard way.
 Once he had gotten robbed and beaten up at a Motel right on the frontage rd. He had gotten into a fight at a night club in Meridian.
 If the guys from the Naval base hadn't admired his heart, and pulled out guns the Meridianites might have killed him.
 They would have done it for no other reason then that he was “From the country."
After that he avoided Girls from Meridian.
He figured they were just as grimy as the guys.
Like everyone else he knew Kevin wanted to leave.
 He tried to join the military and despite having great ASFAB scores his extremely flat feet cost him that escape.
 He was making as much money as any of his college educated co-workers.
 More than, because he still hauled the logs used to make paper. “Pulpwood” was good money, but it wasn't what he wanted for himself long-term. He had no idea what he really wanted.
 His little paid for house, with his $17 a month electric bill, $9 a month water bill, and the gas tank that cost $80 a year to supply, had made him comfortable.
 He was content. Until he met her.
 She was magnificent.
Her skin was like a polished copper.
 Her accent rang in his ears like a heavenly chorus.
She was from ‘New Yark'.
 New York was a magical, mystical, place that he had only read about and seen on T.V. The best thing was that she had picked him. She had told him that he was “The Sexiest Bama she'd ever seen.” No woman had ever said anything like that about him. Even the ones who had moaned and screamed in his bed. He was sprung.
Even before he ever brought her to his house and been introduced to the wonderful world of fellatio.
 He would have done anything for her.
 She worked at Wal-Mart with him and when she couldn't stay at his house and he didn't see her at work he was miserable.
 He had not realized how small his world view had been. 
Yasmin was Puerto Rican and though he knew it was part of the USA he had never given it a 2nd thought. 
He  believed that his Puerto Rican princess was the most beautiful woman on earth and he would forgive her anything. 
That was until she convinced him to take her to NYC.
 It was 1992 and he had decided to drive his Yasmin to New York to celebrate her birthday.
He believed her when she said that he would have to stay at the hotel alone because of how strict her family was.
 He cherished the two nights she spent there with him. 
While in New York he learned that Yasmin was not the most beautiful woman on earth.
Next to some of the women he saw there she was downright plain.
She held his heart though.
 She was perfect.
 He picked her up on the last day.
Kevin was nervous driving in the huge city, but he drove his 1987 Buick carefully.
Once the couple got on the interstate he put on the cruise control.
 Yaz fell asleep, lulled by the loping gate of the domestic luxury car.
 She was beautiful in her sleep and despite discovering that she wasn't unique in creation he loved her. 
He snuck glances at her as she slept.
 As she slept her hair fell forward into her face.
 Just enough to see passion marks on the back of her neck.
 Virginia flew by in a blur and Kevin’s heart crumbled as his Park Avenue ate the miles. 
She was asking him to stop. 
“Baby I really got to pee can we stop?” 
The thin line that traverses love and hate was getting thinner as the ride progressed. “Yeah, for sure. Anything for you.”  
Perhaps she was too naïve to pick up on the sarcasm,  perhaps she was over confident, but she didn't realize.
 Kevin pulled over at the closest rest area.
 He lit a cigarette as he watched her walking to the bathroom.
 He struck his Zippo lighter against his jeans pocket.
 Kevin was just starting to get angry. 
He thought about leaving her.
Just driving off and leaving her to her own devices.
 He wanted to let her know how much she had hurt him.
She smiled at him as she walked towards him.  He got off the door he'd been leaning against.  “I got to piss.” He grumbled without returning her smile.
Yaz, looked as if  a rug had been snatched from under her feet.
She knew something was wrong.
Kevin’s handsome face had been breaking into a childish smile ever time she had looked at him since day one.
 She chose the wrong tactics to use with a Southern boy.
 “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
 In lieu of answering directly he answered her question with a question.
“You got a mirror? Nah, cause obviously you're tripping.”
 She began to yell. Kevin walked past her as she screamed. 
 The rest area had very few cars around and her voice bounced off the surrounding trees. He walked into the men’s bathroom only for her to follow him inside
“What the fuck? What's wrong with you Kevin?”
 Kevin leaned over the sink and ran water over his face.
Calmly he asked.
 “A mirror. Them lil ones do you have one?” 
Still not sure what he was thinking Yaz pulled a compact out of her clutch. “Here!” she said tears pouring down her face.
 He turned her face towards him in front of the sink. He handed her the compact. He got beside her ear and said. “Check out the back uh ya neck.” 
He walked towards the exit.
 He stopped.
 “I will not leave you stranded. But don't play. We done slim. You played me.” 
 By the time she returned to the car, Kevin had the engine running.
 The Al B. Sure! Cassette had been taken out and Public Enemy’s gruff, visionary lyrics filled the plush blue interior.
 Yaz, looked contrite. She reached to turn down the volume as he pulled back onto the interstate. He stopped her. 
“You is jest a passenger in dis mufucka. Don't touch my shit. I Anit got my ass on shit you talkn bout.” 
They rode through North Carolina silently.
 The thump of tires, and the hip-hop cassettes, Kevin had recorded in the hotel room were the only noise. Occasionally the wind could be heard as Kevin smoked.
So many different thoughts assailed him. He had been happy. He was content sitting in the hotel recording Hip-hop that NOBODY in the Ala-Miss had.
In hindsight while he was cautiously walking to the corner to get pizza, and binge recording, his girl had been getting the Jimmy.
Kevin felt nauseous. He felt violated. 
“Was she giving him one last blow before I picked her up?”
He suddenly had to pull over outside of Nashville.
He threw up along Hwy 78 imagining that she had been kissing him with dick breath.
 Yasmine, looked out the windshield concerned, but unable to form the proper words.
She had played him.
She hadn't intended to. 
Benjamin had been her first, she was stuck to him like super glue. 
She told herself that she had not been looking for his Volvo.
 That she had not calculated each step, but if not why had she left Kevin at the cheapest hotel in the huge city? Why had she made sure that she was looking fresh when she went to Benny’s block? 
 She really did like Kevin, maybe even love him a little bit.
He was beautiful.
 Tall with wavy hair and full lips. He was good to her, if she thought about wanting something bad enough she got it.
 He was by far the best that Butler Alabama had to offer.
 She just hadn't been able to shake Benny.
She had spent two nights with him in her grand-parents basement. Only to find out that Benny had gotten married. And to a Dominican! 
Now she didn't have either man. She was going back to  the boondocks where all she had, centered around the extremely pissed off man beside her.
 She had to win him back
Kevin had decided, he was done.
 Done with Yasmin, done being a nice guy, and done with Butler Alabama. 
Nothing she could have to say would change his mind. By the time he dropped her wordlessly at her family’s house.
 He knew where he was headed.

Abduction

It's hot in here.  Stifling. Suffocating. Dark.  Almost hope they come beat me again, just so that I can get out of the trunk.  They do....