Doughnuts And Cheese

This story is about Doughnuts and Cheese. I enjoy telling stories and I get distracted sometimes. I'll try not to get carried away.
Let me give you some background. We lived in a one bedroom house and we were poor. Scratch that. We were po. Couldn't afford the other O or R. You could always tell how poor you were by how much of the government commodities your family received.
If you got government cheese then you were poor.

We received the cheese, rice, powdered milk, powdered eggs, peanut butter, meat in a can, and some sort of canned milk.
Like, I said po.
I didn't understand any of the intricacies of things because I was a child, my father was doing this for his principles.
He had become a conscientious objector and left the military. Taken early retirement. Brought his family to his hometown. It meant times were tight. I didn't realize it at the time but, my father went through hell to make sure we were okay.
He applied for jobs that he was qualified for at places like Boeing, Lockheed, and General Motors.
He gave the store by our house's telephone number we didn't own a phone.
This isn't a story about racial inequality in Mississippi in the seventies.
Racism just was.
I didn't know anything about it: I was completely oblivious.
I only mention it now because it played a role in our situation.
You see all of those places had called. Lockheed, Boeing, and General Motors all of them wanted my dad's expertise.
However, those jobs were too good for a black man to have.
The owner of the store, and hence the telephone, would only give my dad messages from a restaurant in the mall.
So that is where he hitchhiked forty miles to every day, in order to feed his family.
This old man didn't care that when Lockheed was calling my mother was pregnant, and my father was questioning his religious choices.
Lockheed stopped calling, but Boeing and General Motors still were, as my sister had to be born at the "free" hospital.
A hospital that left packing gauze and scissors inside my mother after a C-section to save my sister.
Nope, no Union benefits for him "He's a good colored boy but them type jobs make Negras uppity."
Facts.
The part in quotes is what I heard myself.
I remember my mother begging my father not to go to the house behind the store and attack that old man. It was a year later when my brother and I were in the store as General Motors called. A year that saw my mother almost die from infection and have to have a complete hysterectomy. A year where my sister made Salisbury Steak and rice a lot.
That and Pork Chops were all she knew how to cook she was maybe 10.
A year when my father became frustrated with being called a boy at 36 when he struggled with his vow to God.
I remember he and my mother talking.
I told you I get sidetracked.
Doughnuts and Cheese.
Long before my brother and I were in the store when GM called my father was working in the mall.
On payday, my dad would pick up bags of week-old bread from the bakery. Those bags were 50 lb of Heaven. Every bread product known to man; focaccia, pumpernickel, rye, bagels, danish, rolls, and of course doughnuts.
Being young and as a byproduct pretty ignorant, I'd root through croissants, onion rolls, sun-dried tomato focaccia, and everything bagels to find plain white bread. It was what grilled cheese called for. I would cut a piece of that "Guhment" Cheese and sizzling moments later perfect grilled cheese! Well, the plain white bread had been in the bag with all sorts of breadstuffs most importantly Doughnuts.
That doughnut glaze had soaked into the bread.
The collaboration of the sugary glaze with the smokey, salty flavor of the cheese was an explosion of taste I was unprepared for.
I liked it.
A lot.
I still do.
I will literally pop a doughnut in the microwave right now with a slice of cheese on top.
That's what this story is about, simply that
Doughnuts and Cheese.

Mind your business.

I was in prison for two years. 

It was nothing.

When I first got to prison, I was scared shitless. See I had heard all the horror stories, stories of men being raped and sodomized.

Had been told several times not to drop the soap. Still, don't understand why people think that is funny. 

I never found prison to a hard place to function. There are simple rules that you have to live by. Most of those are handed down by the Gang Related inmates I really should say convicts, there is a difference.

Follow those rules and the ones that are set down by the institution, and your stay will be easy.

Having a bad reputation really helps with your survival in prison.

I wasn't well-known on the street so, Fortunately for me, some idiot tried me within moments of walking into my dormitory. The explosive display of violence cemented my place in the predator category and not that of the prey. 

I came to find out though that I needn't have been as violent. The only men then I saw get violated in prison were not behaving like men. Yeah, I actually saw it happen my first night and that's really what this story is about I ramble sometimes. 

I had just arrived at the processing prison. This is where murders, rapist, pedophiles, and habitual drunk drivers, are treated equally.

 In the row with me was a white guy with a mouth full of gold.

The Sargent paused in front of him. 

"Boy, is them golds removable?" 

The cocky kid replies. 

"What you thank I'm broke boss? This that genuine gold." 

The Sargent laughed.

 "Are you affiliated?" 

The tall slim blonde made a diamond with his fingers and pronounced; "Solid"

I was surprised. 

Wasn't aware that the "Four Corner Hustlers" accepted white guys, however, I'm not a 4CH, so it wasn't my business. 

That's one of the first lessons you learn when you go to prison. 

Mind your business. 

Anyway, when the Sargent heard what the white guy said it sent him into a fit of laughter and the last words he said as he walked away were:

 "Let's see how that works out for you." 

I gave that conversation little thought. I was attempting to wrap my head around what was happening with me at the moment.

The diagnostic or placement prison rushed myself and other prisoners through physical and mental tests.

After several hours and a couple of speeches including one from a sergeant who kicked a quarter the entire time he spoke we were housed.

We were taken to in open dormitory. 

Gang symbols flashed as we the “fish” walked in. Those who were affiliated went off to talk to their “Cousins, Bloods, People, or Folks."

 I waited. 

 I saw my kind. 

Just wanted to unpack. 

They came to me.

In the form of one of my brothers nicknamed "Dirt".

The slim gold toothed white guy had made friends fast. 

He was engaged in a loud animated conversation.

I wasn’t trying to hear it but it was sprinkled with a lot of “My Nigga’s” myself and a few others were obviously bothered by it. 

The brother sent to screen me and assure that I really was a member of the organization noticed my discomfort. “Say folk, we let them handle they own scandal. Just be glad he anit claiming to be one of ours.”  

By lights out, my folks “Dirt” had introduced me too a couple other GD's and we had figured out where I fit into the hiarchy. 

Lights out brought a flurry of activity. 

The gay cons who had chosen their mates made their way to them. This happened whether that person was a willing participant or not. 

The slim white kid.

The slim white kid was still with the same two four corner hustlers. 

I heard them tell him “we’re going to rap in the shower the echo is better.” 

Yeah.

That didn’t sound right to me. 

Still, anit my business. 

However, the sounds of struggle coming from the shower motivated me to strap on my boots. 

Dirt came over to my bunk, “Gangster if you move we move. Just know brothers anit gonna be happy saving a white boy that don’t got nothing to do with nation business.” 

I could hear the kids pleas.

"Hey my nigga what are you doing?!” 

Hear the slaps, punches and his head slamming. Then came the grunts and screaming. “Bitch, since you been calling me your nigga act like I’m your nigga.” 

I untied my boots. 

I went to sleep.

 In the morning the same white guy was taken to medical. 

All of his teeth had been knocked out. I remember seeing one of his “friends” mailing those gold teeth home.

 Because of my gang status I was shipped quickly. Day one of my stay in my new home I beat a convict who called me pretty. Wound up on solitary. 

A few months into my sentence I was given a pathological liar for a cellmate. 

He claimed to be an up and coming rapper, to have mafia ties, made up one lie after another. 

My cellmate had a friend.

 To me it seemed like they took turns trying to out lie each other. 

I regret my part in this dudes downfall but it played out the way it played out. 

My celly's friend was standing in the mirror “rapping” badly.

 He used the N word liberally, despite being white, he also was disparaging to Southerners despite being in the south. 

I had been taking a shower when I overheard him. I told him “Aye don’t let that shit tumble out ya mouth no more boy!” 

I finished my shower. 

Walked to my bunk.

My cellmate and the offending would be rap star were sitting on my bed. 

I walked up just in time to hear him tell my celly. “If I saw that nigga Marco was on the street I’d have something done to his punk ass!” 

Well, I’m Marco and in prison you can not allow someone to call you a punk. 

So I slapped him.

 Then I slapped my cellmate.

 Told both of them to pack their stuff. 

The captain on duty called me out of the pod. “Coleman what the fuck is the problem?”  

I explained that the disrespectful youngsters could not live in the building with me. 

I suppose the white kid was really afraid. 

He requested protective custody. 

So my source in solitary told me the rest of the story. 

He came to Solitaire with the same attitude. 

Still telling lies. 

His cellmate in solitary had smuggled in some marijuana, he offered to smoke it with him.

Once they were high the predator says; “Man I forgot to tell you when I smoke I get horny.” 

See me personally if he had said something like that to me he would have worn an ass whooping immediately.

Not so much this kid the next thing I heard or saw he was a full-fledged “boy”

He should have stood up to someone. 

Me, or his rapist.

 Of course if he had just minded his own business, not tried to be someone he wasn’t he could have completed his time untampered with.  All he needed to do was mind his business and keep to himself.

The Mad Dragon

Oh, have I harmed you boy? Have I made you bleed?
Poor little fellow. Little human, what's your name?
I am not going to hurt you. Not anymore anyway.
What made you idiots try to rob me?
Do you know why you can't steal from a Dragon?
We are pretty much aware of everything around us. Me so much more than others of my species.
For me, it's like someone telling you, What's your name? It's like someone saying Tryee, I am going to punch you in the nose with my right hand starting now!
Dragon awareness is different than yours.
Tryee, I have been fully aware of everything since before I tore my way out of the shell.
I have had the sum total knowledge of my race since I emerged and looked at my brood mates.
Wait, you believe that nonsense about Professor McLeay genetically engineering us from a dinosaur, and Komodo and bird DNA?
Yeah, so how come nobody ever mentions the fire whenever they repeat that bullshit?
You're not slow enough to believe that.
I see it in your eyes.
You got roped into this robbery plot. Just like all the other humans on the planet, you're hungry.
I like you Tyree, and I am going to tell you a secret that no living human being knows. Let me see how to say it so you can grasp it? 
You're what they call a regressive right? You have distinctive racial markers that everyone else around you doesn't, correct? They have a genetic sameness that kind of melts them all together. You have features that no ones had in generations.
We are alike in that way.
Yours was an accident your regressive ethnic genes forcing their way to the surface.
Mine is much the same. Except that the first knew I would happen.
Have a seat.
I am going to tell you a story.
I just ate an entire marijuana farm and the goats that were grazing there so bear with me if I get off track.
You're good. Make yourself at home. Mi lair Su lair.
Oh, I slay myself! Does that make me a dragon slayer?
Okay, I'm going to stop laughing before I burn ya little ass on accident.
This is a fairly long story, and I am a little bit paranoid about my shit, part of the whole Dragon thing; you wouldn't understand, but I need you to come over here safely away from my treasure. Okay, are you comfy?  Why are you grimacing? Never mind.
Okay so about 12 million years ago my people ran like all of this.
Yeah, I mean the earth and the entire Solaris system.
Yeah, I mean all of that shit.
Some of the DRRRRAAAAAGAANN, of course, you can't say it, knucklehead, your vocal cords are too puny.
I have memories of when your ancestors first became “intelligent” I use that word politely.
Oh my bad, I know the claws are a little intimidating, especially with your people's blood still on them. Hey, you tried to rob me, and  ALL of you would have killed me in an instant.
No, I can't read your mind so much as pick-up really important stuff like that rocket launcher that you and your compadres thought would kill me.
Anyway, I know the secret.
The last living Dragon taught the Professor everything about genetic engineering and by using the last unhatched eggs of our kind and cross-referencing the holes in the helix with the Dinosaurs DNA.
Don't get me wrong I appreciate the resurrection but I won't ever be bigger than 6 -8 meters and I can remember what it feels like to fly amongst the stars but I never can. The raptor DNA made us more aggressive and more reproductive but it took away our greatness.
You can't understand what that is like for a Dragon.
We have the hoarding instinct when we claim something like our own, it’s more driving than I can make you know.
Just imagine every Dragon exits it’s egg knowing that it's smaller than it should be, weaker than it's potential and can no longer make the flight to Mercury or Venus.
So that when you are finally ready to start breeding at like 50 years old you're going to have to simulate the constant heat with your fire or drop your eggs into an active volcano. Of course, most of the volcano eggs don’t survive. Those poor parents all believing, maybe my eggs will get hot enough for long enough to be strong enough, to get us back to those brooding grounds.
That's why so many dragons burn their eggs up with their fire, the right amount of heat during incubation and the wings are stronger, the wingspan greater, tail longer and more powerful, claws sharper, harder, more diamond-like. To much heat and they go mad from killing their young. Become a danger.
We are forced to remember being Megalodons while being nurse sharks. To have the heart and soul of a timber wolf in a Teacup Yorkie’s body.
That's why we Dragons are generally pissed off because we remember what we were.
I promised to tell you a secret.
No those are secrets but not the big one.
See you already have seen dragons go mad seen them pillage and burn.
Man, the worst of them really burn Tyree.
I remember, and I don't mean race memories I saw this with my own eyes. Yeah, don't look directly at my eyes like that! What’s that about dude? Damn, that shit is creepy, come on!
Anyway, so this Dragon I know, well knew he's dead now so there's that.
His name was Thunder Clap. This lizard had the boom. Even when we were little and had really just started getting some control over our wings, and fire. He had potential. His flame was erratic. It's like a humans voice changing.  He and I and Gold Claw. Fuck that lizard is dead too! Man the good ones die young.
Where was I?
Yeah good old Thunder Clap.
Me? Listen, Tyree, you gave me your name and that was polite considering the fact that you and your little people, who are starting to attract flies, by the way, broke in my house.
You kind of owed me your name and I don't owe you shit.
Oh, I think that you are going to sit and listen to my story and like it.
Because a one minute blast from me is like standing under the space shuttle when it takes off that's why.
Thunder Clap.
We played and ate elk. Elk is freaking delicious by the way! Oh, it's even better with a pig, elk, and bacon, you better try it, Tyree.
So the trio of us had gotten two Elk and boar.
We challenged old TC to do the roasting. Mostly because he was experiencing some fire issues.
Not that day, that day Thunder Clap Belches out the hottest flame ever. Just burns the elk to shit his flame was so powerful.
I noticed his coloration changed.
Later on, old Thunder Clap gets a Mate both of them are really powerful dragons massive, smart really strong. They were a solid couple.
Her name was Black Shade she was the darkest Dragon I'd ever seen up close and in dragon.
Are you awake there Tyree stay with me I'm coming to point I swear?
So Thunder Clap keeps getting stronger and stronger and as any reasonable Dragon would he starts thinking about the ancestors brooding ground he knows he's not quite ready so he and  Black Shade, did I tell you how beautiful she was?  Man Tryee she was the single most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  And I remember everything that any of my people have ever seen.
So right they have this ingenious idea for where to place their clutch of eggs.
A nuclear power plant. The balls right?
Well, the radiation did a number on those eggs. I’m telling you.  A beautiful clutch of eggs too. Six, that's a real throwback batch I'm telling you.  Well, ole TC and his mate sense that their eggs are about to hatch. They go out to hunt. One of those eggs was just like me, aware of EVERYTHING that came before her.
Remember when I said that I was like you?
I’m a genetic throwback too.
Most of our kind have blocks in their memory.
They don’t recall the darkness,  they don’t know why we achieved our initial greatness, don’t understand that I and that surviving egg are necessary for the continuation of the species.
See that egg is my mate Night Shade.
Tyree stay awake! So here’s the wrap up because you’re dying.
So Tyree the reason that Thunder Clap became stronger that day was that he accidentally killed Gold Claw. That’s when he found out what I already knew. Whenever we kill another Dragon we absorb its power.  When Thunder Clap killed Gold Claw he became more powerful and the glimpses that he started receiving of our dark history drove him mad. When I put him and his mate down I was called a hero.  The power is thrilling.
I saved that egg but she ate her five siblings.
She and I are real Dragons Tree, oh fuck you’re dead.
Well I’ll finish anyway killing other Dragons increases our power and to a limited degree, the same applies for your pitiful species.
You and your friends are just the top off I need.
My cousin Diamond Wings needs saving he’s losing his mind. After Thunder Clap, I became the go-to for mad Dragons. I’m paid to take out those that snap. Soon I’ll be the most powerful Dragon in millennia.
A new day will dawn. Well, you were a fine listener Tree but I can’t have you soiling the furnishings. I promise I’ll eat you quickly. 

The God of Violence II

Uhh I awaken. Look around for whatever animal shit in my mouth. My right eye won't open. Left shoulder dislocated. I'm seated. Chained to the corner of someone's cage.  I slam my shoulder against the wall. Got to get back to peak. I'm escaping soon. They'll regret this.Three days. I've been in this cage waiting, for three days!
They're smart. Giving me paper utensils. 
Soft foods. Keeping me from anything solid. 
Today I leave. I saw my redemption as it fell out of my jailer’s pocket. A pecan. I'll be out soon.
I'm free. 
They're all dead. 
405.
 Scientists. Soldiers. Guards. 
It was a little bit harder than I thought.
I actually begin to perspire.pressure
 I'm angry.
My abduction's part of a bigger plan.
I'm not keen on people making plans for me.
I'll pull their whole organization apart. I pull files from my captors computers. I don't want to be traced. Need a clear vehicle. Realize I've been ignoring the jumentous aroma.
Perfect.
 Off-road capability check.
Easy to refuel check.
I kiss my untraceable equine transport, right on the blaze tween its eyes.
I've been missing in action for three days. People have noticed. I've spent two years crafting this existence. I won't have it disturbed. I phone Rasta Rob. He's the only one who knows what I am. He's like my disciple or something. I call him and say.  "Ras I need you to get ready to move." Rasta Rob has everything ready. He's bursting with pride. It's almost unbecoming. Standing there like a debutante at cotillion!
It's not him.
It's me. I've got to get myself in check.
I'm angry.
They'll pay.
 Rob and I are joined by Love.
 She's a real live witch.
I picked up Love in St. Louis.
48 years ago.
I know she looks 22.
I found her married to the needle.
I saved her.
She's a warrior.
Even without my alien tech in her veins she has an intangible depth.
She keeps me sane.
I’ve basically made Rob and Love immortal.
Probably because I'm alone.
Rob and I have been playing the same chess game since1972.
Rob's charismatic nature keeps me out of more scrapes then you can fathom. First order of business going mobile. I refuse to rough it. 
We travel in style. 
Our RV belongs in a museum.
I like what I like.
When something works for me, I stick with it.
Of course all the technology is cutting-edge.
There are gadgets in this thing that would make Geordie Laforge drool. And weapons of course. We settle in.
My android is driving. My
Love and Rasta are smoking. Again.
We plan. We laugh.
 We get stopped by the police. Often.
 It’s the RV. It's not inconspicuous. I change it. I'm headed into battle with a bunch of assholes cocky enough to call themselves Totality.
I'm coming.
Eight states later.
Ras, Love and I have our plans wrapped in a frilly bow.
Finally I can let the anger loose again! Wanted to know about me? About my species! We thrive on anger! The kidnapping stunt! Made me angry! I'm Mahes! Last of my kind. I won't be meddled.
We crouch. Grass wets our knees. Tech in our blood precludes the need for binoculars.I
Totality has the building well-fortified. Wish they had less soldiers. Hate making that many widows and orphans. For me there's no nonlethal option. Their fault. They poked the bear 
The first levels are clear. 
We tear through in a storm of knees and elbows. Broken remnants of human beings litter the halls.
I smell it.
Like nectar.
An aroma I haven't smelled in over a century.
Fuck the map.
I create a path through the walls.
The laboratory is here.
Tubes line the walls.
Each holding a clone.
Of me.
The smaragdine eyes show the truth of it.
I hope for an equally bright spark of intellect.
Only five of the imitations are intelligent.
These humans’ attempts wasted superior genetic material. Another lab. A ship.
 Yes glorious vengeance. 

The God Of Violence

My consciousness reignited inside a prison cell.

 I think I’d only been dormant a short time.

 I was initially quiet figuring out my surroundings. That took moments.

I had evaluated the human being in the cell with me. I smelled all I needed to know about the man. I decided to engage him more for the company than anything else.  He had a agreeable healthy aroma. He was strong for a regular human being. While I could sense the fear and discord amongst the other prisoners, he seemed to be at peace.

 “Hey cellmate.” I said.

The new vocal cords were as musical as they were strong.

Not a fan of confinement I let him know: “I'm starting to slide into depression. It's time to go. You can come. Or I can kill you.”

His English was accented and broken.

He responded. “Bredren, I no fear you or dying. If I thought that you could Hescape I and I with you all de way. This prison is not easy to leave you no can Hescape!”

He had no clue what he was dealing with.

I could feel my true body attempting to fuse with the new spinal cord.

The inherent strength in the shell is extraordinary.  As powerful as my first. Damn I liked that body. I reassure the man in the cell with me.

 “No I can. I can escape. Want to hear a story? Have a seat. Get prepared. While you do that.  I'll tell you. I'm a little bored. Plus we have a little while before its time to go. Are you listening? My name is... Mahes.”  I kept a running commentary with him. I knew that otherwise the sight of me moving super-fast and the deaths might cause him pause.

I remember telling him that my consciousness was older than he could fathom.

At that time I had been on this planet for 589 years. That's when I first met Robert Browne of Jamaica. He got dressed and laced his boots tightly. He was ready to go. I could tell from the scent of his body and the tempo of his heart beat that he didn’t truly believe. Yet. He wanted to. Wanted to be free of the cage we were in. I told him. “I'm going to be moving faster than you can see. Staying here is tantamount to death. I'll talk and move. Ready?”

Maybe, my brain stem fusion wasn’t complete because I was still a little fuzzy as I prepped to get out of the appalling box. “Robert Browne of Jamaica.” I said.  He looked at me, truly looked for the first time.

“Call I Ras.” He interjects.  

“Okay Ras, I'm going to take this door off the hinges. We'll go left at the morgue. If you follow close I won't have to kill as often.”

I stretch the body. I’d only been in this sack of meat, for a short time then, I was adjusting.

I was glad to have an audience. I caught diarrhea of the mouth.  In motion. The door was off and had been transmuted into a long mace. I like the old school weapons.

“Ras I was a slave once.” My story just molded as I listened to the change of the shifts beginning.  Becoming one with a new form is like buying a new pair of jeans or shoes. You have to get a fill for it. I prattled on about the form I had when I was briefly a slave. “I liked that body too. Strong tall.”

Can’t recall at this point why I didn’t mind altering myself in front of Ras.

As I did he pointed out to me that my tentacle was showing. I’m still in the same body now as I was then.   Ras is a very smart guy. Always has been. He didn’t overreact.

He started by asking me insightful questions.

So star, hif you can be hanyone you want to be why choose to be black Brethen? Wouldn’t it be easier to be a white man? Or a white woman if you can pull it off?”

“Okay fair question. I like being black. Yes, I could be whatever I want. I have been. I’ve been a female. I have been every ethnic group. On this plant there is only one race.” I recall looking at him as if I dared him to disagree.  “I like being the underdog.”

I had only had to dispatch with eight of the prison staff by that point.  The alarm hadn’t been sounded but the guards that we stumbled upon all were willing to die to keep other human beings inside of a cage. I was shielding Ras by then. I had begun to enjoy his company.

We turned a corner two CO’s walk right into us. I move quicker than thought. “Watch out!” I told my new friend but of course he couldn’t move fast enough. “Sorry bout the brains in your hair.”  That pair dispatched I continued talking to Ras.

“I started out black. Well not exactly. I started in a canister when my ship crashed.” More CO’s attempt to stop us.

 "Get down!"

The man was moving faster already.

“Bredren how did you just rip them six people apart like dat? Rasclot!”

“What? First, I told you I'm not entirely human.  Secondly it was only four. The ripped up pieces make it look like more.”

I rained down death and destruction as I rambled on to my newfound companion.

Told him all my particulars about how my ship crashed in Egypt.

The 6 bodies I’ve had since. I like what I like. When something works for me I stick with it.  Rasta Rob had doubted me somewhat. So that when we burst out into the fenceless land around the prison, I let him know.

“See sunshine. We're free. I told you. You don't have to stick with me Ras. I'm the sure bet though. Going somewhere else would be like throwing away blackjack.”

I knew that he no longer doubted me.

I can transmute some matter, but I have to have the raw materials so I decided to steal a car. “Wait here. I said. “I'll get us a ride.”

Rob looked at me seriously. “Its 1968. Folk don’t respect black people bruda. It will make it easier if you try a white body.”

I don’t know why I still was talking at that point. All of the killing was done and I had no further obligation.

I wasn’t angry. Just insistent.

“Nope. I like this body.”

I whispered as we looked for a mode of Transportation.

“Oh and I like this car. Get in.” It was a then four year old car. A 1964 Mustang convertible.

I drove and I told the Jamaican my story.  “Egypt was awesome. It was great. I was thought a God. A minor God but a God none the less. I didn't encourage them. I didn't discourage them. Don't judge me.”

It was difficult to hide what I am for long in those days.  Its obvious I'm not human. I move much faster.

I listened as much as I spoke and when Rasta told me that his family had a huge ganja farm in Jamaica? I felt like, Why not? I hadn't been there since I helped drive the colonizers away.

Rasta told me that the majority of Marijuana in his country came from him. Since he was a big cheese in Jamaica I said, let’s go.

 Money? Nah. I had none. I couldn’t buy tickets but I could make the car fly.

Tell me a flying Mustang isn't the sexiest thing ever.

 “You know what Ras I like you.”  I told him as the black convertible zipped through the skies. I posed a question that might have been premature, had Rasta been anyone else.  “How'd you like to basically live forever? Not Voodoo. Science. Technology. Like the car.”

Without any fear of him reacting to me any different than he had been, I clued the man who would become my biggest ally into everything.

 “I'm from another world Ras. I'm part of a race that hinge on anger. It’s the catalyst that allows me to do things that you and other human beings view as incredible. Like the prison break. To me that was nothing. 48 people. Anything under 30 and I feel sorry for them.”

 The information I shared with him and that you are reading was valuable. I've been the subject of tons of redacted government memos.

 Never in what the locals called Yard. I think it’s because of the fact that the people are accustomed to magic there. What I can do seems like magic. To those who assume that I’m just a man.  I sat the Mustang down in an overgrown field there. The property belonged to Rasta Rob’s family. We were welcomed with open arms. The servants eyed me warily.  My extremely fast movement cluing them that all was not as it appeared.  Rob walked into the main house bidding me to remain where I was and returned with some vegetation rolled into a large leaf. He lit it up. Inhaled deeply and uttered one of his native curses.

His nutmeg brown hand extended it my way.  “What is this Ras?”

I asked the question despite the smell letting me know that it was a mild natural depressant.  Rob’s jovial nature must have already infected me by that point because I feigned ignorance just to keep the banter up.

“You say it will slow me down? Make me able to pass for human? Really? Guess next you're going to tell me I should have my hair like yours like spaghetti?”

Even having seen me massacre the guards at the prison, Ras challenged me about insulting his sacred hairstyle.  Sacred? It looked to me like a bunch of unruly slugs made from hair.

I took the spliff as he passed it. The smell wasn’t telling enough. The first lungful let me know that it would definitely slow me down. I continued to emulate Rob’s easy going nature. “Whoa that might work.”

Those events were 86 years ago.

After I broke Rasta Rob out of prison.

 I moved to a small eyot. Avoided trouble as long as possible.

I can't believe how naïve Rob and I both were back then.

We spent so much time together, that I stopped telling him my story. Than once I made a superficial incision and placed the same Nanites in his blood that dominate mine, he knew my story.

 Knew me as though we were of the same blood. I guess because we are. I still use the cannabis. It does slow down my reaction times just like Ras promised.

I've since learned to choreograph my movements, to seem even more human. I blend seamlessly now. Of course a being that has lived in the outer reaches of space can't be happy on a tiny island. We moved.

I needed much more space and a means of controlling my natural overwhelming Anger.

I'm an anger elemental. The angrier I become, the stronger.

I'm already like 5 times as strong as even the fit human being, but when I'm angry I'm like a hurricane of vengeance.

Ras's herbal treatment has kept me calm for years. But all good things end. After the prison break and self-imposed exile I had an epiphany.

I realize I never needed to hide. I made this body, my favorite thus far, immortal. Even were someone able to destroy it completely I'd live on and transfer my persona.

 I like this body though.  

I had 25 years of only using my gift of violence in practice. Years where I ventured off the island at my leisure. Turned nothing into a massive fortune, traveled loved earth women. Even took one in and gave here my gift.  I must have let myself get soft.

 I should have been able to smell the tranquilizer.

 Should have heard and evaded the dart long before it reached me. Suddenly I'm weak as a child I feel the world begin to spin. My slug like inner being goes out first. I felt naked and alone. I hadn’t been alone with just the human thoughts for even a second until that moment.

Oh when I awaken there will be hell.

 I wake in a cell. Mouth tastes of death & feces. I'm Angry I waste no time wrangling with myself. I only have to wait & the opportunity to escape will present itself. Then I'm going to tear these bastards’ spines out. They'll regret trifling with me. Government. Can tell by the smells and the efficiency. A government abduction. Means I'm going to have to do a heck of a lot more killing. At least if it were some random fool I could wipe out their organization quickly. Government groups normally take longer.

Rats in the Flood

 I had wound up in New York just in time for the biggest insurgence of work in ages. The Hurricane Sandy restoration/clean-up was in full swing.

The disaster while devastating and heartbreaking, also created a boon. There was work to be had for people who wanted it.

I had a ton of adventures with the cleaning crews. From gang fights amongst the workers to shoot outs in government housing. One particular story however sticks out far and above the rest.

It was early in the restoration effort.

Our crew, whom I had taken the liberty of nicknaming individually, were still eager. The $30 per hour tax free they were being paid was motivating the workers to wade into the brackish water and snatch things from the precipice of certain doom. 

The restoration effort of course began in the most affluent of areas, before cascading down to the underprivileged. Our first neighborhood, was obviously affluent and the hazmat suited workers were making quick work of the flooded areas.

As workers are wont to do we teased each other and made light of the tragedy around us. For entertainment purposes we started paying heed to the items leaving the basements of the houses.

One house in particular while visually unremarkable will always stand out to me. It resonates because of the oddity of the items in the basement.

The traffic signs was the first thing that seemed odd.

Then the cots. Not one or two for out of town guests. No the pile grew on the sidewalk waiting for the front end loader to place in dumpsters lining both sides of the once idealist subdivision.

20 or 30 cots were pulled from this basement. My suspicion grew with each one.
Then came the toys.
Dolls. By the hundreds. Hulu hoops, skates, skate boards, action figures, yo-yo’s, lunch boxes.
All of these items gave me pause. The hazmat suited crew were too immersed in the $30 dollars an hour to give the oddities a second glance.

Then came the restraints and the most money hungry and distracted members of the team were forced to take note. Handcuffs. Zip ties. And the worst, shackles!

I had already removed myself from even the yard of the offending house, my excuse? I had to monitor all of the squads. The facts? I KNEW that house had been the site of some heinous crimes and I didn’t want my DNA anywhere near the scene.

When the corps had collected no less than 50 restraints and the trunks started coming out the crew chief approached me softly.

I had been expecting his question for at least an hour and a half. “Cheese, what the fuck? Do you think I need to call somebody?”

He was a fucking moron. Why are you asking me stupid shit? Are you waiting to find a body in one of those trunks?

I gave him the same look I give my son when he asks me on trash day if he should take the can to the end of the street. A look that wordlessly conveys my shock that this guy was smart enough to remember to breath.

I pay one of the temp agency workers, who are only receiving $10 hourly to accidently drop one of the trunks.

Yep. Weapons. Obscure weapons like a cross bow, shuriken and a really pretty .357. 

Finally these New Yorkers who according to popular wisdom should be much more intelligent than me realize that a crime has likely been committed. Suffolk and Nassau county Police cars finally arrive on scene and the evidence began being collected.

Sometimes rats wash out in the flood.