DROWNING IN A SEA OF MARIJUANA - PAPERBACK

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES

SNORTING THE DEVIL'S DANDRUFF

SAILORS SHOOT HORSE! DON'T THEY?

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

ROBBING SKYNYRD’S GRAVE
by
SMOKEY DAFINO




The detective ground his Camel out in the ashtray and made a hand signal to someone standing behind the two way mirror. Within seconds a uniformed officer walked in the interrogation room and slapped a legal notepad and a cheap Bic pen down on to the table. The detective waited until the officer walked out and closed the door before he spoke again.
“Write everything down that you told me. Don’t forget a fucking thing.” He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “Take your time. I’m going to check out your story. We’re going to check this Nate Kurtis guy out and see if he exists and then go over to that crackhouse and toss it. See if you’re feeding me a line of horseshit.” He lumbered towards the door.
“You want me to write down everything?”
The detective stopped halfway out the door. “Don’t write anything if you don’t want to. It’s your fucking funeral.” He walked out and closed the door.
The pen shook in his hand like a dog shitting out a big peach pit.

***

He just couldn’t keep his eyes off of that rolled up rug stuck off in the corner. The flies must have finally smelled there was a body in there because they were buzzing around it. They had been inside the house for a couple of days now and since there was no air conditioning in there it was starting to get pretty fucking funky.
“Are you listening to me, motherfucker?”
That snapped him out of his trance. “Uh, yea. Sure, man.” He stammered.
“It‘s called the Crossroads curse, man. It‘s a known fucking fact that anyone who recorded that song after Robert Johnson did wound up regretting it. Clapton, Allman Brothers, Skynyrd, the shit hit the fan after they recorded that song.”
“Which Robert Johnson?”
“Which Robert Johnson? Jesus goddamn Christ! You call yourself a black man and you ask me which Robert Johnson?”
“Yea, man. Which Robert Johnson? I guess your talking bout the singer. Shit, I‘m sorry I didn't know which motherfucker you was talking about. Christ!"
“Robert Johnson wasn't a fucking singer, dude. He was a bluesman! Everybody wanted to copy his ass. The problem with that though is the crazy motherfucker sold his soul to the devil to get what he wanted. Met Satan down at some crossroads here down south and they cut the deal. But what’s fucked about it is that he didn’t get famous until long after he was dead. He was banging some dude’s old lady and the husband poisoned his ass. And that deal with the devil is still going on.”
Jesus Christ, he was getting sick of this shit. He didn’t care if they had all the crack in Nashville in this goddamn house if it meant sitting here listening to his big asshole all day. And he very goddamn well knew who Robert Johnson was. Shit! He was born in the same town that the dumb motherfucker died in. Greenwood, Mississippi. What a shithole of a town that it. All these white boys running around thinking their asses are so cool talking about what a fucking influence Robert Johnson was to them. Listening to those old scratchy ass records of his. Including this dipshit honky sitting across from him.
“You got bats in your fuckin’ belfry if you think I’m gonna believe that line of voodoo horseshit. That sounds like some witchcraft crap my grandma would be babbling about.”
“I really don’t give a shit what you believe. I was there and I saw it happen and whether you believe it or not doesn’t mean a good goddamn to me.” Rising to his feet, his partner walked over and stood over him sitting on the ratty couch. “And give me my pipe and torch you freeloading asshole. I’m getting sick of you smoking up all the shit. It’s time you start carrying your weight around here.”
“All right, Nate. Calm the fuck down. I told you I was good for it.” 
“Don’t tell me to calm the fuck down! Get your ass off the couch and let me sit down there before I kick your crackhead ass.”
Even though he had only know Nate for just a couple of days, Bobby “Bugs” Grissom knew better to question the big man when he got in these moods, so rather than stirring up further shit he grabbed his forty of Olde English 800, picked his ass off the couch as requested, brushed away some crack vials and used up syringes with his foot, and sat back down against wall farthest from the rolled up rug.
Nate took a long hard hit on the pipe, closed his eyes, and eased his head down on the back of the couch. The son of a bitch had to have had the strongest lungs he had ever seen, thought Bugs. He could hold a hit off the pipe for what seemed like close to a minute. 
Bugs took a pull on his bottle and settled back against the wall. God, it was times like these he wished his was back on his grandfather’s farm. Away from this city, this dope, this booze, this big cracker who ordered him around like he was his bitch or something. He missed his grandma, she was the one that had nicknamed him Bugs. She said that when he was a baby that he always scooted around the floor like a little doodlebug, and the name stuck. And now she was dead and he was such a fucking lowlife he had missed her funeral.
Farm life had been safe but it had been boring, so as soon as Bugs quit high school he had moved off to the city. To a series of meaningless, minimum wage dead end jobs that almost always ended up with Bugs telling the boss, who was almost always white, to go fuck him or herself. And that was almost twenty years ago! He never had gone back to Greenwood once even though his grandma called and wrote least twice a month to try to convince him to come back. 
Now she was dead. When Bugs got the phone call, he had cashed his final check from his last job, a car detailing business where he had busted his ass all day long under a hot sun waxing rich asshole’s foreign cars for dog shit wages, and had gone down to buy a bus ticket for the ride back home. Along the way stopped in at a local joint in his neighborhood that was known for its cheap beer and as a hangout for local crack dealers. Crack was a taste that Bugs had recently acquired and he knew he’d need a rock or two to get him through the long trip home on the Greyhound.
His connection, Devon, was always sitting down at the end of the bar on the same stool nursing a Johnny Walker Red. But he wasn’t there that night. There was a big white motherfucker sitting there instead and no one was bothering his honky ass because the motherfucker was big! Scary fucking big! Hair down to his shoulders, no front teeth, and covered with scars. And he had a weird smell to him. Like an old goat. 
Bugs had walked in the bar and it was like Nate knew exactly what he was looking for. He waved a beefy arm to Bugs sit down alongside of him.
"I got what you're looking for."
"What are you? Some kinda cop?” asked Bugs. “And where the fuck is Devon?” 
“Devon is history. He took a fucking vacation. This is my turf now.“ The big man chuckled under his breath. “Do I look like a fucking cop to you?”
“Motherfucking cops come in all sizes and shapes around here?” replied Bugs.
The man nodded his head. “Fair enough. Tell you what. Take this rock,” he handed Bugs a single rock in a vial, “go out back and burn it and if you don’t think that’s the best crack you’ve ever smoked or you still think I’m a cop, I’ll walk out of this bar and you’ll never see me again. And as a bonus I‘ll give you this.” The dealer reached into his pocket and flashed a wad of hundreds.
It was the best goddamn crack Bugs had ever smoked. He wound shutting the bar down with Nate and then smoking crack in Nate’s ancient Cadillac until dawn. He didn’t even remember how he got back to his seedy apartment. He wound up missing both his bus and his grandma’s funeral.

A pounding on his door woke him up. Shit! It was already after eight at night. Passed out the whole fucking day. It was Nate at the door.
“Come on. I need a favor from you.”
“I don’t know, man. I ain’t feeling too good.” Bugs had replied.
“I don’t give a hot shit how you feel. You smoked a lot of rock on the house last night. Least you could do is help me out with a little favor.”
Nate stared into Bugs’ eyes and Bugs tried his best to meet the stare but the motherfucker was scary! And he did have a point. He had smoked a lot of Nate’s dope for free last night. Oh what the hell!
They drove the Cadillac down the alley of an abandoned old apartment high rise and parked at the end. Nate pulled open a rusty side door and the pair climbed up seven flights of a urine and shit infested stairwell that was littered with used up needles.
On the landing, Nate pulled Bugs close to him and whispered in his ear. “Fourth door down on the right. You knock on it. Give two short raps. Wait a second. Then give three more. The dude will open the peephole then.”
“And then what?”
That got the glare from Nate again. “Just fucking do it!”
Nate pressed himself against the wall while Bugs stood in front of the door. He gave two knocks. Paused. Then gave three more. 
The peephole popped open. “What do you want, nigger!” A partial black face peered out.
Nate pushed Bugs to the side shoved a gigantic pistol in the peephole and fired twice. Bugs puked all over the wall while Nate pried the door open with a crowbar. They found a gym bag with over a thousand hits of crack in it and about nine grand in cash.

***

“What the hell! Did you piss your pants?” 
Bugs snapped his eyes open. He had nodded off and his forty ouncer had tipped over and soaked his crotch. Nate was sitting up and glaring across the room at him.
“I’m talking to you and you nod off like a fucking junkie! I sound like a retard sitting here babbling to myself.”
“I’m sorry, Nate.” Bugs stood up and tried to wipe off the front of his pants as best he could. 
Nate leaned back on the couch.
“I was there, Bugs. I was there when the plane came down. I saw it all. And now I’m as cursed as those poor sons of bitches were on that plane.”

***

Mississippi is one hell of a good place to grow weed. Environment wise, it’s almost perfect. It has semi-tropical weather, is mostly rural, and is covered with a deep thick woods to hide the growing plants from the spying eyes of the DEA flying above. Even in the Seventies, bootleggers of corn liquor and moonshine were still running stills and the back roads of Mississippi, so many folks simply turned a blind eye to the longhairs who were just growing what they considered to be just a harmless weed that grew along they road anyway. 
Nate Kurtis and his older brother, Perry, had been growing high grade marijuana outside of Gillsburg for over four years. They had started up just a few months after Nate had come back from his tour of Viet Nam, and they were both well on their way to becoming very wealthy men.
Perry, with the benefit of a college deferment and a lazy eye, had managed to avoid both the draft and the war. But Nate, who was as healthy as a horse, and had poor grades in school due to his lackadaisical studying habits, wasn’t as lucky. Rather than waiting for the army to call, he had beaten the fuckers to the punch by enlisting in the navy, and had spent his one year tour in Nam on a PBR. A PBR in navy terms is Patrol Boat River. A PBR in civilian terms is a highly armed fiberglass boat, which runs up and down the rivers harassing the shit out of rice farmers all day long. Life expectancy is short on a PBR since you are cruising up rivers totally encased by jungle and are basically sitting ducks for heavy fire from the gooks.
But Nate had been lucky. Although he had been in his share of firefights, he left Viet Nam after a year relatively unscathed. But he learned a new trade while serving Uncle Sam. For almost six months, his boat had onboard a South Viet Namese guide, who in his civilian job, was a farmer of rice and a strain of high test marijuana called Buddha, which he traded to the young crew for beer, C-rations, skin magazines, and American cigarettes. On a two week R and R, while the rest of the crew had flown off to Bangkok for cold beer and warm pussy, Nate had gone with the guide to his village, where he had been given a crash course in the fine art of cultivating tropical weed.
Nate smuggled out a small packet of seeds in the mail to his brother who had grown a couple of the plants in his closet under a grow light. His response had been more than enthusiastic, so Nate began sending home as many packets of the seeds as he dared without getting busted by the military mail censors. 
When Nate returned home, the American taste for pot and getting high was running rampant, and the smoking public was demanding a better buzz than they were getting from the shit that was being smuggled up in rusty vans from Tijuana. When the Kurtis brother’s strain of Buddha hit the market the demand became overwhelming and their growing project quickly expanded. Within a year, they went from growing the weed in the basement of an old rental house to the couple of acre strip hidden in the woods on the backside of a large farm outside of Gillsburg. It took two grand a year for the farmer who owned the property to not notice what was going on a strip of land he never paid any attention to anyway. Shit, if two hippies wanted to give him two thousand dollars to hang out in a swamp full of snakes and gators, they were more than welcome.
The guide and his family had survived the communist takeover in South Viet Nam and he continued to route seeds to the brothers via a complicated scenario of mail drops. The first year the covert farm had yielded five hundred healthy plants of Buddha, each female plant produced close to a pound of resin soaked, mind altering buds. Rather than sell by the pound, the brothers had broken the buds down to quarter ounce, shrink wrapped gourmet packets and sold them individually. 
In the second the season the farm had yield over a thousand plants. Two years later, in 1977, after expanding the farm even further, Nate needed a calculator to figure out how many six to eight foot plants were growing on the farm. Perry had graduated with a degree in business, and with his savvy on handling a buck, and Nate’s skill with the farming and the plants, both men soon had very impressive portfolios. The farm was high tech now with an intricate irrigation system covered by a camouflage canopy, and surrounded by trip wires and claymore mines. The brothers traveled back and forth to the farm on eight wheel all terrain vehicles with wagons towed behind them. They were always armed. Perry with a pistol while Nate preferred his illegal M16.
It was late October and Thai had been the years crop. It was a strain of marijuana that required a slightly later harvest date, usually by now the plants had long been pulled and moved to a safe house for drying and further processing, but this year’s crop had been huge and it had taken several weeks to complete the harvest. It was always a sad time for Nate. During the growing season he lived almost around the clock at the farm while he tended to the plants, his only company being two pit bulls who helped him stand guard duty although they spent the majority of time chasing and wrestling each other. Nate slept in a tent but preferred a hammock if the weather was decent. He loved the quiet and peacefulness of the woods as he gently tended to the plants that he referred to as his “girls”. Harvest time meant leaving the woods, and worse, the cutting down of the girls. He almost felt like he was committing murder.
It was early afternoon and the brothers had been working quietly, the remaining plants leaves had already been cut down and loaded up in the van, but what remained from the plants had to uprooted and mulched and the soil had to be turned over to ready it for next spring’s crop. Nate suddenly bolted to his feet, scaring the shit out of his brother. Perry was well aware that his brother's time spent in Nam had finely tuned his senses and he respected this, so something was definitely amiss. More than once his instincts had steered them clear of danger or arrest.
Perry nervously looked over at him through his Coke bottle thick glasses.
“Nate! What is it? You hear something?” he whispered. Perry began to look around the woods nervously as he pulled his Colt .45 from his belt holster, expecting to see cops or DEA agents peering out from behind the trees.
Nate silenced him by holding out his hand. The sound was coming from above but off in the distance. It was some sort of aircraft but it wasn’t the sounds of it’s engines he was hearing. Nate had witnessed many aircraft crashes when he was in Nam and it wasn’t at all like you see in the movies, with the plane or helicopter shrieking overhead, it’s fuselage aflame, engines coughing and backfiring, and the pilot bravely fighting the wheel while screaming out for everybody to hold on.
This was a whistling sound that Nate heard. The aircraft’s engines had shut down and the plane was quickly gliding down to the ground.
Suddenly the plane was directly over them, so close that one of it’s wings brushed the treetops. It suddenly banked to the right and then moments later there was a crash so loud and powerful that the ground literally quaked under their feet.
“Holy shit. Did you see that?” Perry shrieked as he looked over to his brother. Nate was already running towards where the plane had gone down.
“Nate! Nate! Goddamn it, Nate! Where are you going?”
“Hurry the fuck up,” Nate yelled over his shoulder, “and bring the first aid kit! There’s gonna be a lot of injured people.”
Doing as his brother told, Perry grabbed the bag, and ran after him. About two hundred yards away he came onto his brother, the crash site was that close. Nate had knelt down behind a group of palmetto plants, he turned and placed his forefinger over his lips as Perry approached and squatted down.
For being the sight of a plane crash it was deafly quiet. There had been no explosion or fires.
“Could be a dope plane. There’s a couple of them staggering around that survived the crash and they don’t look like your normal run of the mill plane crew. If it is dope they’re probably armed to the teeth. Better hang back and check it out to be safe.”
“It’s a Convair. An old prop job.” Perry knew his planes. For a while the two had contemplated branching off into smuggling but after careful consideration they had deemed it too risky. “Fucker broke up on impact and it doesn’t look like everybody made it. You can see a couple of bodies farther over past the wreckage. One of them looks like he got thrown right into that tree trunk.”
Suddenly one of the crash survivors yelled out that he was going for help and took off running through the woods. Perry felt a chill run down his spine as he suddenly recognized just who he was watching.
“These guys aren’t smugglers, Nate! They’re a band! That’s Skynyrd! And that dude who just took off is their drummer! We gotta get the hell out of here. This place is going to be crawling with more fucking cops than we’ve seen in our lives in about five minutes!”
“Skynyrd! Are you sure? Holy Christ. We gotta help them, Perry.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Soon as help gets here they’re going to want to know just what the hell we were doing out here in the middle of this goddamn swamp. In about a day we’ll go from being heroes to getting buttfucked at Parchman state prison. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Nate hesitated for a second and then gave his brother a grin. “OK. You’re right. But hold on for a minute. Man, I gotta get a souvenir of this.” He dropped to his belly and low crawled towards the wreckage while Perry sat down and contemplated having a nervous breakdown. Minutes later, Nate was back, dragging a guitar case behind him.
“All right. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Back at the camp they packed up everything they could fit onto the wagons, and with the dogs sitting on top of the loads, headed out in the opposite direction of the main highway.
They’d never return to the farm again.
Sirens could be heard off in the distance when they pulled on to the old farm road where they had their van parked. Nate loaded the weed and the dogs into the back of the van while Perry pulled the ATV on to the trailer.
Nate had just jumped into the drivers seat and closed the door when he heard the voice.
“Just hold it right there, asshole!”
Glancing in the side mirror, Nate could see his brother standing in the middle of the road holding his hands high in the air. He was being covered by what looked to be a sheriff’s deputy with a very large caliber pistol. Nate had been so preoccupied with getting the hell out of there that hadn’t heard the officer’s vehicle drive up. 
But he did remember what Perry had just said about winding up in Parchman Prison.
No goddamn way was that going to happen.
“You in the van! Step out slowly with your hands up!”
The cop was making a rookie mistake. He had moved away from his vehicle and was standing in the middle of the road with no cover and no back up.
Nate rolled over to his right and crawled over the bagged up marijuana into the back of the van, picked up the M16, jammed a clip in, flicked the switch to full auto, and without hesitation began firing at the deputy straight through the glass of the back door window. The officer was only able to get one wild shot off before he was cut down, his Smokey hat flying off as he took a head shot. 
The sound of a automatic weapon being discharged on full auto inside of a van was unbelievable and the pit bulls went nuts. For some reason known only to them they decided to attack the front seats, tearing them to ribbons. Nate kept his finger down on the trigger and continued to strafe the deputy’s body after the officer had gone down on to the gravel road, and he kept firing until the clip was empty and the rifle’s bolt slammed back and locked.
Nate dropped the M16 and slumped down against the wall of the van. Smoke filled the cargo hold and the smell of cordite hung in the air. The pits had stopped their assault on the seats and were staring at him with insanity in their eyes.
“Have you lost your fucking mind! Jesus fucking Christ! You just killed a goddamn cop! Do you know what they do to cop killers in this state?” Perry’s face appeared in the blown out window. His face was ghostly white and covered in sweat. 
Nate didn’t answer. He just sat there frozen against the wall while his brother jumped into the van and drove them the hell out of there.

***

“You’re a cop killer?” Holy shit, thought Bugs. This motherfucker is crazy as a shithouse rat. I gotta get the hell out of here.
“That was almost twenty years ago. What with the plane crash and all, there was just too much goddamn confusion. The investigation went nowhere. We were never even questioned.”
“But Nate, holy shit, a fucking cop! You know they must still be looking for your ass. How have you stayed on the run for so long without getting picked up?”
“Prison, man. I spent the next eighteen years after that in Parchman. Just like Perry said we would. That‘s the last fucking place they would be looking for me at.”

***

The brothers were paranoid and rightfully so. The van was driven out to a remote area, stripped clean, doused with aviation fuel and burned down to the frame. The murder weapon was broken down and thrown off a bridge in pieces into a lake.
The word on the street was that the cops were rousting any dope dealer they could get their hands on. After the deputy was found dead it hadn’t taken long to find the pot farm and the cops to put two and two together. Nate and Perry agreed that the smartest thing to do was lay low for a couple of months and then sell the year’s crop in bulk to a dealer in New Orleans.
Nate took off for a couple of weeks and went off to Memphis. He took the guitar from the crash sight, a Les Paul, and sold it to an up and coming country star who he often sold weed to. The singer had been heavily influence by Skynyrd and jumped at the chance to buy a piece of history from the crash. The singer never even got a chance to play the guitar. Two days after he bought it, loaded on a combination of booze and ‘ludes, he drove his car off a road and into a tree. He was pronounced DOA at the hospital.
Nate never told Perry about the transaction. 

When he returned from Memphis the two brothers worked day and night breaking the crop into pounds. They loaded the dope into the back of a rented U-Haul for the trip to New Orleans. Neither of them bothered to take a look at the back of the truck.
Twenty miles into the trip the cops used a burned out taillight to as an excuse to pull them over. Mississippi is not a state where you want that shit to happen to you. The load was big enough to get them both fifteen to eighteen in Parchman. They hired the best lawyer they could find. It didn’t do shit for them. They were both sentenced to the maximum.
The brothers were separated at the prison and put in different cell blocks. Parchman’s population consists mainly of black inmates. Perry had been to Viet Nam and could handle himself. Perry had been to college and could not. He became the prey of a bigger and stronger inmate.
Two weeks into their sentence, Perry tried to hang himself. It didn’t quite take. He wound up busting his neck but survived if you could call it that. By the time the guards found him his supply of air had been cut off too long. Perry was now basically a vegetable. He’d spend the rest of his life in a state hospital where attendants not much higher up on the IQ scale than him would take their turns on him.
Nate hunted down the inmate who he suspected had punked out his brother. He found him in the weight yard pumping out reps on the bench. Three hundred and fifty pounds like it was nothing. He waited until the inmate strained to push up the last rep then rushed forward and slammed the bar down onto his chest, crushing his sternum. He then savagely kicked the unconscious inmate in the head as many times as he could until he was pulled off of him by a guard who Nate turned on like one of his pit bulls. By the time it was all over the guard had a set of crushed ribs, broken nose, and a nasty gash on his forehead that took over fifty stitches to close. 
The kangaroo court held by the prison administration could almost rationalize the attack on the inmate. They couldn’t for the assault on the guard.
Nate was sentenced to segregation. The hole. For eighteen years he refused to back down from their shit. He spent almost his entire sentence in that single cell. 
He eventually lost touch with reality. He began to hallucinate and hold conversations with old blues singers that had spent their time in the prison decades before he had. On occasion, he’d throw a handful of shit or a cup of piss through the bars on to an unsuspecting guard. The goon squad would be called. Nate would get his ass beat and a shot of thorazine for his troubles, but not before a few guards took some good shots.
Time had not meaning for him. It was just his existence. 
Then one day the cell door to his isolation cell opened up and it was over.
The guard was huge. A man of few words. He had known Nate almost his whole career and despised him.
“I’m only gonna say it once, asshole. Get your shit together. You’re outta here. Your sentence is complete.”
At eight in the morning he was locked down in the hole. By noon that same day he was on a bus wearing a set of cheap prison issued civilian clothes with forty dollars in his front pocket.
Just like that.

***

Bugs felt like puking again. He took a hit off the pipe and washed it down with a hit off the bottle. Fuck, he had to calm down! Get a hold of himself! He couldn’t believe the shit he was hearing from this crazy fucker. Nate was sitting across from him and grinning like fucking Satan himself.
“You’re scared, aren’t you.”
“Fucking right I’m scared! I’ve know you two days and you get me to help kill this motherfucking crack dealer and then you tell me you’re a goddamn cop killer! Shit yea, I’m scared. I just wanted to go home!” Bugs screamed out.
Nate grabbed the gym and poured the crack vials on to the coffee table and split them roughly in half. He put one half back into the gym bag along with a fistful of hundred dollar bills. Probably more fucking money that Bugs had made in his whole shitty life. He tossed the bag to Bugs along with the keys to the Cadillac.
“Then take off, asshole. Run back to Greenwood. When you get back there why don’t you try to find that mother of yours. The one who ran off and left you to be raised by your grandmother. Ask her who her grandfather is. Who your great-grandfather is. I’ll bet his last name is Johnson.”
Bugs fumbled with the locks on the door and then stopped. He turned out around slowly.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your great-granddaddy checked out too early. He hasn’t quite paid off his debt. It‘s time you help pay up.” 
The insane, maniacal laughter chased Bugs down the stairwell. He jumped in the battered old Caddy and took off for home. The home he wished he had never left. 
The cops pulled him over before he had gotten out of the city limits. The taillights were burned out.
He smelled like a brewery. The car wasn’t registered in his name and hadn’t been re-registered for years. He had a gym bag full of crack and hundred dollar bills. 
He was on his way to county jail.
When the cops opened the trunk they might as well just bypassed county and gone straight to the penitentiary.
Devon, his old dealer was in the trunk. Wrapped in plastic with his throat slit.
It took about a New fucking York fucking minute for him to dime out Nate Kurtis.

***

The detective strutted in and slammed the door.
“Your story is full of fucking holes, shit for brains!”
“What do you mean? You haven’t even read it yet.” Bugs handed the cop the notepad. The cop threw it down on the table without looking at it.
“I don’t have to read it. We get over to the crack house and part of your story checks out OK. We did find a dead crackhead rolled up in a rug. But there wasn’t anyone else in there. No Nate Kurtis.”
“Motherfucker probably took off! He sure as shit ain‘t going to sit around waiting for the fucking police to show up!” 
The detective ignored Bugs and flashed a signal to the mirror. Another plain clothes cop came in carrying Nate’s pistol, a combat knife, and something rolled up in a piece of dirty old canvas.
The cop slammed the pistol down in front of Bugs. “By the size of the hole in the crack head’s forehead I’d wager that this is the murder weapon. No prints on it. Wiped clean. Ballistics will check it out.”
“That’s Nate’s fucking gun!” Bugs screamed out.
The knife hit the table.
“This big fucking pig sticker is wipe clean too. But I’ll bet forensics proves that it’s the knife that slit Devon’s throat.”
“I’ve never seen that goddamn thing in my life!” Tears streamed down Bugs’ face.
The detective continued to ignore him. He laid the canvas covered object on the table almost reverently and unrolled it.
“But this is the most interesting item we found and we didn’t find it in the crack house,” he paused and looked up at Bugs, “we found it in your apartment.”
It was an M16 rifle.
“That’s not mine!” Bugs protested. “I don’t even know what the fuck that is.”
“That’s an M16 military rifle. The same kind of rifle that killed one of our deputies over twenty years ago. The case is unsolved but I think we just may have stumbled to a huge fucking missing piece of evidence. I think it‘s going to break the case wide fucking open.”
“Nate killed that fucking cop! It’s in my goddamn statement! Just read the goddamn thing! Nate wasted his ass! He told me!”
The detective opened up a file folder. He leafed through the papers and placed a faxed copy of a mug shot from Parchman prison in front of Bugs. A younger Nate Kurtis stared up at him.
“Is that the same Nate Kurtis that killed Devon Williams, the crack dealer, and who told you that he killed the deputy twenty years ago?”
Bugs nodded his head. “That’s him. Motherfucker has set me up.” His voice was a whisper. His tears formed a little pool on the table.
“Well let me let you in on a little secret, asshole. I just got off the phone with Parchman Prison. Nate Kurtis was doing a fifteen to eighteen year stretch for trafficking in marijuana. His first year in Parchman he severely assaulted an inmate and a corrections officer. He was kept in lockdown almost his whole stretch.”
The big cop stood up and walked behind Bugs and rested his meaty paws on his shoulders. “Nate Kurtis was found dead six months ago by the midnight shift officer. Somehow he smuggled a razor blade into his cell. Slit his wrists. ”
Bugs felt his bowels turn to liquid.
Bugs could smell the cigarettes and coffee on the man’s breath as he leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“It took me twenty fucking years but I’ve finally got your ass. You’re a lying piece of shit and I’ve got the evidence to prove it. I’m gonna make sure you fry in hell for this.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

THORAZINE SHUFFLE
BY
SMOKEY DAFINO


If there was a chart to rate hangovers by, say on a scale of one to five, five being the kind that would knock a gorilla on his ass, and one being the kind that a cup of coffee would take care of, the hangover I have right now is off the charts at a seven. I threw up some Blackjack gum this morning and I don't think they even make that crap anymore.
I think I really screwed up last night. I hadn't drank since I had been down here, but I hooked up with this tourist couple who thought I was some fuckin' Jimmy Buffett throwback because I live in a tent on the beach, and they must have bought me close to a half a case of Corona and I don't know how many shots of that tequila that the old lead singer from Van Halen is always pimping. I definitely hit the blackout zone, but that doesn't bother me. I've done that a zillion times. But somewhere in my foggy, alcohol soaked brain, the little man that lives up in there keeps telling me that I royally screwed up.
That I talked.
Told THE story.
The story that I swore would never pass through these lips again.
By the way, my name is Jimbo. Real name is James but I haven't gone by that for years.
My problem wasn't that I drank. My problem was that I liked to fight when I drank. And I drank enough and fought enough that I wound up getting kicked out of high school, getting a record with the juvenile cops, and ended up working at Jiffy Lube changing the oil in cars. A real shitty job, but that goes without saying. If it was a such great job changing your oil no one would be paying the folks at Jiffy Lube twenty five bucks to do it for them.
So life wasn't all beer and hot dogs for me. I was twenty years old, didn't have even a GED, had a rotten job, and with a record probably wasn't going to get a better one. And I was living in my parent's basement. Wouldn't you want to drink if your life was like that?
So that's what I did one payday Friday. I cashed my check, went home and showered Jiffy Lube's shit off me, and went downtown to play some darts and tie one on .

I drank I don't know how many pitchers of beer that night, but it was plenty. The thing about it was that I wasn't in a real rowdy, fightin' kind of mood. Really kind of mellow. Thought about maybe trying to get laid.
Then this hot little blonde walked by me, shaking her fine little ass, and smiling at me.
I really don't remember how the whole deal went down, but the police report version said that I grabbed this chick by her sweet ass and her big college football playing boyfriend got pissed and punched me and when I got up I hit him with a chair and really busted him up. Turned out later that the ball player was the grandson of the mayor of St. Paul.
Then the cops showed up and I guess another bit of a scuffle broke out and one of the cops got a bloody nose and his glasses broke. Big deal! Two of my ribs got damn near broken and it took twenty stitches to close the cut over my eye and you don't hear me bitching. I didn't know that being a pussy was a prerequisite for being a cop!
But this time the judge had seen enough. With my past record and all, he said he thought I might be "unbalanced", and he was going to send me down to a hospital in the southern part of the state to have me evaluated. I guess he didn't buy my feeble explanation that I was just out trying to get some trim and that it wasn't my fault that the jock couldn't handle it.
I kinda flipped out, which didn't help matters much, and called the judge a dirty son of a bitch. So the bailiffs wound up escorting me out of the courtroom right past my mom who was giving me her famous shit eating smirk while mouthing the words "maybe now you'll learn", and my dad who was shaking his fist at me and telling me what a no good rotten bastard I had always been.
The next morning these two big sheriff's deputies handcuffed and shackled me and drove me about an hour south of the city to the hospital. Only it wasn't your regular kind of hospital. It's called a security hospital and it’s the kind of place where they put criminals who are too goddamn crazy to be in prison. There aren't any bars on the windows, just glass so thick you couldn't drive a car through it.
I hadn't been on my unit a half a day, hadn't even seen the shrink yet, before this big old Mexican dude tried to kiss me and grab my johnson while I was sitting in the TV room, watching another one of those endless fucking reruns of M*A*S*H. Let me tell you right now, one hell of a fight broke out, the Mexican dude must have been on some sort of medication or something because he was real slow and I whipped his ass but good, his nose split like a ripe peach, and I wound up getting put on this special isolation unit, after I got cracked on the back of the head with a billy club, where there was only ten of us.
My new unit held twelve patients but only ten cells were occupied. There was also an super dooper high security cell that held an inmate named Wes Dibley. That cell was never opened unless there were four staff present and had video cameras goin’ twenty four hours a day. Wes was never allowed out. He took his meals in the cell, and had his own shower and television. Wes was what you would call an "evil genius" and was considered real dangerous. He had a college degree from Yale and had been committed after blowing up a savings and loan and the block surrounding it with dynamite, and wound up killing fifteen people. Wes had a lot of fun at the hospital by assaulting both security and medical staff with home made weapons like zip guns, shanks, and mace made out of Vaseline and pepper, until he got locked up permanently in his specially designed condo.
The staff didn't come on the unit much. They had a big observation bubble where they just sat and drank coffee and watched us. They'd only come charging on the unit if something like a fight broke out or if some wing nut took a big turd and threw it at the bubble, which I did see happen a time or two.
There was two Indians, four blacks, and me and three other white guys on the unit. One of the white guys was about the biggest dude I have ever seen. He was easily six foot six and way over three hundred pounds, some fat but a lot of muscle. Big cannonball shaved head with a tarantula tattooed on the top of it and a swastika right in the middle of his forehead. And he had mean, beady little eyes that had blue tears tattooed under them. Now that I think about it, he kinda looked like that fat bastard, Butterbean, that's always fighting on cable TV.
Supper was being handed out when I got processed onto the unit, and man, it looked like shit. And I hadn't eaten all day. Suppose to be some kind of chicken patty but looked more like someone had stomped on a mouse, fried it up in a pan, and threw it on a bun. There was a blob of mashed potatoes big enough to feed two men and it was covered with some yellow, gelatin like gravy. All topped with a pile of mixed vegetables and a oatmeal cookie as big and hard as a hockey puck. Kool Aid to drink. Kool Aid got served at every meal .
There were three tables bolted to the floor and each table would seat four people. Two of the tables were full, the blacks had one table to themselves, the two Indians and two white guys had one, and the big man was sifting at the remaining table all by himself. I could feel everybody watching me when walked over to his table and sat down.
Those beady eyes were burning a hole in me.
"Gotta pay to sit at my table, punk." He had a voice that sounded like it had been thickened by years of whiskey and cigarettes, but he talked real low, kinda rumbled.
"Excuse me?"
"What, are you fucking deaf? To sit at my table you have to pay. Today it will cost you that cookie and half of them spuds."
"What if I don't want to pay?"
“Then you'll have to squeeze in with the rest of the retards over there."
"Hey, man, I don't want any trouble. But I'm hungry as hell. I haven't eaten all day long."
"Your story is tearing at my heart, but tough shit."
This guy was fucking enormous. There was no way in hell I could take him on and not get either seriously beat to shit or outright killed. But I was so hungry you could hear my guts rumbling. I was beyond the point of caring.
"Look, man. I just got locked in here for kicking one guy's ass about two hours ago so I'm not looking for any more trouble. I respect where you're coming from, this isn't the first time I've been locked down so I know you're the boss here. But I'm fucking hungry, so if you want to get squirrelly, you just jump."
It got so quiet in there you could hear a mouse fart in the corner. The big man didn't say a word, just sat there looking at me like I had just flown in on a starship. Suddenly his face broke into a grin.
"Fucking A! Finally a motherfucker comes in here that's got a set a nuts on him." He stood up and pointed a sausage sized finger at the other two tables.
'Unlike the rest of you fucking retards and baby rapers."
He reached across the table to shake my hand. I could feel the bones in my hand crunch.
"Norm Grabowski is the name. Those pricks may think they run the show." He shot the middle finger to the guards who were staring at us from the observation pod. "But this is my fucking unit."
Truer words were never spoken. Norman "Spider" Grabowski was the end result of over twenty one years spent in the state's finest penal facilities. From the age of thirteen on, Norm had been locked up in every correctional institution in the state, eleven months being his longest break between sentences. He had a rap sheet a mile long. It started off with shoplifting, and then continued on with burglary, auto theft, assault, sale of narcotics, statutory rape, possession of twenty pounds of marijuana, and about anything else you could think of. He was also a suspect in the unsolved murders of five black inmates. Now at the age of thirty-three, Norm was a high ranking member in good standing of the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang, a gang not known for their liberal views, and had been committed to the security hospital as mentally ill and dangerous after stabbing a guard at the penitentiary in the stomach .
Guards and inmates alike were scared shitless of him.
Norm shoved his sandwich into his mouth and stood back up and walked over to the table where the other two white inmates were sifting. "Let me introduce you to these homos."
Norm stood behind a lanky, greasy haired, foul smelling man of about forty who was wearing clothes from the disco era.
"This first shitbag is Bob. And he is a shitbag, literally. He got thrown off a tier at the pen by a gang of brothers who were strong arming him. Busted up his back and left him shifting and pissing in a bag. They had to put him in here for his own safety while he recuperated. But Bob, being the great guy that he is, wound up almost strangling a nurse to death while he tried to rape her with his useless dick. Now his whole life revolves around cigarettes and enemas." Norm leaned over and spit a green lunger onto Bob's mashed potatoes, walked over and stood behind the remaining white inmate, then suddenly grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his face down into his tray. The guards in the pod all jumped to their feet.
"This puke is Danny. Danny got brought in here for raping his ten year old sister. Said some demon was talking to him, told him to do it. The quacks have been pumping him full of thorazine and electric shock three times a week and now Danny has refried shit for brains. Every night he lets the soul brothers come into his cell and play ass darts on him. Then the injuns get sloppy seconds."
Norm wheeled around and faced the guards in the observation bubble. "Get back to jerking off, you fucking pussies," he screamed. You could see the guards shuffling uneasily in their bubble.
He came back over and sat down at our table. "I'm not going to insult you by introducing the rest of these scrotum heads. They're not worth the shit on the bottom of my shoe." The blacks and the two Indians ate their supper silently while looking down at their trays.
'I'm glad you're here, brother. I need a good right hand man," he whispered hoarsely.

A week had passed and I was starting to work on a wicked case of claustrophobia slash cabin fever. Being locked up on a maximum security, crazy as a shit house rat ward, without being crazy will do that to a guy. Because of my association with Norm, the other inmates avoided me like I was carrying the Ebola virus, so I didn’t have any problems in that area. But it's damn hard to live in a place where the accepted behavior includes sitting in the television lounge jacking off while watching Oprah, participating in a nightly massive anal and oral gangbang of a brain fried fellow inmate, throwing your shit around like it was a baseball, or sitting down with a issue of Rolling Stone and eating the entire magazine after you got done reading it.
It was recreation time and we were out in our unit’s tiny yard. There was an old, rusty Universal weight machine stuck in the corner and I was watching Norm go through his routine on it. He was using every plate on the stack and was still doing at least fifteen reps per session without breaking a sweat.
I was voicing my concerns to Norm that I had been there for a week and had only talked to the shrink once.
“Thats all they need." He grunted as he benched the entire stack of three hundred.
"Who's they."
"The court, my brother." He sat up and wiped his pumpkin sized head with a towel. "Look, this is how it works. You got a history of whipping the shit out of people. Finally you punch a cop. A big no-no in the eyes of the court. They send you here for a court ordered observation and you ain't here long enough to have a cup of coffee and you kick some other douche bag's ass. They got you by the short and curlies now, man. Shrink comes in and has a little sit down with you. Writes up a nice report to the court and the next thing you know you get the big M. I. and D designation. Mentally ill and dangerous. That's the worst you can get in this shithole."
"How long is that for?" My voice was squeaking.
Norm gave a evil grin and started pumping out reps again. "Could be years. Could be forever. All depends. Getting committed ain't like getting sentenced to the joint. That's the thing about the bughouse. Free world people think that a convict is getting off easy by getting sentenced here instead of prison, like it's a fucking country club."
He let the pile drop with a loud crash. 'What bullshit that is! In here with the M. I. and D., the big bitch, that can be as good as a life sentence. You throw in the electric shock and all the dope they pump in you every fucking day, couple a years you'll be doing the thorazine shuffle and shittin' in your pants."
I couldn't believe what the fuck I was hearing. I was so stunned I couldn't speak.
Norm sat back up on the bench. "Jimbo, I'm not saying that it's going to happen but I seen it happen a dozen times since I been here." He stood up, casting a huge shadow over me.
"But it doesn't have to be that way, little dude. I know how to get you out of here. But it ain't for free. Its gonna cost you, big time. You'll owe me and the Brotherhood."
He started in on his lat pulls. "Up to you."
Norm had AIDS. He had contracted it shooting speedballs and sharing the needle with his Aryan buddies at the penitentiary. He had done the hit on the guard because he had nothin' to lose. That was why he was at the security hospital. Since he was going to die anyway, the state figured it would be safer and smarter to send him to the security hospital while he waited to punch out rather than to lock him up in segregation. From the hole he could still carry out prison business, but by putting him in the nuthouse they could cut him off from his Neo-Nazi friends.
"Wonder if they don't commit me? What if I just have to stand trial? If I copped a plea I'd maybe do less than a year county time? I escape from here, I'm on the run for good."
It was almost time to lock in for the night. Norm and I were the only inmates sitting out in the day room, the rest of the unit had either already hit the sack, the medication the committed inmates were on tended to make them turn in early, or they were in Danny's cell, pounding his ass for a nightcap.
"That's the chance you have to take. You can wait it out and see what the courts say. And you may be right. They may just go to trial and you can cop a plea. But if they don't, you could wind up being in here until your a shriveled up old man blowing dudes for Snickers bars and cigarettes. Man, look at Danny. The bucks are in there every night nailing him. I'm not going to live forever. And you'll be in here all by your lonesome. Think about it. I'm going to fucking bed, got me a new stroke magazine in the mail today, gotta break it in." The giant inmate lumbered to his feet and headed towards his cell.
The guard on duty announced on the intercom that it was five minutes to lock down and as I was walking to my cell, I glanced in at Danny. They had him stripped down buck naked. One guy was hitting him from behind while another was slamming him in the mouth. He looked out of the corners of his glazed eyes at me. I turned around and walked over to Norm's cell.
"I'm in. I'll do what ever the fuck I have to do to get out of here."

***

"First thing you have to do is give me the address of your parents and any brothers and sisters."
It was morning and we were leaning over trays of greenish scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a gigantic, sweating sweet roll that was laying on top of the whole mess. The sight of Norm shoving it all into his gaping cake hole was about enough to put me over the top.
"What the hell for?'
"That's just the way the system works, dipshit. I get you out of here, you're going tohave to work for us. You decide to bolt, the Brotherhood needs to know where to find you. They can't find you, well then mommy and daddy and little sis will have to take the heat for you. And I can goddamn guarantee you that if they know where you are, they'll talk." He spread his python sized arms wide. “Take it or leave it."
"When does it happen?" I was going to have to rush to my cell, the combination of the smell of the breakfast and the thought of what Norm was telling me was making me want to power puke.
"Couple of days. My boys on the outside have to make sure you gave me the right addresses of your folks. And by the way, if you try to fuck me and give me some bogus information you will be in a world of shit."

I was on my hands and knees barfing into my toilet when Norm stuck his head in. "I forgot to tell you this. Get your armpits wet and soap 'em up and let 'em dry without washing off the soap. Tonight show the nurse the rash, tell her that you're allergic to the roll-on deodorant. They'll switch you to spray. But don't use it, just leave it in your cell. You're gonna need it."

Straight up midnight and the unit was quiet as a tomb. I looked out the cell door window of my cell and could see just the tops of the heads of the two night guards, both of whom Norm said were major league stoners and never made more than two rounds a night, usually one at the beginning and one at the end of the shift. They were watching a movie on the VCR, looked like Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I turned back to my bed to check out my supplies. Two cans of Right Guard, one mine, one Norm's, a damp towel, and a book of matches.
I stuck a piece of cardboard that I had cut from the back of a notepad to fit into my cell door window so the guards wouldn't see the flame. I took one of the cans of Right Guard, lit a match, and sprayed it.
It took off like a fucking flame thrower!
As soon as I directed the flame to the crash proof glass that was installed in my outside window I knew that it was going to work. The glass seemed to start to melt almost immediately. Halfway through a can I had an opening about ten inches wide. Within five minutes both cans were empty and I had a hole easily wide enough for me to slide out. I cooled down the edges of the hole with the damp towel and started to slide my head out the hole.
"What in the double fuck is going on?"
In a panic I pulled my head back in. One of the guards was standing inside my cell! He had obviously been smoking weed. His eyes were like two piss holes in the snow and he was holding a can of beer. I couldn't believe that I didn't hear him come in. He was standing there in the middle of the cell with his jaw hanging down and this look of pure stupid amazement of his face.
On nothing but shit in your pants fear and pure animal instinct, I threw the hardest fucking roundhouse right that I have ever thrown to this day. The punch pole-axed him right between the eyes, I could feel the bones snap in my fist, and the guard dropped to the floor like he had been shot in the head.
I turned and somersaulted through the window, falling about four feet, and landing flat on my back, knocking the wind right the hell out of me. I staggered to my feet and while clutching my throbbing, broken hand to my chest, I slipped into the shadows and began to work by way down the side of the building to the cover of the woods that bordered the back of the hospital.
There was only one light on in any of the cells. It was Wes Dibley's, the resident evil genius and mad bomber. He was the one who had given Norm the idea about using the Right Guard as a blow torch. Wes was buck naked and was standing IN his toilet bowl, a Playboy in one hand, his dick in the other. His head turned slowly towards me, like it was on a swivel, like he was a fucking owl. He gave me a slight nod and a smile and turned back to his fun.
I ran into the woods.
When I broke free of the woods on the other side I came out onto a county road. Following Norm's directions, I stayed down low in the ditch and ran south about two miles to a closed Exxon station. Behind the station, a beat up old Cadillac was idling with it's lights off. When I walked up in front of the car, the lights came on, blinding me. I heard the door open.
"Are you Jimbo?" The voice was female.
"That's me." I whispered.
"Well, get in cowboy. You can drive."
Sliding over into the passenger seat was a woman child who was crack whore thin and had the teeth to match. Her hair was spiked up in a punk fashion and she must have had thirty facial piercings. Her face looked like it was made out of aluminum and every inch of skin on her that I could see was covered in jailhouse tattoos. She was smoking a huge fatty that she was washing down with a peach wine cooler.
I put the car in gear. "Where to?" I was sweating like a whore and smelled worse.
"Keep going south about four miles and we'll catch the interstate into the city." She passed me the joint.
"Are you Norm's wife?"
She laughed like a little girl. "Me? Norm's wife? Fuck no!"
That was about all she seemed to want to talk about that, so I let the subject drop. I needed to calm down anyway. She popped a CD in the stereo and cranked up some kind of death metal shit so loud I thought my ears would start bleeding. As I pulled onto the interstate she slid over next to me, unzipped my fly, pulled out my crank, and slid her lips over the head of it. I groaned as my eyes rolled back into my head and I had to fight to keep the car on the road. I felt myself wanting to cum immediately.
She sat back up. "Oh no you don't." She reached into her purse and pulled out a vial of white powder. Licking the head of my dick she tapped out a small pile of the coke onto it and rubbed it all over the head, numbing it.
"Mmmmm. That's much better." She started in again, blowing me all the way to Minneapolis.

***

"What the hell took you so fucking long?"
We were standing in this incredibly nasty, filthy house trailer, just north of Minneapolis, that smelled like B.O., cat piss, pot, and Old English 800 malt liquor. And standing in the kitchen screaming at us was this enormous, bleach blonde woman, that I figured out quickly was Norm's wife. She wasn't wearing a shirt or a bra, just a pair of dirty jeans, and her giant tits were completely covered with a massive Harley Davidson tattoo. I'll bet the bed she and Norm bone danced on had to be reinforced with cinder blocks.,
She reached out and grabbed Rita's face with a catchers mitt sized hand, Rita being the woman that had picked me up.
"Did you fuck him? Huh? Is that what took you so long?"
Rita giggled. "No, Glenda. I just blew him."
Glenda turned and glared at me. I felt my bowels loosen.
She shook Rita's head and pointed at me with her free hand. "Now you listen to me you bag of shit. Rita is off limits to you, you understand? You touch her one more time you'll find your balls in my martini glass and your ass in a wood chipper. I don't give a shit what Norm says."
She turned back to Rita. "Strip down and get on the couch." She barked.
Without a word, Rita stripped down, she was even scrawnier naked, and knelt on the couch, doggie fashion, while Glenda walked to the back of the trailer. When she came back out, she had taken off her Levis and was strapping on a huge black dildo.
"Sit your ass down in that chair, asshole. I want you to watch this."
Pushing a sleeping, mangy cat and a couple of empty Budweisers out of the way, I eased myself down into a recliner.
Spitting in her hand, Glenda lubed up the fake dick and shoved it hard into Rita's ass.
She looked over her shoulder at me. "Don't you think about fucking with me! We own you." I could hardly hear her over Rita's screams of pain.

The sun was trying to stream in through the grit and grime that was coated on the trailer's windows. The dildo assault on Rita had finally ended and she-was laying in a corner, unconscious. Glenda had force fed her a tranquilizer that a horse would have had a hard time swallowing. The whole incident had been like watching an X-rated version of the Twilight Zone.
Glenda had taken off her crank, but was still lounging naked on the couch, working on her sixth bottle of Bud and smoking a bowl of hash. I was trying my best not to look at her.
She leaned back and let out a loud belch that practically rattled the windows, then glared over in my direction. “Take off your fucking clothes off and get over here."
"Huh?"
"You heard me, fuckstick! Take off your clothes and get over here. You got a pussy to eat."
"Glenda, please, I don't think Norm would..." I was stammering like one of the retards in the hospital.
"Listen to me, little shit. I don't think you quite understand the situation you're in. Norm and the AB got you out of the stammer. So now you work for us. What we say, whatever we want, you do. Jesus Christ, you're stupid. What do you think Rita is here for? She's paying off a debt her old man owes up in the penitentiary. If it wasn't for us he'd have an asshole so big you could park a go-cart in it."
She leaned back on the couch, spread her legs, and used her fingers to open up her gaping snatch.
"Now get out of those fuckin' clothes and get over here. But first get in my purse over there by your chair and get me a fresh pack of smokes."
I shakily stood up and took off my clothes while the fat hog leered at me and then picked up the dildo and slid it into herself. I shuffled over, stark naked, and opened up her purse. When I bent over she must have seen something she liked.
"Oh, yah. I'm gonna break that brown eyed beaver in good." My dick and balls shriveled up to the size of a thimble and a couple of acorns. I was close to puking or passing out, it didn't really matter at this point.
Nestled in next to her Lucky Strikes was a wad of cash the size of a Big Mac. But that wasn't what set my heart to racing. No! What got my adrenaline pumping like I had just mainlined a dose of meth, was the sight of a snub nosed .38 laying at the bottom of her purse.
Glenda had already realized her fuck up, because by the time I had whirled around and aimed the pistol, almost dropping the damn thing in the process, she had already staggered to her feet.
"You better drop that goddamn piece right now, asshole!” She screamed.
Without thinking or aiming I fired off a round. But the fist that I had broken on the guard's head had swollen to the point that I couldn't even open my hand so I was holding the gun with my left, my wrong hand, so the first shot went wide of Glenda's head and took out the living room window.
If you never done it before, you wouldn't believe how loud it is to shoot off a high caliber pistol in a shitbox aluminum trailer  .
"Jesus Christ! Have you lost your fucking mind?"
Glenda started to slowly walk towards me. "Now give me the gun you little pisspot and we'll forget about everything, because I don’t think you know just what the hell you're doing."
I dropped my aim down to her tattoo covered tits and started firing, four quick shots, the force of the them driving her back down onto the couch. She was sifting there, frantically trying to stop the spouting geysers of blood that were pumping out her by covering them with her hands, when I walked over and fired the remaining shot into her head. Some of her brains blew out the back of her skull and sprayed all over the curtains.
I dropped the gun, bent over and barfed on my bare feet.
After I was through throwing up my shoes and socks, I dressed as fast as humanly possible and went back to Glenda's purse and shoved the wad of cash and a big block of hash into my pocket. Rita must have been in a coma because she didn't move a muscle through all that screaming and shooting. I picked the pistol back up, wiped it off with my shirt, and put the weapon in Rita's hand.
Grabbing the keys for the Cadillac, I raced out the trailer door. Someone must have heard the shots because I could hear sirens in the distance. I fired up that old Caddy and took off in the opposite direction.
Once I got back to the city, I parked the car in the parking lot of a grocery store and hopped on a city bus that took me downtown to the courthouse. They had just opened the doors when I got there so I was in and out of there in about twenty minutes with a copy of my birth certificate and drivers license. All I had to do was give the lady behind the counter forty bucks and a sob story that I had lost both of them when my apartment caught fire.
That's all you need to get into Mexico. (Before 9/11). Your drivers license and a copy of your birth certificate. I never knew that until Norm had told me. The dumb shit!
I hopped in a cab and had him take me to a hotel just outside the airport. I was there for two days waiting for my charter flight to Cancun. I spent the time smoking Glenda's hash, eating room service, peering out through the curtains, and watching pay for view porno movies. The one time I turned on the news they were talking about the murder of a biker's wife. I got to feeling sick all over again so I never turned on the news or read the paper again.
At the airport, standing in my Hawaiian shirt and shorts, I was shaking like a dog shitting peach pits I was so nervous. I kept looking all around the lobby looking for cops or tattooed covered bikers, but all I saw was families of tourists or drunk college kids going on spring break.
Just before they announced my flight, feeling guilty, I decided to call my parents.
The old man had answered on the second ring.
"Hey Dad, it's me."
"You really screwed up this time, Mr. Big Shot! The police have already been here. You better turn yourself in. What the hell were you thinking of, breaking out of that hospital? Now you're going to have to go back to court, and this time you're going to wind up in jail! Not some country club hospital. And you know what? I'm glad! Maybe a little time in jail will straighten you out, you good for nothing bum."
The boarding for my flight was being announced.
"Say goodbye to Mom for me. And Dad? If any big guys on Harleys roll up into your driveway, you better lock the doors and call the cops. See ya!"
"What in the hell are y......
I hung up the phone and walked down to the gate.
So that's pretty much the whole shebang in a nutshell. I flew into Cancun with all the tourists and took a ferry over here to the island, Isla Mujures. I just never went back. I sell Cuban cigars and other tourist trinkets to the people on the beach. I don't make a lot of money but I get by. The main thing is I just try to keep my mouth shut and to stay out of trouble. I can't afford to get busted down here and sent back to the states. Not with the cops and the AB and God knows who else is looking for me.

By the way, you got a beer in that cooler you could spare?