Part 2
The young black man slips out from the booth when Boris is about 3 feet from the table, and dips his right hand into his trench-coat, all in one quick, fluid motion. His hand comes up with a very large revolver which he points at Boris. I recognize it as a Colt Python, .357 Magnum. Boris stops and stares at the gun.
"Fucking shit!" Screams either Tony or Larry still back at the booth.
In the second that follows, Boris backs up half a step. This was not expected. Things have changed, but he is not going to show fear. You can see the bad-boy smirk begin to come to his lips. His brain has not yet grasped the fact that this is a very odd situation when pieces of it go flying across the floor. It feels like my ears have already started to ring and I am in the rain halfway across the back parking-lot to my car even before the shot is fired. I don't even remember the sound.
The next day, the Levy County Examiner would tell of three bodies being found in the Bacon House on Main Street. The descriptions of the suspects would be mine, they would never be caught. I decided to sell my share in the diner and move down to Miami. I made the call to the bank the next day, never set foot back in the store as I was sure they would come back for me.
Technorati Tags: writing, fiction, literature, story, blog, blogging, blogger, bloggers, read, reader
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Influx: Part 2
Part 1
The influx orders coffee.
They are in a booth on the other side of the diner, sitting there, drinking their coffee when Tony and Boris come in. Boris is Russian. This is when I get my truck keys from the hook behind the counter and slip them into my shirt-pocket. Boris does not like black people. He does not come from a place where there is the polite compromise to keeping your mutual loathing to yourself. Boris stands in the door staring at them for about 15 seconds before he comes in, meanwhile Tony, who is behind him, is getting soaked, but too afraid of Boris to push him out of the way and come in. The girl and the old man have their back to the door, to Boris. The young black man, on the opposite side of the table, looks at Boris, but keeps the smile in check. You can see him controlling himself.
The Russians around here have always struck me as dangerous, seeming on the verge of exploding with their new freedom. One of them beat the shit out of Mike Bennick in his hardware store a black from here when he told him he was making too much noise and disturbing the other shoppers. They were driving around town in a big new SUV and making noise, and everybody was too afraid to say anything to them, including the police. This set of Russians, they came into America like teenaged boys bent on proving their manhood.
So Boris and Larry and Tony are at a table on one side, thinking of how to let these people, this influx, know how they felt and in doing so feel better about themselves, feel like men, feel like they had earned the right to call themselves men. Boris and Tony haven't said
The black guy, he gets up and goes over to the jukebox, which is over by the Boris-Tony-Larry booth, about three feet from it, in fact. He walks slowly over by their table, a little closer than he had to, goes to the jukebox and puts his money in. The song starts when he goes past their booth again, Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf. He looks at Boris, Boris looks at him, he stops walking, stands there for a few seconds, continuing to stare. Boris begins to turn really red. The young black man goes back to his table. While he was at the jukebox, the girl changed sides at the booth, now she is sitting beside him. I would say that she is about 27 or 28 years old, would be pretty like a model except for the fact that she is a little heavy. Not unattractive heavy, though. She isn't wearing make-up. The sleeves on the shirt she is wearing, a man's shirt, are rolled up showing more of her tattoos. She opens her mouth and he spits into it. He spits into her open mouth. Tony and Boris stare in disbelief. Boris is just staring and getting even redder. He gets up and starts walking quickly towards them. I take up the cordless phone I keep under the counter. I dial 911 but I don't hit send. I move to the right side of the counter where the door the store-room and the back exit is, but I don't leave.
Part 3
Technorati Tags: writing, fiction, writer, writers, blog, blogging, crime, crime-fiction, criminal, literature
The influx orders coffee.
They are in a booth on the other side of the diner, sitting there, drinking their coffee when Tony and Boris come in. Boris is Russian. This is when I get my truck keys from the hook behind the counter and slip them into my shirt-pocket. Boris does not like black people. He does not come from a place where there is the polite compromise to keeping your mutual loathing to yourself. Boris stands in the door staring at them for about 15 seconds before he comes in, meanwhile Tony, who is behind him, is getting soaked, but too afraid of Boris to push him out of the way and come in. The girl and the old man have their back to the door, to Boris. The young black man, on the opposite side of the table, looks at Boris, but keeps the smile in check. You can see him controlling himself.
The Russians around here have always struck me as dangerous, seeming on the verge of exploding with their new freedom. One of them beat the shit out of Mike Bennick in his hardware store a black from here when he told him he was making too much noise and disturbing the other shoppers. They were driving around town in a big new SUV and making noise, and everybody was too afraid to say anything to them, including the police. This set of Russians, they came into America like teenaged boys bent on proving their manhood.
So Boris and Larry and Tony are at a table on one side, thinking of how to let these people, this influx, know how they felt and in doing so feel better about themselves, feel like men, feel like they had earned the right to call themselves men. Boris and Tony haven't said
The black guy, he gets up and goes over to the jukebox, which is over by the Boris-Tony-Larry booth, about three feet from it, in fact. He walks slowly over by their table, a little closer than he had to, goes to the jukebox and puts his money in. The song starts when he goes past their booth again, Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf. He looks at Boris, Boris looks at him, he stops walking, stands there for a few seconds, continuing to stare. Boris begins to turn really red. The young black man goes back to his table. While he was at the jukebox, the girl changed sides at the booth, now she is sitting beside him. I would say that she is about 27 or 28 years old, would be pretty like a model except for the fact that she is a little heavy. Not unattractive heavy, though. She isn't wearing make-up. The sleeves on the shirt she is wearing, a man's shirt, are rolled up showing more of her tattoos. She opens her mouth and he spits into it. He spits into her open mouth. Tony and Boris stare in disbelief. Boris is just staring and getting even redder. He gets up and starts walking quickly towards them. I take up the cordless phone I keep under the counter. I dial 911 but I don't hit send. I move to the right side of the counter where the door the store-room and the back exit is, but I don't leave.
Part 3
Technorati Tags: writing, fiction, writer, writers, blog, blogging, crime, crime-fiction, criminal, literature
Influx: Part 1
My uncle Wayne used to tell me that fights are won by the most underestimated man. It's not how hard you fight, it's how hard the other guy thinks you can fight. You go just a little bit above the expectations for you and you win. He was right, it happens every time. Everybody loves an underdog, except for the overdog.
The old man in the wheelchair came into the diner with a young black man in a brown trench-coat, he wore gray sweat pants and a black t-shirt what looked like steel-toed work boots. The girl with them is very pretty, blonde, a little heavy but with huge tits. Both her arms are sleeved with tattoos, which is bound to get attention around here, both of the good and less good types. Her tits were bandaged down, pressed tight against her torso, which had me wondering before everything started. The guy in the black t-shirt and the necklace in the corner booth is an ass named Larry, he has a twin brother named Tony who is also an ass. Neither of them have lived outside of this little town. They look like asses, with their thick necks, receding hairlines, Larry likes his jeans so tight he can't move his legs. Right as they came in Larry started to look at them like he wanted a fight. It was the old redneck glare, reserved for unfamiliar people in familiar places, an objection to influx, the fear of invasion. It was a rainy Saturday morning in January, in Florida, and we weren't going to be busy. The young black man looked over at Larry, saw the glare, grinned. Now, it wasn't a cocky, show-offy, young man's grin, like young men are wont to give on a basketball court, this was something else, and that something else made me think about getting extra bacon out should there be an influx of paramedics and Sheriff's officers in here today. The grin was genuine, it was quiet and seemed to spring from a thought or a memory or the imagination. It was spontaneous and didn't have a thing to do with intimating Larry or showing Larry that he was not intimidated. To Larry though, it probably just looked like he was trying to show how dangerous he was, that he wasn't scared. If there is anything men like Larry cannot abide is black men who are not at least a littel bit intimidated by them. Down here they live with the picture of black folk from the city engaged in perpetual gang wars and crack-fueled firefights. That's why the young men around here hunt so much, hip-hop music. Competition. Larry, in all likelihood, and in spite of his objection to influx, probably has as many Lil Jon CDs in his truck as he has Garth Brooks CDs.
Part 2
Technorati Tags: fiction, fictional, writing, writer, write, crime, criminal, basketball, firefight, hip-hop, lil, jon, influx, florida
The old man in the wheelchair came into the diner with a young black man in a brown trench-coat, he wore gray sweat pants and a black t-shirt what looked like steel-toed work boots. The girl with them is very pretty, blonde, a little heavy but with huge tits. Both her arms are sleeved with tattoos, which is bound to get attention around here, both of the good and less good types. Her tits were bandaged down, pressed tight against her torso, which had me wondering before everything started. The guy in the black t-shirt and the necklace in the corner booth is an ass named Larry, he has a twin brother named Tony who is also an ass. Neither of them have lived outside of this little town. They look like asses, with their thick necks, receding hairlines, Larry likes his jeans so tight he can't move his legs. Right as they came in Larry started to look at them like he wanted a fight. It was the old redneck glare, reserved for unfamiliar people in familiar places, an objection to influx, the fear of invasion. It was a rainy Saturday morning in January, in Florida, and we weren't going to be busy. The young black man looked over at Larry, saw the glare, grinned. Now, it wasn't a cocky, show-offy, young man's grin, like young men are wont to give on a basketball court, this was something else, and that something else made me think about getting extra bacon out should there be an influx of paramedics and Sheriff's officers in here today. The grin was genuine, it was quiet and seemed to spring from a thought or a memory or the imagination. It was spontaneous and didn't have a thing to do with intimating Larry or showing Larry that he was not intimidated. To Larry though, it probably just looked like he was trying to show how dangerous he was, that he wasn't scared. If there is anything men like Larry cannot abide is black men who are not at least a littel bit intimidated by them. Down here they live with the picture of black folk from the city engaged in perpetual gang wars and crack-fueled firefights. That's why the young men around here hunt so much, hip-hop music. Competition. Larry, in all likelihood, and in spite of his objection to influx, probably has as many Lil Jon CDs in his truck as he has Garth Brooks CDs.
Part 2
Technorati Tags: fiction, fictional, writing, writer, write, crime, criminal, basketball, firefight, hip-hop, lil, jon, influx, florida
Saturday, March 3, 2007
The Young Woman with the Tattoos
Lisa Barker:
Age: 27. Violent. Suspect in 22 murders across Florida.
Ms Barker grew up in Levy Florida where she was abused by her father, gunsmith and member of the KKK, Lawrey Bohannon. Stalked by her father's henchmen and fellow Klansmen, for 13 years, in and out of foster-homes across the south-east, Ms Barker, eventually ran away, dropping out of the system for 13 years.
It is thought that she hitchhiked through central Florida, lived on the streets, supporting herself by prostitution and/or selling drugs. Ms Barker showed up in 2003 when fingerprints placed her at the scene of a quadruple-homicide in Gainesville. The murder was at the home of Bill Vissey, one of her fathers henchmen, his wife Clarice, and their sons Vaughn and Gary, 18 and 22, respectively, all blindfolded and shot in the back of the head. Over the next 4 years 16 men, all associated with Lawrey Bohannon and the Florida Klan would die similarly. Ms Barker has recently been seen in the company of Gerry MacTyce and another murder suspect known only as "Joe X". Ms Barker is known to prefer the Sig-Sauer P220.
Technorati Tags: fiction, crime, criminal, criminals, crime-fiction, murder, blog, blogging, blogger
Age: 27. Violent. Suspect in 22 murders across Florida.
Ms Barker grew up in Levy Florida where she was abused by her father, gunsmith and member of the KKK, Lawrey Bohannon. Stalked by her father's henchmen and fellow Klansmen, for 13 years, in and out of foster-homes across the south-east, Ms Barker, eventually ran away, dropping out of the system for 13 years.
It is thought that she hitchhiked through central Florida, lived on the streets, supporting herself by prostitution and/or selling drugs. Ms Barker showed up in 2003 when fingerprints placed her at the scene of a quadruple-homicide in Gainesville. The murder was at the home of Bill Vissey, one of her fathers henchmen, his wife Clarice, and their sons Vaughn and Gary, 18 and 22, respectively, all blindfolded and shot in the back of the head. Over the next 4 years 16 men, all associated with Lawrey Bohannon and the Florida Klan would die similarly. Ms Barker has recently been seen in the company of Gerry MacTyce and another murder suspect known only as "Joe X". Ms Barker is known to prefer the Sig-Sauer P220.
Technorati Tags: fiction, crime, criminal, criminals, crime-fiction, murder, blog, blogging, blogger
The Young Man in the Trench-coat
Name unknown. Background unknown, nicknamed "Joe X":
Age: 26-30. Said to speak with a caribbean accent. Suspect in the shooting deaths of 14 people in Florida. Victims apparently selected randomly. Carries a range of weapons on his person from his favorite, the Colt Python .357 Magnum, to a sawed-off 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun. He has recently been seen in the company of Gerry MacTyce.
Technorati Tags: fiction, crime, criminal, criminals, crime-fiction, murder, blog, blogging, blogger
Age: 26-30. Said to speak with a caribbean accent. Suspect in the shooting deaths of 14 people in Florida. Victims apparently selected randomly. Carries a range of weapons on his person from his favorite, the Colt Python .357 Magnum, to a sawed-off 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun. He has recently been seen in the company of Gerry MacTyce.
Technorati Tags: fiction, crime, criminal, criminals, crime-fiction, murder, blog, blogging, blogger
The Old Man in the Wheelchair
Gerard "Gerry" MacTyce:
Age: 65.
Head of a loose-knit gang/family/cult based in Briggboro, South Carolina. Runs meth-houses, whore-houses, crack-houses out of trailer parks all across the southeast. His crew, hi-jacks trucks, does violent home-invasions, car-jacks, traffics in all manner of illegal substances and material, but specializes in ripping off and executing fellow criminals. No crime is beneath him. The crew is made up of people of different races, ages, backgrounds and religions, everything from septuagenarian African-American practicing members of the Nation of Islam (by all appearances), to young Mormons, them hard to trace. The common thread being all of the members of his group have at some point in their lives been homeless. His means of controlling his "clan" is unknown, though he has been said to be a very charismatic speaker.
Technorati Tags: fiction, crime, criminal, criminals, crime-fiction, murder, blog, blogging, blogger
Age: 65.
Head of a loose-knit gang/family/cult based in Briggboro, South Carolina. Runs meth-houses, whore-houses, crack-houses out of trailer parks all across the southeast. His crew, hi-jacks trucks, does violent home-invasions, car-jacks, traffics in all manner of illegal substances and material, but specializes in ripping off and executing fellow criminals. No crime is beneath him. The crew is made up of people of different races, ages, backgrounds and religions, everything from septuagenarian African-American practicing members of the Nation of Islam (by all appearances), to young Mormons, them hard to trace. The common thread being all of the members of his group have at some point in their lives been homeless. His means of controlling his "clan" is unknown, though he has been said to be a very charismatic speaker.
Technorati Tags: fiction, crime, criminal, criminals, crime-fiction, murder, blog, blogging, blogger
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Ideas for Embiggening a Love-sausage
The Question of Girth Going on this here picture I think that there is a way to use these to enlarge your love tool. Don't act like this has not ever occurred to you. When it comes to length Isn't there a tribe in Africa or somewhere where the women put rings around their necks to make them longer (the necks, and thus the women)? How about a series of washers? I can't believe that nobody has thought of this before.Powered by Bleezer
Racist Theory
Racist theory:
1.Black/Jew conspiracies.
2.“Zionist” government.
3.Illegal alien invasions.
4.Crack as a tool invented to keep the black man down.
All of the above have complex sub-groups, and there is much more to the network of far-fetched racist ideas than just those listed, but you get the idea. It's the comic-book sci-fi of uneducated men who grew up far away from any kind of real education or reading habits. It's what uneducated men come up with when they spend a lot of time talking to each other. These are like diseases spread amongst people not inoculated by reading widely and thinking deeply, and the idea that most books are written by the conspirators (usually Jewish) protects them from ever knowing better.
1.Black/Jew conspiracies.
2.“Zionist” government.
3.Illegal alien invasions.
4.Crack as a tool invented to keep the black man down.
All of the above have complex sub-groups, and there is much more to the network of far-fetched racist ideas than just those listed, but you get the idea. It's the comic-book sci-fi of uneducated men who grew up far away from any kind of real education or reading habits. It's what uneducated men come up with when they spend a lot of time talking to each other. These are like diseases spread amongst people not inoculated by reading widely and thinking deeply, and the idea that most books are written by the conspirators (usually Jewish) protects them from ever knowing better.
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