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Village Whack Job...
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In the months following the sale of that rusty old Harley I spent a lot of time running the streets, and meeting some pretty dangerous people. Not to mention getting deeper and deeper into some bad business.

I'd fallen in with a street gang. Back then we called ourselves M/O's. Funny I never even knew what the letters were for. These days they are known as Bloods.

Even though I was all caught up in making money, smoking weed and beating the livingcrap out of anyone who didn't like it. I still longed for a ride. I still missed the wind in my face, the power the freedom, the cool.

I had money for candy and wrestling magazines. Money to buy weed with. Money for new sneakers, for clothes.

When I turned 12 I threw a big party in my back yard. Hired a Dj. Hired local thugs as bouncers. There were a hundred peoplein my back yard and I didn't know any of them.

I had gotten into burglary. Mostly in daylight hours when people would be out for the day. Boom boxes were popular then. Small tv's, clothing, jewelry. Guns.

I got really good at it. Too good at it.

I broke into a house, went in through a basement window. I made several trips in and out of the basement making off with a couple of bicycles, a small tv, and some power tools.I then went up into the rest of the house. I snagged a huge boom box from one of the bedrooms. Some gold chains from another. I went in the kitchen and made myself a sandwich and grabbed a soda.

I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and ate the sandwich, while the guy that lived there laid on the couch watching The A Team and dozing.

I was almost thirteen, and I was getting to be very street wise. I realized that I had gotten so good at burglary that I had gotten over confident, and was getting careless.

So I quit doing it. For a while anyway.

I want to stop for a moment and make it clear that I am not bragging, well at least not in the way one may think. No I am not in any way proud of being a thief. However I am proud of the skill I developed with it. One should be proud of anything they do very well. It was a bad thing, but I was damn good at it.

I was out and about one day, I had been making deliveries of weed for a local dealer, and carrying pills for my mother to another dealer. She would get the prescriptions from a dirty doctor and sell them to the dealer would the sell them on the street. I was the mule. Though I didn't know that term at the time.

But that was how I started meeting people, and making connections. People started trusting me. I started hearing about a guy who was holding large amounts of heroine. I knew nothing about the drug other than there was a LOT of money to be made with it.

To skip over the unimportant details, I broke into his house and stole his stash. 17 kilos.

I hid it in the rafters of our basement. By that time I was carrying a gun at all times and usually had a thick wad of cash.

I took two kilos of thatjunk to a dealer I knew through the gang. All he wanted to know was where it came from. Word was already out that "Pretty Pappa" had been robbed of his stash.

The dealer bought the two kilos. Paid me a thousand dollars. GodIthought I was rich!! And I had 15 more of them!

Word travels like lightning in the drug world. next thing I knew people were knocking on my door looking for this crap. Our front porch, which was falling down anyway got fire bombed one night. Drivebys were still a fairly new thing at that point and hadn't become common place just yet.

"Pretty Pappa" was found dead a couple a days later. His old lady went with him. I was scared. I had never been afraid of anything in my entire life and I was scared, I was 13 and I had a gun.

My mother in a rare moment of responsibility decided it was time for us to get the hell out of there. I guess she knew it was only a matter of time, a very short time before I ended up with a terminal case of lead poisoning myself.

I'm leaving a lot out here, because I just don't want to paint so ugly of a picture of myself, or my mother. She's dead now, so her sins should die with her.

So we left Cleveland, we left Ohio all together. We ran, literally for our lives.

I was a city kid. Inner city kid at that. Running with a gang and selling drugs. Carrying guns and thinking I ruled the friggin world. I was a 13 year old smart ass who know way to much to stay alive very long.

So we ran, I say we but, it was all my mother. I didn't want to go. But I was still young enough to believe I had to do what she wanted. So we ran. We threw ourjunk in a 73 Maverick two door. It was navy blue and had a top speed of 50 mph. it rattled and sputtered and stunk.

But it got us all the way to W.V. To some trailer park that literally was built over a garbage dump. Stuffed way back in a hollow on the back side of some God forsaken mountain.

People wore bib overalls! They wore cowboy boots and camouflage pants...ON PURPOSE!!

They listened to country music! And looked at me like some kind of insect from outer space when I played my Fat Boys tape, or my Run DMC tape.

They talked funny, and wore flip flops. They ate weird foods.

And they smoked the finest weed I'd ever known!!!!

Mountains, and more mountains, and trees, and rivers and green fields and birds and skies and god I was friggin miserable!Mountain roads. Nothing to do but walk around. Get stoned, and walk around some more. I went through the wost case of culture shock that is humanly possible to survive.

I began to like the woods. I found railroad tracks, I'd throw rocks at the trains and put **** on the rails to see it get flattened.I would hop on coal trains and freight trains and ride for days. It reminded me of the way I felt when I rode my motorcycle back in the old neighborhood.

I know that this part of the story has gotten away from motorcycles, I know it's dark and dismal. Written here in black and white it's pretty gruesome. But if you think it's bad here you should have seen it in color. Yeah that's a rip off from a recent country song. In Color by Jamey Johnson.

Anyway I told this part of my life to fill the gap. And to set the mood for the next chapter. To help you understand what it was like for me when I discovered that down the road a couple miles there was a guy who had a 350 Honda he didn't want anymore.
 

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I here ya O.G.:coollep:



Have you been taking the "Cousin Jack Correspondence Courses?":cheeky1:



Quite the writer here lately.;)
 

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Village Whack Job...
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I'm working on the blog thing. Just waiting for TanYgaer to create a categorie for me.
 

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The 60's, at least that is what I saw, weird time, good time, all in one roll.
 

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Thats some real good dope dude!!! keep writing those tru stories!!
 
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