Chapter I

ASSOCIATED GUILT

 

 

 

 

 


      Suicide looked promising as the smog thickened over Heat Island. The Ohio Valley had a reputation for depression. Suicide rates had since plummeted after the Eighties, as timely organized efforts to distribute the aftermath of a war on drugs was severely lost. It had all the makes of a small town from an outsider looking in even though it grew to become the sixteenth largest city. Equipped with the drama, blame games, hate crimes, uncivil war cries and by far the safe, peaceful place it promoted itself to be. Only arrogant jocks sworn with a badge proclaimed their fascism over this haunted, forlorn dead poets society. My case, so far, would go unheard up until now. I had a hard time fitting in with crowds and public places after the Revenge Porn sex romp, even two years after it leaked. It was through the extra attempts to exploit me afterwards that the metropolitan police force nearby would argue their cause, time and time again. If you have enemies in this time and age, it proves you stood for something no one else too dropped on their head would have ever dared to stand. I can’t say I admire their jobs within the public safety arena, nor condone their childish embellishing acts of becoming an underdog working for a wolfpack. In the end, their last minute cry for safety made the American people feel more discriminated and chastised than trying to win hearts over for their so-called heroic cause, that not just me but the several I encountered elsewhere painted them as lazy, lawless donut-sieging bygones blaming soceity for thier refuge against the common man. As far as I can see, their extra credit effort to blacklist me that some worked overtime at in painting as busted, was as effervescent as their own guilty origins. Their boisterous effort, however, to plague me guilty was crossing boundaries Civil Rights leaders before my time were assassinated for. The only part left for humanity that was free by any currency means, was the freedom to think in this country. The community with its mainstream news and outdated jurisdiction was incapable of doing this on their own.

A war had been waged between two counties connected by a discolored river. A war I hadn’t the yearning nor care to endorse, yet I was forced by such associated guilt. I had watched the deterioration of the small town America turn into full-fledged public corruption. I had watched childhood friends turn into full-blown addicts. I nurtured the customers and civilians with excellent customer service for many years. I maintained responsibility, and held down insecure fort for as major corporation. For many years I worked while they turned drugs faster than tricks. I had watched with my own innocent eyes the debauchery and humiliation of small town America turn into slums and crack hoods. In some essence, I watched it burn. Their came a point when I questioned this strategy, however. I watched it cross the bridge and then I watched with witnesses the cops and jocks push drugs down other’s throats. It was hard to maintain a smile knowing each night in the drug store, I would be contributing to their addictions in one form or another without even being at liberty to report to the same cops that were responsible for entrapment or aiding or abetting. The pharmacies were being robbed and the street value of each prescription was paying for some new toy, vacation or firearm. I couldn’t find an outlet. I chose the silent route. This would prove non-effective when worse came to worse, and the bottom of the barrel hit without much notice.

My seriousness would be hampered by the sexual misconduct illegitimately exposed, and harshness of rumors that ran rampant. Suddenly I would become coined a rebel without a cause to support my crooked spine. My mother would become a Civil Rights advocate for something that will be brushed up in the chapters to come. In a sense it contributed to the cruelty that the two contradicting counties clouded the civilians with in no time. The same small town America I catered to would turn on me like pit bulls ready to fight for the sake of fighting or seeing flesh destroyed.

 I was born with a name that was born to be famous. Ever since childhood I was target for a mirage of jokes. Not a day passes, that I am still target for humiliation if I give the name out to a raucous bunch. I have learned to forgive and forget the apathetic fools I engaged with elementary school lessons with. I soared through my junior high school and excelled with grades that were above average, however the spiritual growth I found in learning life on my own was something no road warrior could prepare an inexperienced, exploited adolescent for. I would learn the most severe ways of all.

As many of times as I should have died discovering Americas roads and routes were as equal to as many ways as I could have spared my own early death. I hadn’t the whimsical, magical imagination to pretend that life wasn’t anything short of a birthday or more than a skimped picnic. I looked upon my elders for guidance and found negative, fowl mouth fruit cups. They were in the least bit concerned for the children they raped and ridiculed with their own abusive patterns. Every torn family in America I would someday face an adult with inner childhood that would become my weakest vulnerable flaw.

There wasn’t enough money in the average dad’s pocket in America that could fund the annual enrollment tuition for the street smarts that kept me alive through much harsh storms. In my years of living in Detroit, I learned there is some friends that keep you alive and others that rest assure your day has come to die. Detroits homicide department was notorious for, “Our Day Starts When Your Day Ends”. A pompous attitude in Detroit was a quick shortcut to Skid Row.....toobe continued

Chapter Two