The Autobiography of Commie Lee Speed

As told to Diallo Tyson


“Dude, I gotta go.”

“I told you—we ain’t stoppin’ until we get back to campus.”

“Dude!  Fuck it.  Hey Mike, open the door.”


“I gotta piss, so either open the door or take off your shoes.”

So the night just got weirder and weirder.  It must’ve been some sight.  A white van driving down the highway, doing eighty, with the door open, and a drunk-ass college student pissing across the wind.  Who knows how many windshields were addressed with Hennesy-induced urine?  Who cared?  I know I didn’t.  I was glad my damn bladder didn’t explode inside me.  I was also trying to make sense of the night and figure out where to go from there. (more…)

Smokin’ Me Out


Diallo Tyson


Rafael walked up the motel stairs, mentally preparing himself for the smell.  Every time he went to see his dad, he had no choice but to breathe through his mouth.  The oppressive omnipresent cigarette smoke made breathing through the nose impossible.  The closer the door approached, the deeper he inhaled.

Room 218.

“What’s up boss?  Thought I’d have to put an APB out on your ass.”  John said as he stood shirtless in the doorway.

“You don’t have those connections any more.” Rafael said as he walked into the room.


Room 218 never changes.  In the far right corner, sit twenty books stacked in no discernible order.  The far left is the home to various articles of clothing, CDs, and even more books.  The closer you get to the door, the worse it gets.  Various food items, coolers, bear cans, more books, and more papers occupy the near left corner. The computer desk is engulfed top to bottom in papers, folders, DVDs, etc.  How John is able to sit at his desk and actually be productive, is a question Raphael will never be able to answer.  Consequentially, Rafael is assured of where his “organizational” skills originate from.  The room looked the usual.

“What brings you up here?”

“I had to pick up my car from Nalley.”  Rafael said.  As he sat in a free chair, John plopped down on the bed.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Don’t know.  It just cut off the other day.  Wouldn’t turn over.”

John reached over onto the nightstand and grabbed a pack of cigarettes.  He began to tap the pack into his palm as he thought.

“How long you had it, again?”

“Since last October.”

He stopped the tapping, and pulled out a square.

“Hmm.  Could be the starter.  Maybe the spark plugs.”

Lighter touched filter.  Rafael subtly took a deep breath through his nose, and began to breathe gently through his mouth.

“Yeah whatever.  I don’t know what it is.  I’m not mechanical.  That’s their job.”

“I keep forgetting you ain’t good for much.”

“Just food and chicks.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Momma says I’m becoming more and more like you everyday.”

“Scares the shit out of you doesn’t it?”

“Got me ready to jump off a tall building.”

Both men laughed.  The bond between John and Raphael is quite unique.  John doesn’t try to be a “father,” so Rafael doesn’t bitch about him not being there.  They talk as if they’re old friends.  Very rarely will they have a father and son chat.  Rafael likes it that way, and senses John does as well.

*    *    *

Half an hour into the smoke session and Rafael had hung in there.  He occasionally sneaks a quick breath through his nose, however, they are few and far between.  The breathing gymnastics never prevent him from enjoying the conversation.

“Been fishing lately?” Rafael said as he saw a fishing pole sitting in the corner.

“Been meaning to for about two years.”

“Waiting on a Federal mandate?  The rapture?”

“I’ve been working seven days a week, 10 hours a day for the last two months.”

“Stop.  All you do is sit in the office and read.  You might get what? One person checking in a night?”

“Like I said, I’ve been working my ass off.  Mr. Patel don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Raphael rubbed his eyes and yawned.  He was running low on air.  His ability to hold a conversation while showing no signs of the torment his body was going through is borderline preternatural.

“Whatever.  It’s not like you’re cleaning rooms or anything.”

John inspected an empty pack of cigarettes.  Undaunted, he waked to the bathroom area.

“Actually, I have been helping Laverne lately.” He got a fresh pack and began tapping it in his palm.

“Why’s that?”

“About a month ago, we lost our cleaning staff.”


“Everyone except Laverne.”  He said as smoke bogeyed from his lungs.  “There were two chicks and a guy.  One day they just came into Mr. Patel’s office and said they quit.  Old boy damn near had a aneurysm.”

“He figured you’d have to pick up the slack.”

“You may be young, but I will pick you up and dump you on your ass.”

Rafael just laughed it off.  It wasn’t an official visit until John threatened him with deadly force.  Raphael’s throat was the consistency of sandpaper.  He sheepishly eyed the water fountain, knowing that it would produce no permanent relief.

“What I can’t understand is how you can clean up other people’s room, yet live amongst this.”  Raphael said as he held his arms out.

“Cleanliness doesn’t equal order.  I can go to any place in this room and find whatever  I need, with minimal effort.  What messes me up, is when Laverne comes in and starts straightening shit up.”

“She’s brave enough to come in here?”

“Shit.  This ain’t nothing.  You should have been here yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

*    *    *

It was about8:00Wednesday night, and Tim was on the desk at the time.  I didn’t come on until around10:00.  Anyway, so he comes out the bathroom and sees the alarm ringing for 215.  It goes off whenever someone dials 911.  So Tim goes to check on the guy.  Well, by that time, the ambulance is already pulling into the complex.  I guess Tim was taking a burrito shit or something.  Anyway, he figures everything is copasetic and goes back to the office.

When I came on, he told me that the guy had called an ambulance earlier in the night.  So after about an hour, I went to go check on him.  I got to his room, peek through the window, and see him sitting on his bed.  Didn’t look like anything was bothering him.  So I’m like, “looks all right to me,” and went back down to the office.  Well, the next morning the guy checks out.  And of course we gotta get the room cleaned.  So I decided to clean this one by myself.  I think Laverne was down on the first floor.  Anyway, I go up to the room, put my key in the door, and opened it.

“Holy fucking shit.”

There was blood all over that damn room.  The entire room was soaked in it.  Looked like a pint of blood on the bed, bloody footprints leading from the bathroom to the bedroom, bloody hand prints over the night stand TV, drawer, sink, walls, chairs, and table.  In the sink there was even more blood.  In the bathroom?  Big fucking pool of blood in front of the toilet.  There were bloody smudges on the toilet, the wall next to the toilet, the shower curtains, and on the tub.  I had never seen that much blood before in one place in my life.  The only thing I can think of is dude is a hemophiliac, fell off the toilet, and busted his head on the tub.

*    *    *

 Rafael busted out laughing.

“Yep. That’s what Tim did when I told him.”  John said as he lit another cigarette.

“Wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  I got a couple of questions.  Ok?  First off?  What are you doing that would make you fall off of a toilet in the first place?  Second, how do you fall off a toilet?  Third, if dude is a hemophiliac how did he spill that much blood and still live?”

“Had to have been a new kind of drunk. Or on PCP. Or a nutjob.”

“But still.  How do you cause that much damage?  When your drunk and lose your balance, you fall slow.  Not fast enough to crack your head open.”

“Lisa said he had stitches above his eye when he checked out.  I bet anything that he busted those stitches open.”

“Shit.  Ya’ll had to clean that?”

“Did we?  When Laverne saw all that blood, I mean she got sick.  Real sick.  Never seen a sista actually turn green before.”

Rafael began to laugh, which was really a hacking cough disguised as a laugh.

“I know she was hating work that day.”

“Shit, you don’t know the half.  The blood on the bed was soaked all the way through to the mattress.  Had to throw the damn thing away.”

“How could you even stand it?”

“Didn’t have no choice.  Had to get it clean.  That was money lost. Shit, I think we had about four big bottles of bleach.  Couple of thick brushes. We had to scrub our asses off.  Laverne was cussing so damn much.  I didn’t know she could put together such combinations.  ‘Sonofabitch bastard.  Motherfucking goddamn fucking nasty ass shit.  Fucking motherfucker.’  It was something to hear, jack.”

“Ya’ll even had them white clean up suits on and everything?”

“Yep, had to go the medical supply store.”

“How long did it take to clean it all up.”

John took a deep puff and looked up at the ceiling.

“Shit it must’ve taken us about four damn hours.”

“Ain’t no way all that blood can come from one body, and that dude is still alive.  He probably killed his wife or something.”

“If he did, he damn sure got away with it.  Cause the evidence is gone.  I took a bunch of pictures just in case, though.”

“You guys let a murderer slip right through your grasp.” Rafael said as he took his glasses off to rub his eyes.  He was starting to get a slight pain right between his eyes.

“All we were thinking about was getting that damn room clean.”

“I would not want that job.”

“Shit.  That ain’t the half of it.  You hang around here long enough, you run into some strange shit.  There was another time when a guy called an ambulance.”

“What is it about this place?”

“Strange-osity, son.  And tons of it.  Anyway, so after the ambulance arrives, I go down to check on it.  Before I get to the room, I bump into Darryl and Barney.  They happen to be near the motel when the ambulance comes in, so they come through just to see what’s what.

So when I roll up on them, they giggling like school girls.  I’m like “What’s so funny? Dude OK?”  Darryl then drops it on me.  Homeboy called the ambulance, complaining about stomach pains and how it felt like his stomach was gonna explode at any minute.  EMTs get there to examine him, when dude tells them he shoved three D cell batteries up his ass and super glued his asshole shut.  He also glued his dick hole shut.

“I guess that makes 1002 uses for super glue.” Rafael said.

“No shit.”

“What happened to him?  Did they get them out.”

“Man, I could not tell you.  I had put that shit out of my mind until five minutes ago.  Batteries up the ass deserve no follow up. ”

“Can’t find fault with that.  Anyway, guess I should apologize.  You should get hazard pay. Or weirdness pay, one.” Rafael said as the headache intensified.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the nasty shit people do in rooms.  This guy one day-”

*    *    *

Three hours had passed, and the smell of fresh air was a distant memory for Rafael.  The headache was almost unbearable, and his eyes were barely open.  It was finally time to cut bait and leave the gas chamber.  As usual, Raphael stayed longer than he had intended.  Very often, pain is life.

“I’m glad you came by.” John said as Rafael got up to leave.

Both he and John knew it would probably be another month or two before they saw each other, if not more.  Somehow it was worth the pain, to trip out with his old man.

“I’ll give you a call next week, probably.” Rafael repeated a line given to him on many an occasion.  Often there would be no call.  Rafael was probably not going to call this time either.  Both knew that and were cool with it.

Senior High


*  *  *

“I was just like, fuck it.  Tonight ain’t go’n be for the weak.”

“What you get?”

“Green Apple Twist.  Smirnoff.”

“That ‘Noff?”

“That ‘Noff.”

“Damn son.   You set that bitch to DefCon 5 didn’t you?  That ‘Noff damn near put us in traction last week.”

“Yeah.  But that was raspberry.  I got a good feeling about this one.  Trust me.”

And so began one of the most bizarre, disturbing, and all around fucked up nights of my life.  Things started off innocuous enough.  Just two guys making plans to celebrate my birthday on a lovely Friday evening.  Even though a couple of more of my boys were going to kick it with us, we were planning on getting toasty before heading out.  So far, so good.  No complaints to speak of.

* * *

“Damn, she pulled the lazy card on you.” Justin said.

“Real talk.” I replied.  At the time, I worked for an Engineering firm that helped the Navy write procedures for removing equipment from submarines.   The work was OK, but my boss?  This chick was on some other shit.  For real.

“And then… she calls me a liar.  To my face, dude.  I was like…yo seriously?  She almost got knocked out.  If woulda hit that bitch in her mouth, she’d shit enamel for about two weeks.”  Yeah she was a bitch, but I was probably overreacting.  Probably.

“Naw, you don’t wanna do that.  You played it right.  Just shut up.  Bide your time.  You’ll be out of there in a minute.”  Justin was right.  Nevertheless, the conversation had me riled up, so I needed to release some tension.  And how do you relieve tension?  By ingesting copious amounts of alcohol, of course.

“Fuck it.  It’s time to hit this ‘Noff.”  I got off the couch and headed to the kitchen to find something to mix it with.  Normally I would’ve drank it straight, but the previous week we had a bad episode drinking Raspberry Smirnoff straight.  It was brutal.  I didn’t get out of bed until 5:00 the next day, and my head didn’t stop ringing until 10:00 that night.  I don’t know what it’s like to get hit by a Mack truck, but I’ll take that over drinking Raspberry Smirnoff any day of the week.

“Sean and Penn should be here in about 15 minutes.” Justin said.

“Cool.”  I said as I opened the refrigerator.  There wasn’t a whole lot to work with.  Just some Mango ‘Tampico’ juice and a little more than a swallow of Cherry Limeade.  I figured apples, cherries, limeade?  Why not?

“You know we never decided.  Black club or white club?” Justin asked.

“White club.”

“Or…Visions?  It’s Middle Eastern, Indian, Asian night.” Justin said.

As I contemplated the dilemma, I began concocting the concoction.  Six cubes of ice.  Poured ‘noff an inch above ice.  Poured just enough limeade to change color.  Stirrred with knife.  Tasted.

“Damn.  This shit is tasty as Hell.”

“For real?” Justin responded.

“Dude come check this shit.”

“It’s like that?”

I took an ever bigger swallow.

“I might be falling love.  Seriously.”

Justin got up off the couch to see what the racket was about.  He understood loud and clear once he took a sip.

“Damn!” Justin said.

“I told you.” I replied.

“What’s in this?”

“That ‘noff and cherry limeade.”

“Damn, son.  It’s got my jaw tight off of one sip.  Best drink ever?”

“Maybe.  Definitely top 5 material.”

So I kill the glass in maybe 10 seconds.  Splash…

“Dude.  This shit bout to have me speaking in tongues, yo.  Like I’ve been baptized.”

“You feel born again?” Justin asked.

The next few words may haunt me for the rest of my life.

“I got the perfect name for it.  Holy Water.”

“Nice.  The perfect drink to wash away your sins.”  Not quite.

* * *

The fantastic concoction known as Holy Water transformed the rest of the night…for the worst, I’d like to add.  After guzzling my drink, I called Sean and Pen and told them to pick up another bottle of cherry limeade and Green Apple on their way over.  We were planning on some serious drinking.

As Justin and I waited, Travis and Geoff, the white guys from upstairs, came down to see what was up for the night.  They walked in sipping on Crown and Cokes, wondering why the fuck we weren’t drinking.  I told them to wait a few and all would be made clear.

Justin turned on some music and opened the front door.  After a few minutes the girls who were hanging with Travis and Geoff, stopped by.  Right on their heels were Sean and Pen.  It was on.  After dapping the fellas up, it was showtime.

“Everyone.  Everyone.  Gather round.  No pushing.  There’s plenty room for all considered.  This is a very privileged group, because you are all about to witness something like no other.  Please feast your eyes upon this counter top.  You’ll see only three simple ingredients.  Yet these ingredients are special.  Very special, indeed.  I have ice.  Green Apple Smirnoff.  And Minute Maid Cherry Limeade.  Please follow along.  I fill a glass with six cubes of ice.  Smirnoff goes past the level of ice.  An inch.  Maybe a bit more if you’re feeling particularly randy.  I add just enough limeade to smooth out the sourness and change the color.  A stir.  And hoila!  I give you Holy Water.  Here you are fine sir.”

I gave the glass to Travis.  He took a sip and gave it to his girl Stephanie.  She took a sip.

“This is good.  Real good.  Like, it gets better the more you drink it.”  Stephanie said.

“Another satisfied customer.”  I said.

“This is the best drink I’ve had in a while.  I can’t even lie.”  Travis said.

“Who’s next?” I said.

* * *

And so it began.  Holy Water poured forth as if Christ himself had kissed Niagra Falls.  I just put my shit on repeat for the next hour.  Make drink for guests.  Make drink for self.  Over and over and over again.  I probably had about six or seven full glasses.  They go down real easy.  In retrospect, probably a little too easy.

“I’m telling you.  Leopard Lounge is gonna be off the hook.”  Travis said.

“I don’t know dude.  Last time?  I ain’t have no fun.”  I said.   My jaw began to tighten up and I started to blink, which are both signs that I was on the road to obliteration.

“Yeah, we were thinking about Liquid.”  Sean said.

Life is an ironic playground.  The black guys wanted to go to a white club.  The white guys wanted to go to a black club.  So we split the difference and decided to go to The Compound, which is an everybody club.

At that point, I was feeling pretty decent.  And by decent, I mean I was buzzing like Mya the Bee.  Nevertheless, I caught a case of “fuck it” and whipped up a half glass of Holy Water before we left.

“What, is that your seventh?” Justin asked.

“Uhh..fuck if I know.  Might be more.  Maybe less.  Who cares?”  I replied.

“This guy’s a machine.”  Pen said.

“Damn skippy.”

Travis’ brother ran a limousine company, so every now and then he would let Travis use a car on a slow night.  This is why you gotta keep at least two white friends at all times, people.  That shit comes in handy.  Anyway, all eight of us piled into a stretch Expedition.  The driver turned up the radio as soon as we stepped in.  I was having a ball.  I was with good friends.  I was riding in a free limo.  It was my birthday weekend.  Heaven.

* * *

So we arrived at Compound, and as we climbed out I noticed the long ass line.  I then noticed that “Big” Steve was working the door.

“Oh shit…my boy working the door.  Hold on.”

“You gonna make it?” Justin asked.

I semi-stumbled over to the door where Big Ron is standing.

“’Sup pimpin’?  You here now?”

“Mr. Faircloth.  What’s the deal?  Yeah, I’m done with Visions.  Tryin’ to handcuff a mu’fucka.  Know what I’m saying?  Had to kick rocks.”

“That’s what’s up.  So yo?   What’s up?  Can me and my crew roll through?”

“Fa sho.  Come on.”

“Ay, it’s cool.  Let’s roll.”  I yelled to my compatriots.

Big Steve wasn’t the most intellectually gifted person enrolled at our college.  During senior year he was struggling through Business Policy, an incredibly difficult class you had to pass in order to graduate.  Knowing full well he wasn’t up to the task, he paid me $100 to do his final project.  It got an A, he graduated, and he’s been indebted to me ever since.


So after we get in, my jaw is super tight and there was a slight breeze blowing between my ears.  I was wobbly.  My eyelids were heavy.  People and objects were starting to become formless entities.  It was a wrap, and I should have just been cool and chilled, but since everyone immediately headed for the bar?  Fuck it.

Everyone ordered cocktails, but I ordered a Corona.  I figured that to be a safe choice.  So we got our drinks and began the obligatory walk around the club.  The place was packed to the brim.  The bass was pounding.  Women were wearing the bare minimum.  Walking was a bit of a chore, because I has having problems focusing.  It was then that the damnedest thing happened to me.  The Corona bottle just fell out of my hand.  It just slipped out, as if the muscles in my hand had atrophied to the point of nothingness.  That had never happened before.  Trust me.  Heaven forbid I drop even a teaspoon of liquor.  That’s alcohol abuse, and I didn’t believe in that.  Needless to say, that’s when I knew the night was not going to end well.

* * *

So I end up dancing with a chick for what seemed like an eternity.  The only way I could keep my balance was to hold on to her.  Everything, and I do mean everything, was a blur.  I didn’t even know what the chick looked like.  But she was into me.  She was into me so much that she put my hands on her chest.  I squeezed.   Soft.  I squeezed a little more.  No resistance.  Without thinking,  I gently glided my hands down to her nether region.  She was into it.  The next thing I know, she slipped me the tongue.  It was so on.

We kissed and did other things for God knows how long.  Mind you, I had no idea where my boys were, but I was having fun.  Well…at first I was having fun.  At some point things went awry.  I got this unusual feeling in my stomach…which lead to an incredible feeling of control loss throughout my body.  I was in dangerous territory.  Never having been that drunk before, I didn’t know whether I was about to throw up or die.  I wasn’t quite sure which one I preferred.  At this moment of weakness, she whispered into my ear.  I have no idea what she said.  Scout’s honor.

“I think I love you.” I responded.  Yep.  People do really stupid things when drunk.

She then snatched me by my wrist and led me outside.  I couldn’t keep my head from rolling around like a cerebral palsy patient, but I was game for following this chick to wherever she went.  When we got outside, my eyes were pretty much closed, my knees were shaking, and I think I could taste my brain fluid in the back of my mouth.

She introduced me to some guy and I’m pretty sure I shook his hand.

“Blah blah blah blah blah blah.”  The guy said.  Or something to that effect.  My ears weren’t really working.  I could kind of make out the guy’s face, but he was still blurry.

“I.  Need to.  Lay.  Down.” I said.  Or something to that effect.

Next thing I know, I’m hopping in the back seat of a car with this chick.

“Wait.  I…my boys.  I.” She then shoved her tongue down my throat, reached into my pants, and said hello to Captain Kangaroo.  My pants pocket started to vibrate which added to the effect.  I’m pretty sure the protesting stopped.

* * *

In seemingly seconds, we are at her apartment door. As soon as we stepped in, she started leading me to the bedroom.  At this point, I’m a little bereft of detail, so I can’t give the blow by blow.  Actually, I’m kind of happy about that.  The less known, the better.

So she threw me down on the bed and hopped on my chest.  She’s totally naked in what seems like a second.  She then hopped on my face, and started grinding like a diamond cutter.  Stay with me.  It gets better.  Trust me.  This goes on for I don’t know how long, but at some point I feel a mouth on my dick.  Don’t remember another person entering the room.  Don’t remember my pants being removed, either.  I do remember it was a great blow job, though.  So life was good until…

The chick got off of my face.  I remember being curious about seeing the chick that was doing such a good job of shining the silver.  I force my eyes open and try to focus.  Slowly but surely the picture came into view.


He stopped.  Stood up.  And left the room. I do believe I blacked out at that point, because as far as the rest of the night goes, I can’t distinguish between dream, reality, and nightmare.  I have vague recollections of grabbing hair and falling off the bed.  I may have had a conversation with the Devil, but I can’t confirm.

* * *

The next morning I woke up sober as Hell.  And no, there was no searing pain or anything untoward in my posterior, so no one plunged into my dark tunnel.  However, I have no idea of what I did and to whom I did or didn’t do it to.

She was asleep with her head was under the covers, which was perfect for my escape.  I put on my clothes and walked out of the door.  And wouldn’t you know it?  I was actually in my apartment complex.  I had to chuckle.  Then a sudden shiver ran down my spine.  It was…


I ran to my apartment faster than Ben Johnson on a steroid-speed cocktail.  I didn’t even bother to take off my clothes.  I just jumped in the shower, turned the water on, and tried to wash away my immense shame.

* * *

So, OK.  I got stupid ridiculous drunk, let some guy blow me, and didn’t really object that hard.  But that does not make me gay.  It was a one time thing, never to happen again.  I blame it all on the Holy Water.  That is why I, then and there, decided to give up drinking…and started smoking weed.  I never heard of anyone smoking out and getting so high that they let a guy blow him.  It was difficult, because I was a fool for liquor, but God was obviously trying to tell me something.  I decided to listen for once.

The only thing that still eats at me is, I still don’t know exactly what the chick looks like.  I went by the apartment a couple times, but I never saw anyone come out of it or go into it.  I asked around, and no one could tell me the name of the people that lived there.  That’s the crazy part.  It’s like they don’t even exist.  But I know for a fact that they do.  Shit, I probably bumped into them while getting my mail, and the sick fucks didn’t have the decency to say anything about it.

Anyway, I’d like to end this chapter with a couple lessons learned from this fuckery:

  1. Holy Water is the Devil’s elixir.  Seriously, he will appear and talk mad shit about you and your mama.
  2. Drinking is the road to Hell.  Can’t be argued.  At. All.
  3. Getting blown by a guy one time, while under the influence, does not make you gay.  I really can’t stress this enough.  This does not make me gay, in any way.

There you have it.  I’ve given you the recipe for Holy Water.  If you’re feeling particularly ‘bout it, go ahead and give it a try.  If you end up in a dumpster, naked, with a tattoo of an elephant’s dick on your face don’t say I didn’t warn you.

448871a-i1.0*   *   *

                This is a modest apartment, yet impeccably clean.

                The kitchen. There are no dishes in the sink.  The counter tops are sterile. The cereal boxes are neatly organized next to the stove.  The stovetop is spotless, with oven mitts folded meticulously over the oven handle.  Martha Stewart would wet herself. 

                The dining room.  One walks out of the kitchen into the dining room.  It is simple.  A small table for two sits next to the wall.  The place settings are rigidly organized and straight.  There isn’t a blemish to be found.

                The living room.  This room houses a nice sofa, love seat, and computer desk.  Different pictures and paintings adorn the wall, which are white and spotless.

                The bedroom.  The bedroom is much like the rest of the apartment; simple, highly organized, and very clean.  Only this room isn’t uninhabited.  The owner of this immaculate contraption is Brian Mack.  Brian is in his early twenties, and has been a neat freak since the early nineties.  His mother was the biggest influence on his neatness. (more…)

I’ve decided to finish something that I started.  This never happens, so I’m proud of myself.  About eight years ago, I came up with this really cool idea for a serialized story.  I wrote one episode, and stopped for some reason.   Well, I’m going to finish it now.  The first episode deals with a person that’s put in an impossible situation, but feels compelled to see his mission through.


*   *   *

So I’m stuck somewhere in Southeast Georgia.  I have no money.   I have no friends.  I have no place to stay.  And I have no idea what I’m going to do next.  All I have is a .45 and twelve bullets.

*   *   *

The Greyhound bus dropped me in off in a place called Kingsland.  Funny, doesn’t look like too much royalty around here.  I knew I was in trouble when I saw that the bus stop shared space with a hardware store, that was in the same building as a butcher’s shop.  Oh well.  A mission is a mission.  Or so I thought.  I wasn’t really sure how I was gonna handle it though.  I’d never killed anyone before.  And wasn’t all that anxious to get started.

*    *    *

What makes you believe the Devil resides in Hell?  (more…)