Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-two, An Unholy Alliance
Detective Randy Blake, at just over three hundred pounds, was undeniably a large man. What most people wouldn't have guessed about him was that his heart was just as large as the rest of his parts. By all outward appearances he was a tough as nails cop with zero tolerance for bullshit and a short fuse. But appearances can be deceiving. Detective Blake was a man who cared.
So when the midget with the gray beard marched into his office demanding to know the whereabouts of his friend who'd been missing for two days, standing on a chair and shaking a finger in his face for emphasis, Randy couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt for whatever small part his actions may have played in the event's that had undoubtedly transpired. And he was sure that whatever else those events might have been, they were in no way pleasant for the missing man in question.
Sure, he'd told the guy that he hoped him and the biker killed each other, but that was just part of his badass cop routine, nothing more. In truth he'd wanted to help the man because he felt bad about hitting him, and about what happened to his car. Not that he had anything to do with that, at least not directly. Some fellow detectives, thinking they were doing him a favor, had trashed the man's car (and shit in the backseat apparently) to get back at him for making Detective Blake, and thus the entire department, look like regular practitioners of police brutality. Which of course most of them were.
"YOU told him where the clubhouse was!" Oscar exclaimed wildly. "Not only that, you gave him a fucking car to get there in! And now, thanks to you, he hasn't been home in two days and the clubhouse is locked up tighter than the knees of fifteen year old Amish girl! If anything happens to my friend I'll hold you personally responsible. And trust me, you don't want that."
In spite of the man's diminuitive stature, Randy was inclined to believe him. There was something about the dwarf that commanded respect, fear even. And he did feel responsible. "Alright, calm down, I'll do what I can to help ya." said Detective Blake. "But without enough evidence to take to a judge and get a warrant, I don't know how to get inside the clubhouse to take a look around. Anything we do has to be in a strictly unoffical capacity. If shit gets really bad I can call for backup but otherwise we're on our own here. You get me?"
"Fine, good." said Oscar. "We don't need the cops for this shit anyway. I got a plan, I just need another guy to pull it off. Someone who won't lose their head if all Hell breaks loose, which it probably will. Here's what we do..."
He began to talk. Randy listened.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Why I Oppose the “Tax & Regulate” Marijuana Initiative By: Dennis Peron
Three Fatal Flaws
1. One ounce limit? 25 sq. foot per building garden size limit? Imagine a law to “tax and regulate” alcohol
that only allows for possession of up to one bottle of wine imprisoning those who exceed that amount,
be it two bottles or a small collection of choice vintages. These limits guarantee confusion, harassment
and black marketeering forevermore. We don’t control alcohol by imposing a 25 sq. foot limit on grape
vines. But one extra gram or sq. foot of pot means jail and even worse; this initiative specifies that if
accused of having too much cannabis the burden of proof is on you, not the state.
2. Singling out those who want to use marijuana for a huge excise tax is just plain unfair. It maintains
cannabis as the most expensive, blatantly overpriced product on the market thus forcing most people
to choose cheaper, more dangerous drugs with huge externalized costs to society as a whole.
3. Sending teenagers to state prison for three years for pot is evil. This initiative mandates that 18, 19,
and twenty year old minors serve three to seven year terms in California state prison for the crime of
passing each other a joint or selling one another a small amount. Under this law if a 21 year old person
passes a joint to a 20 year old he or she goes to county jail for six months. Likewise this measure has no
exceptions for parents in their own homes from the “smoking cannabis in any space while minors are
present” prohibition. We don’t lock up parents for having a glass of wine with dinner and we certainly
don’t tell the kids to leave the house for the purpose of consuming any other substance so why start
This initiative is bad for parents, students and ultimately the effort to get the state to stop ruining lives
enforcing these draconian pot laws. Initiatives create permanent statutes. This one with its petty restrictions
for personal users, prohibitive unfair taxes, and mandatory state prison sentences for teen agers need be
nipped in the bud. We will campaign and vote against it should its proponents succeed in purchasing the
necessary number of signatures to put it on the 2010 ballot. The tax revenue it will supposedly generate is a
mere smokescreen for the kids it will regulate into three, five and seven year state prison sentences.
Perpetuating and increasing the hundred million plus tax dollars per year the state already spends
policing this harmless plant is wrong yet that is exactly what this proposition does. Surely we can do better
than this. How about just legalizing it, getting the state off pot to save lives and real money across the
board? Please consider how you can help expose and defeat this misleading “tax and regulate” initiative.
Dennis Peron, Author of Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act of 1996.
3745 17th street, SFCA 94114 (415) 864 – 1961 firstname.lastname@example.org
Read the “tax and regulate marijuana” initiative at:
September 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
Before you confront the homicidal biker gang, you figure you'd better confront the homicidal soon-to-be mother of your child. Let her know that you're okay with the whole being a daddy thing. That you want to be with her, spend your lives together, hell maybe even have another rugrat or two someday. If only you knew how to tell her this. You've never been in love before, never even wanted to be. You'd almost rather square off with the biker dudes, at least fighting isn't complicated. Probably hurts less than this love stuff too. Yeah, that's the way to go, take care of the bikers first, then deal with being a responsible dad. Tomorrow.
The clubhouse for what the "Whiskey Marauders" motorcycle club is a large building, a former warehouse with blacked out windows in the seedy part of town. Half of the building acts as a motorcycle repair shop and is open to the public so this is where you decide to go to have your little chat. You park your new shitheap along the street outside, and put the .45 that Oscar gave you in the back of the waistband of your jeans. Just in case. In your front pocket is two thousand dollars that Oscar loaned you after you'd refused to allow him to come along. More like he forced it on you. "Just pay me back when you can." he'd said, "Walk right up to the guy, look him in the eye, slap the cash in his hand, and tell him you don't want anymore trouble outta him or his boys." You hate the thought of having to pay this asshole when the money would be better spent on the baby that's on the way, but it's better than getting dead.
There's about a dozen bikes parked outside the shop, so it's a good bet that you'll find your guy here. Now that you're actually here, standing outside the door, you hesitate. You smoke a cigarette while you give yourself a little pep talk. Come on man, you got this. He can't still be wanting to kill you can he? Sure, you blew your load on his face but he's a biker for fuck's sake, I'm sure he's done much nastier things involving someone else's bodily fluid. Sure, he'll be pissed at first but two grand gratis would calm anybody down. Just apologize profusely, be honest about what happened. Keep it real man. Then pay him off and exit gracefully. No fuss, no muss.
Resolve stiffened, you walk through the door. The shop is surprisingly clean and professional looking, but the gentleman behind the counter is anything but. He warily watches your approach with bloodshot eyes full of an almost animal-like cruelty. But you're on a mission, and not even this scary looking gorilla is going to stop you from completing it. You march right up to the counter and say, "I'm looking for one of your buddies, we have unfinished business."
The gorilla just stares menacingly at you, so you continue, "I don't know his name but maybe you could ask the guys in the clubhouse. Just say it's the guy from Ronnie's Roadhouse." He appears to be giving serious thought and consideration to your request, then without warning he reaches across the counter and shoves you, hard. It catches you off balance, and you fly backwards and land on your ass. You quickly jump to your feet and as you're doing so the gun falls out of your pants and hits the floor with a thump. Gorilla's eyes widen, displaying even more of his enlarged and irritated blood vessels. "Hold on, I can explain" you say, "I'm just here to talk and pay the guy some mon-" *WHAM* someone hits you in the back in the back of the head with something heavy, and the lights go out.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, "A Man's Gotta Do..."
"You trashed my car pig. I want you to replace it." Detective Blake does not appear happy to see you again. "Fuck off! I don't know what the fuck you're talkin about but if you don't get your ugly ass outta here right fuckin now, I'm gonna bust ya for obstruction of justice, interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty, and anything else I can think of!" You have no intention of letting him scare you off that easily. "You smashed up my car, filled it full of garbage, and took a shit in the backseat. That last part was a nice touch, but not necessary for me to get the message. But now I got some psycho bikers I gotta deal with, and I need a ride around Detective Blake." "Are you high? You are, I can tell, your eyes are as red as a fuckin stop sign! I don't know who did that to your car but it wasn't me. You have my condolences on the loss of that fine automobile, but that's not my problem punk. What is my problem is trying to catch this child killer that's on the loose before anymore kids end up in small body bags. I don't have time to fuck with ya. Wait, is this about the guy that got a face full of your cum down at Ronnie's Roadhouse?" "How do you know about that?" you ask, pissed off a little that he's smiling now. "What, you think your little girlfriend can discharge a firearm in a public place and no one from the department is going to hear about it? Nobody wanted to press charges or else we woulda already hauled your asses in. I guess the bikers want to deal with you themselves huh?"
"From what I hear they want me dead." you say. He smiles again. "Well no big loss there. But I've been trying to get something on those guys for a long time, so I tell ya what I'll do, you go down to impound, and I'll have them give ya a loaner. That way when those bikers kill your pansy ass I can bust em for murder." "You're too kind." you say sarcastically. "I hope you kill each other, save me a lot of paperwork." He grabs a cigar from the dashboard and lights up, blowing the smoke through the open window and into your face. "Now get outta here or I really will bust you. I'm workin here and you could blow my cover. We really need to catch this sick bastard... FYI, the bikers got a little clubhouse down on Second street, it's a red brick building, lotsa bikes out front."
You walk back across the lot, to where Oscar is waiting in the van, smoking another joint. "What was that all about?" he asks in between drags. "That was the cop who fucked up my car." you answer. "Holy shit!" he throws the joint out the window and begins frantically trying to fan the smoke out. "Don't worry about him, he's got much bigger fish to fry." you tell him, "No pun intended." "Fuck you!" says Oscar good-naturedly. "Anyway," you say, "how about taking me over to the police impound lot? I just won a brand new car!"
Your brand new car turns out to be an even bigger piece of shit than your old one, which shouldn't even be possible. It seems that when your good friend Detective Blake called the lot he told them to give you the worst car there that still ran. It's a Buick Skylark so rusted out you can hardly tell what color it's supposed to be, there's no key, just a screwdriver jammed into the ignition, and the seats have all been slashed, probably from where the cops were looking for dope. But at least it does run. At least for now. You follow Oscar home, letting out immense clouds of black smoke from your tailpipe the entire way, and the two of you sit on the porch drinking beer while you try to come up with a plan.
You decide to just go down to their clubhouse and see where it goes from there. They want to kick your ass or make you pay them some money, or both, but surely they won't risk killing you over a little semen, certainly not on their home turf. "I don't know why you're so dead set on doing this alone." says Oscar. "You sure as hell ain't no superhero and those dudes ain't nothin nice." "It's not your problem Oscar, it's mine and I'll deal with it. No reason for you to get involved. Besides, I'm just going to talk to them and get them off my case, I'm not going there to kick any ass." "Good thing. You'd better stick to taking it in the ass, I think you do that so much sweeter." Horrified, you look at him, and he gives you that sly little wink that may or may not mean he's just fucking with you. You're still too afraid of what the answer might be to just ask him outright, so you quickly change the subject. "If they want to bloody me up a little, I can deal with that. But just in case shit does go bad man, you wouldn't happen to have an unregistered gun lying around would you?"
TO BE CONTINUED...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nineteen, Growing Up is Hard to Do
"Oscar!" you shout, "Come here quick!" "What is it?" asks the dwarf, coming into the living room from the kitchen where he'd been sitting at the table rolling joints for later. "Hey, you don't look so good dude, who died?" "Me. Wal-Mart girl is fucking pregnant!" You still can't believe it. "Hey, calm down, it's not the end of the world. I know a great clinic, real cheap, they saved my ass when I knocked up this one bitch I did a film with, fuckin lying scank said she was on that birth control shot..." "What? No, no, she's gonna have it, and I'm going to be there to help her raise it! Which means I gotta get my shit together fast. Get the van, I need to go buy some supplies." You've got eighty-six dollars, that should be enough to pick up some baby essentials.
"Ah come on man, I thought we were gonna hit the tittie bars tonight! If I got drunk enough, I was gonna show you how I can work the pole, funniest shit you ever saw in your life!" He grabs a nearby floor lamp and demonstrates, gyrating wildly and shaking his miniscule ass. "Fuck that" you say, "no more bars for me, and no more drugs either, except for pot of course, can't quit that. Well no more drugs after the baby comes anyway, and I definitely gotta cut back before that, I'm going to need all the money I can get, rugmonkeys ain't cheap. If you won't take me I'll catch the bus I don't give a shit."
"Fuck you, I'll go with you. Tittie bars are no fun alone, I feel like some sort of creep." "You are 'some sort of creep' Oscar, that's why I love you!" "I love you too, but I think I loved you more when you were just a low-life piece of shit, and not a responsible father figure. Jesus, are sure about this? You are aren't you? Yeah, I can see it in your face. Well, let's get the fuck outta here then. Grab those joints off the table, we're gonna need them." You grab the weed and the two of you climb into Oscar's minivan. You're feeling more grown up and responsible already. You even fasten your seatbelt.
"So where the fuck are we going anyway?" Oscar asks. "They got lots of baby stuff at Wal-Mart." "No," you say, "Wal-Mart is no longer an option, remember?" "Oh yeah, I forgot you got banned from that place. Alright fine, we'll go to K-Mart then. Same cheapo shit, different store." You share a joint on the way to the store and by the time Oscar finds a parking spot in the crowded lot, you're both pleasantly baked. When you go in the door, Oscar grabs one of the electric scooters the store provided as a courtesy to it's handicapped and mobility challenged cutomers. "Hey, you don't need that, just hop in my cart!" you say, "I could use the practice for later!" He shoots you a bird. "I'll catch up to you later, I need to grab a few things!" Then he's off, tearing down the aisles at the breakneck speed of about five miles an hour.
You're not sure what to buy, you've never shopped for a newborn before, so you start with the necessities. Jumbo pack of diapers, definitely need lots of those. Baby clothes, neutral colors because you don't know what it's going to be yet. Bottles, nipples, one of those bottle brush cleaners. Twelve pack of Heineken. Not for the baby of course, that's for you, you're strictly a stay at home drunk now. Holy shit, eighty-six bucks doesn't buy much these days, a can of baby formula and you'll be broke. Time to check out, where the hell is Oscar?
You find him in the electronics section. He's gotten off the scooter and he's pretending to look at CD's but what he's really doing is peeking under the very short skirt of a woman trying out a pair of headphones, oblivious to the fact that she's being ogled by your favorite lecherous and lascivious leprechaun. With some difficulty you manage to pull him away and, with him once again recklessly cruising on the scooter, running over toes and scraping ankles, the two of you head towards the cash registers.
"Hey, look what I got for the kid!" says Oscar, pointing into his basket and clearly excited. "Dude, that's a five piece screwdriver set." "I know, do you think the little fella will like it? I got these for him too, you're never too young to learn about safe sex." "Jesus Oscar, a baby doesn't need condoms! What kind of a fucked up childhood did you have anyway? Nevermind, I don't wanna know." You pay for your purchases and you're putting them into the van when you spot a familiar face in the parking lot. "Hold on a minute" you tell Oscar, "there's something I have to do."
Just what in the hell do you want?" says Detective Blake, after you've walked up to his car and rapped on the window to get his attention.
TO BE CONTINUED...