Waiting.

I have had enough of this unimaginative, pathetic little town. So, in true form I have applied and had been accepted to Hess English school in Taiwan. Here is the link: http://www.hess.com.tw/en/

The interview was a piece of cake and the Skype meeting was quite stress free.

Unfortunately, training does not begin until February and the actual job starts in March of 2012. I have already purchased my airline ticket on China Airways.

I will try to post here until then - even there is nothing in this sad city of interest and it will be a long, monotonous five month wait - however, when I arrive in Taipei, Taiwan, you best believe this blog will be full of fascinating reports! Stay tuned!

And since it is a complete change from Latin culture to Asian culture, I have printed the last 12 years of this blog into a book form. I am quite pleased with it. It is not for sale - just for me. I have entitled it Of Men and Maggots: the blog entries of Luis Blasini.

In Heaven Everything Is Fine

Minutes to Go.

(Note: This entry was written long-hand in Plaza San Jacinto two evenings prior.)

All is lost. All is lost. All. Is. Lost.

What am I doing here? Sitting in this park - alone. Miserable. Again, severed. Is this my fate? To wander this dirt ball bitter, sad, filled with angst and a common hatred for people? Where - when - did it all collapse?

I was someone once. Not a person of fame or importance - but, a human being with feelings and a lust for life. Now, I am a double-exposed photograph - faded, forgotten, uninterested.

Is it too late to change? Have I gotten so far out that there is no chance of coming back? I'm talking on a mental level here.

Then again, I could be talking crazy and you don't care, anyway...I know I don't.

For the past two years, I had tried to live as everyone had suggested - stable, responsible, boring.

It has - within the last year - been eating my insides like maggots. Two years ago, I was full of vigor and energy. Now, I am weak, over-weight, and fearful of any change. And to top it off, stuck in a fucked up, petty city inhabited by fucked up, petty citizens - a city I vowed never to return and yet here I am. Fucking karma.

I had recently dumped my concerns onto the uninterested ears of a long time acquaintance. He summed it up with, "Blasini, you know as well as I do, you are an outside cat, not an indoor cat."

Of course he is right. How could anyone be content stuck in a lifetime of rut.

I have narrowed this predicament down to two options: Either go on the road and travel on to Puerto Rico as I originally had planned or just jump down to Colombia and teach English. Either are quite exciting, yet both attain their bad sides.

If Puerto Rico is a bust - I can at least put that behind me and move on to Colombia. What do I have to lose?

Of course, I have everything to lose - everything I had worked for the past two years. And, what good is that? Comfortable boredom? It is time. This city screams at me, "Get out!! Get out, now!! You are not welcome here!!"

Sigh.

Why fight it? Why debate it? Why fucking psycho-analyze everything?

Close your eyes and jump...

Subterranean

Been feeling that slow burn bore that usually comes along when I have grown weary of a locale. I just want to go - regretting my decision not to high-tail it overseas earlier. The group of 'friends' that I have accumulated have become a pack of judgmental, self-important bores. All artists of the most dreary, flat productions produced for the sole purpose of self-congratulatory attention.

One of these - the alpha-male of the group - actually spat that I talk to much. I am a man of words, you fucking neanderthal! I guess if I don't chat of the mundane topics of young pussy and football, that makes me a verbal pest? How tiresome...

Time to move on.

There is an artistic couple that I thought I'd try to warm up too to give the cultural wasteland of El Paso one last try. A couple that roosts in their vast, high rise flat that I can see from my dusty closet studio. I need to connect with someone on my level. And you better believe my expectations are high.

I grabbed a copy of Dark is the Night and shuffled down through the heat of a late afternoon to give a gift to the female of the couple - indeed, they are hetro-domestic- named Melissa, she being the other half of Cesar I., local painter celeb. Cool cat with some interesting visual ideas. I dig his work...a lot.

So, downstairs, I buzz in, take the rumbling lift to the seventh floor and am greeted by Melissa who was in the middle of cleaning the entire loft. Which is a feat - being jammed with every kind of kitche memento conceivable - from mountains of books to painted mannequins and odd odds and ends dating back several decades. After pat pleasantries, I whip out my shit - I mean my book - and gift her with a signed copy. Pleasant women, she, and quite literary - would love just to spend an afternoon chatting away about books with her.

Melissa suggests for me to meet her at the Tap Bar downstairs so as she can wash, fluff and fold for the evening. Five minutes later, I find myself sitting in a dark bar sipping on Sol cervezas that I can't afford waiting a full hour until she makes her grand entrance with Cesar in tow.

It was a pleasant sit - mostly chatting and joking and drinking - all the while me fighting off the wave of anxiety and depression from the fucking turmoil of the previous week. Perhaps I was being a drag - as Cesar pointed out several times - but, this wave was really strong. Though I wanted to be sociable and go out and communicate - I wanted to go home, undress and crawl into a darkened bed and just lay there and think of nothing in that cool silence of my room.

Melissa was flipping the bill - I was appreciative, always am, but also felt like a fucking mooch. It wasn't until I had returned to the States that I have been living in such goddamn poverty - both financially and emotionally. Eventually, Melissa suggested that we - myself, Cesar, an old queen and his alcoholic trick - should return to their pad and party up on the roof.

Sure, why not?

We never made it to the roof, instead - after a drunken beer run with a highly intoxicated Cesar behind the wheel - we all sat at the kitchen table, talking about literature, smoking, impromptu dancing. Several other people from the building showed up and somehow we all filtered back to the Tap Bar - not before Cesar invited me into the bathroom for a snoot or two of much needed coke. Thank you, Cesar.

The Gang siphoned into a booth at the bar - again beer was ordered as I held my head down in destitute shame - and as the local band wailed rock, we talked and some danced. Melissa introduced two fellas that sat in a booth behind us, both raging queers - but the hefty one was very interested in writing.

I forgot his name, but after buying me a beer and during two shots of tequila, he went into an animated story of his current life: He was just released from prison - for God knows what - and he confessed presently of running a whorehouse over in Juarez. And, he wants to write about it.

When the bar closed, for some reason the Gang ditched me - I mean, really, I wouldn't hang out with me, either - and I found my drunken ass standing outside the bar lighting a cigarette in the humidity pondering what's next. I shrugged and started home but for some fucking reason, I turned around, walked back to the loft - up the elevator and was knocking on that door.

The Gang was at the kitchen table yapping, the music was blaring and it seemed that they had picked up two pretty boys in the process. My anxiety and depression flared. I just put on my mask and headed in. The two new boys - Bert and Ernie, respectfully - were as queer as the next and I sat at first in silence waiting to hear the insidious screeching of gay double entadre fly.

I can't stand American queers - their arrogant, holier than thou, snippy, girlish attitude. Melissa screeched more than once that evening at me, "What kind of queer are you?" I definitely am not the swishy, snapping, pinch-faced fags of this fair land, sweety. You want Truman Capote? Read his fucking books. (I actually do not care much for his work.) I am a man that likes men. Not a girl in a limp, fey body swooning for compassion at every wink. Jeezzz...

We all finally did wind up on the roof. Under the splash of stars and glow of city lights, Bert - an extremely attractive boy - that was until he opens his mouth. Why are there so many like that infesting this great nation?! He attempted to talk about my work and when I tried to explain Tweeker, he devolved into an alpha-male asshole. Why do his type think childish attempts on being arrogant is on the same level as being cool? I think he was confused that I wasn't really interested in him on all levels. You know the type, the Greek God walks into the room and all eyes fall on him as every queen and female coos and gushes at his every move. To him it is an aphrodisiac and it boggles his mind if only one person is not showing awe by his mere presence. The fact was, I just didn't give a shit and I think that put him off. He even had the audacity to screech at random using an acusational finger, "Face it, man, you know you secretly like me!" I sat there thinking, "What a fucking asshole. How sad."

The night progressed - Maus, a neighbor and local musician showed up - did an impromptu strip tease, no one cared - so, he left. Eventually, Melissa showed up with that Get The Fuck Out look on her face and we all disbanded at five in the morning. I said my good nights and thanks and as I strolled the few blocks to my house - the sun dragging it's lazy ass over the horizon - I thought how nice Colombia will be when I get there...

Un Chant d'Amour

Spankin' Brand New Novel

My new novel titled Dark is the Night is now ready and published. It can be purchased at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com, and other fine online booksellers. Buy a copy today!

Dark is the Night is an anthology concerning four, unrelated people - four of societies outcast and down trodden that is full of bite, color and confidence and yet, at the same time is rooted in heartbreaking experience and crackling with humor, insolence and diatribes.

Dark is the Night is a disturbing picture of low life existence. Partly written in the language and mores of its times - yet, the author Luis Blasini transcends that. There is little in the way of hope or love in the book and definitely is raw - shocking - even to those of us who thought nothing in modern fiction could shock us. Dark is the Night is one brilliantly sustained song of the brutal, the outcast, the desperate, and at times - the cruel that exists inside all of us.

Dark is the Night definitely is a book that will be remembered in the literary history of America.

This Nigga is Tweekin'!

Excerpt from Dark is the Night: Chapter Two: It's Going To Cost You

Johnny rolled over in the musty, sagging bed and tried to piece together the night before. The cramped, dank room he was in was windowless - graffitied walls painted pink with the lingering vaginal stench of a million Mexican hookers.

He lay naked on an old, spotted mattress, itself reeked of mildew and various indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. Johnny got up slowly and staggered to the chipped, porcelain sink next to the bed and took a piss, rinsed the basin with water from the tap, then splashed water on his greasy face.

Gravity took over and Johnny slumped uncontrollably back onto the bed. He lay there dizzy and aching - head pounded as he stared at the naked lightbulb that dangled from a wire that protruded out of a hole cut in the plaster of the ceiling. Directly above his face, there was a dark orange spot in the plaster.

That’s rat piss, he thought, not water damage. Rats always piss in the same spot. Humans don’t - unsanitary fucks...

Johnny’s mind throbbed with the kaleidoscope of a million images:

The thick, green velvet curtains of another cheap hotel room almost blocked all light coming from outside. A thin, yellow ray of sun cut through the dankness like a knife. Dust swirled in eddies. Johnny was naked, on his knees in a submissive crouch; hands on his knees. Towering above him was a 40 year old Hispanic ex-con that had recently been released from the border patrol after being detained for two days in the States. Or so he claimed.

Johnny met him in the Plaza. Said he could get a good score on coke. His torso was a mass of tattoos and scars. He was of medium height and beefy/muscular.

Through fucked up eyelids, Johnny saw the ex-con standing above him, naked...no not quite...his khaki pants were dropped to his ankles and the sweaty wife-beater was pulled up over his thick neck. A gold necklace of the Virgin of Guadalupe was the only color across the wall of brown chest. With his muscular left hand, the brutish ex-con held Johnny by the hair and it hurt and with his right hand he masturbated wildly.

Johnny’s eyes were not focused on the thick, brown penis, but was more entranced at watching his huge testicles bounce rapidly as he jerked off. Johnny glanced up to that bulldog face. The grimace. The thick moustache. The slicked-back, black hair.

“Don’t you fucking look at me!” He snarled and whack! Slapped Johnny across the face with an open palm.

Johnny about fell over, but the ex-con roughly grabbed Johnny by his hair, again. Johnny could feel a trickle of blood ooze out of his nostril, down across the lips. The ex-con tightened the grip on Johnny hair. Johnny winced. It hurt.

The ex-con rose onto the tips of his toes and grunted like some kind of beast. Johnny could feel the hot licks of the man’s semen as it splashed across his face. The ex-con then jabbed his thick, short penis into Johnny’s mouth and rammed it in deep, pushing down the back of Johnny’s head. Johnny gagged - he couldn’t breathe. He felt as if he was going to throw up.

“Take it, you fucking faggot!” The ex-con growled through gold-capped teeth. “Clean that dick!”

He roughly shoved Johnny down onto the cold, dusty, concrete floor. Wiped his penis with a ragged towel and tossed it onto Johnny’s face.

Dressing, the ex-con snarled as he walked out with his back to Johnny, “You’re shit’s on the table, puto!”

Slam! He was gone and Johnny was alone. Johnny could taste semen and blood on his lips. He looked up through a haze to see the junk and pesos that the asshole left on the nightstand.

Man, the things I do for this shit.

Vagina Ain't Handicap

Queer

Another Luis Blasini moment at the bar: A young Mexican immigrant looking motherfucker sitting alone. Handsome. Homeless. Insane, Heroin junky. Sat shivering and scratching sipping the beer I bought him and droning on and on how he could use a shot. He gets extra friendly when I mention I got my own digs. Needed a place to crash. I tell him how it is.

"What? You a faggot?" He laughs.

"Yup" I smile between gulps of beer.

Passing hours of sexual innuendo.

The time out back smoking clenched it - the Latin Adonis puking up the chips I bought, cascading steamy streams of pinks and transparent yellows - cursing his existence, cursing queers in general over his first cigarette by yours truly. I make my escape into the still chill of the night. Oh, how I can pick them! Left that fucker sitting alone as cha-cha music blared from the rockola, left alone to his beautiful, sad. beat dementia...

Beat

Ever sat strung out in your own filth covered in cockroaches of the world gnawing hunger in your mind wondering where your next break will be? Didn't think so! So keep banging them drums, cupcake and maybe - just maybe - daddy will buy you that brand new Ford Taurus with the white-walls, MP3 and all the trimmings...Meanwhile, I'll just hang with them crackheads and hobos of concrete and look away as you drive by...

Tangent Alcoholism

Started that night clean and pure at the cafe I haunt, you know. Rapping with fellow queen called Eduardo - he part of the Fab Force Five. The group of artists and painters and writers that I had supposedly befriended from the cafe.

So, Eduardo and I are sitting there on the plush couches sipping coffee and gossiping like two giggling queens. He jets to rendezvous with a group of cyclist having some sort of bike party - that is tooling around downtown on their Schwinn's.

left alone, I start pounding back four beers - not all at once, dingdongs, one after the other - when another pal named Brandon scoots up - tall, gangly kid who is a whiz at designing webpages and he asks if I would like to check out a gallery that had just opened up. Sure, why not?

We both speed over to said gallery and it was a bust. Lame. Boring. Only four pieces were on exhibit and they all were mediocre at best. Good thing they had a buffet spread in which we both took full example of. Highlight of that venture was I mistakenly popped open one of the bottles of Chinese rice wines that were laying about. Ech! tasted like septic tank water filtered through a hobo's sock, I tell ya.

After scarfing down some much needed beef burritos - the taste of the rice wine lingered throughout the night and next day - Brandon and I stopped at the San Carlos gallery for an impromptu artist orgy hosted by another acquaintance named Robert. He hosts open-mike poetry slams at the cafe. Again, scoped out the art, raided the hors d'oeuvres table and shot over to the Tap in search of Eduardo.

Across the street from the bar is a little park usually camped by hobos and junkies, we found the Schwinn crowd circling around a tree in the dusk - much laughter and flashing of headlights.

Eduardo stood across the street in the doorway to the Tap and invited us in. The dive was packed as a live band wailed oldies and ranchero. Sitting in a booth was the Fab Force Five - Eduardo, Freddy, Curt, Cesar Ivan, and some Indian Girl. from India, you know.

Freddie was already plastered and spent much of the evening pawing at Brandon while Cesar drunkenly goosed all and sundry as the Indian Girl giggle snorted - seriously, it was heeheeSNORTheeheeSNORT - at these antics.

Curt had the idea to change venues and head over to that fucking high falootin queer joint The Briar Patch and we all did. Stumbling and causing all kinds of ruckus in the dark streets we until we entered that high society joint.

I was introduced to Cesar Ivan's girlfriend and she was an interesting person. An intellectual with a mind that perhaps I could relate too.

The gang bar hopped and drank and laughed. Until Cesar Ivan got too plastered and baptized everyone within striking distance with alcohol from his glass. Brandon - who was the most drenched in the spillings - said it was time to cut, being near 2am anyways and the bars were about to close. We tried to ditch these drunken shenanigans - but, Cesar Ivan followed us to Brendan's car where in a plea to come home with him for "Toasted bacon and sausage sandwiches" he flung off his vest and shirt and went into a loud, over-dramatic soliloquy about the transvestites that infested the Tap Bar.

Enough of that mess, Branden and I peeled out for pizza before being dropped off at my flat...

Fun night, never the less.

Do or Do Not, There Is No try.

I am a bit perplexed. A little depressed. Somewhat confused. My mind is in a muddle.

I have, at the moment, gotten cold feet on this teaching gig. I mean, it is not too late - I have received my certificates. However, I think it is because I am so comfortable and the thought of uprooting myself again and starting over in some foreign country does not appeal to me at this moment. My books are selling well and with that I have money to live moderately and I have been meeting new friends - writers, painters, musicians and such - here in the Sun City.

Do I want to go? The crazy, wing-nut side of me screams yes, while the old, tired, responsible side mumbles no. I am going to take the month of May off - no writing, no scheming, no planning - and just enjoy the spring month.

Then, I will make up my mind. Ha! Ha!

Ding Dong the Witch is Dead!

The mastermind behind the murder of almost 3000 Innocent American people with the attacks on the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and the crash of a fourth plane through the heroics of her passengers that belayed the deaths of many more - Osama Bin Laden is dead.

I imagine that Osama Bin Laden is getting gang raped in Hell by well-hung demons with barbed-horned penises - yeah, enjoy those 42 virgins, buddy!

Good Vibrations

What a great Saturday!

The weather is perfect and downtown El Paso is throwing a shindig called the Neon Desert Festival - this huge ass band festival! Hordes of hipster kids are stomping around enjoying the pleasant weather and great music.

As with me, I will be screening John Water's Female Trouble in the theater at the cafe that I haunt. All summer, like last year, I will be screening cult and underground films to terrify the locals.

I have sent off for - hopefully - the last proof of my new novel. I really like it! It is awesome! I am almost done with my TEFL course and will be receiving my certificate - then it's off to wherever! Haha!

Yea, I'm feeling pretty good today!

Here's The Deal.

Flecks of Dust in the Night

Nothing on television, so I took a walk at 11 at night.

The wind was blowing in one of those typical sand storms that make El Paso so memorable. The news was clocking the gusts at 60 miles per hour. The trees danced and bent in an obscene mambo. Trash flew about me and the dirt stung my face. I took the walk downtown, anyway.

Downtown was normal for this time of night, besides the wind - the streets were vacant in long shadows from street lamps - no cars, no people. Deathly quiet except the whispering of the gusts. I held the brim of my black cap in a vain attempt from letting it soar off into the gritty night.

I walked and I thought.

I thought of where I was going after I received my degree in TEFL. I knew that I was consciously giving up a life of cocooned comfort, a life of no worries by being fully supported of by the State. once overseas, I realized I had three - maybe four - months before SSI caught on that I would be abroad and cut off the benefits that I was receiving. But, after four years of doing relatively nothing - I just felt like a ghost living - and not doing a hell of a lot existing. I came to the finality - I had to do this.

At the time of this writing, I have been flip-flopping at what locale I wish to choose - Peru I thought would be the best choice. The schools are lenient at hiring new teachers and I am well versed in Latin American customs. However, the pay is low. I had been scouring hundreds of other blogs by expat teachers and now it seems the logical choice is Korea. They pay the best concerning new teachers and pretty much flip the bill on housing. For what I am going to attempt - Korea is the logical choice. I tried to rationale my choices - I know nothing of the language, the customs, the country. And it seems that the race is VERY homophobic.

However, I knew nothing of Mexico when I first moved to Tijuana back in 1993 - so, perhaps it would be a wonderful, positive adventure. Yet, the United States border will not be just a few feet away like in TJ if I needed to make a hasty retreat. If I go to Korea - it is a year. Good or bad. Hell or high water.

I am so confused.

I stood at the corner of the Plaza downtown blinking away the debris that flew into my face and that's when I saw him. The upper half of his thin body was in black shadows as a cherry of a cigarette glowed in the dark of his hidden face. He stood in the tan, stucco alcove of a building. He saw that I was staring at him. His thin, brown hand grabbed at the crotch of his baggy, khaki pants. The limp penis was long - and even though it was not erect, he held only half of that fucker.

I took another drag from my cigarette and stared. Watched as he slowly stroked the growing monster in his pants. I casually looked around. Nothing. No one - no traffic. The wind howled. The street signs wobbled and made noises lost in the whipping winds.

With thin, spindly fingers, he casually unzipped his pants and pulled out the long, floppy organ. I watched as he slowly slid the foreskin back and forth over a shiny head. The semi-erect penis dangled as his hand disappeared up towards the obscured face and returned with wet fingers, smearing saliva across the fat head of his cock. He continued to slowly stroke his penis in long, mechanical glides.

With a burst of both intrigue and excitement, I walked across the street towards him. He sank deeper into the alcove, deeper into darkness. As I approached the alcove, the tang of old piss blew downwind at me. The ratatatatat of a discarded Styrofoam cup swirled in eddies of dust and trash.

Huddling in the alcove, I saw he was a tall, thin man in his late thirties, Mexican, a drooping moustache over thick lips. He had a long nose set between dark, brown eyes. His hair was shaggy with flecks of grey. A ruggedly handsome face.

He mumbled something in Spanish that I did not get. I just reached out and grabbed the throbbing organ. It was enormous - as long as my lower arm and almost as thick. I slowly stroked the fleshy cock, it was still only semi-erect. Without a word, I squat down in front of him and took his penis in my mouth - adjusting to the girth and sucked it in deep strokes.

He groaned and uttered dirty words in Spanish - near orgasm, his penis stiffened entirely. It still curved downward. I worked faster and saliva flowed as I tongued the head and worked the shaft with my hand. He yanked his fully hard cock out of my mouth - holding my head away with his left hand - and dribbled globs of semen onto the dusty, street lamp splashed concrete. The thick semen hit the ground with audible splats.

I stood up, looking at him. He exhaled and smiled as he shoved his dick back into his pants. He smiled, said gracias or some equivalent and strode back out into the sand storm.

I lit a cigarette and began the walk back home. I thought of how I really need to escape this vile city and get back on the road. It is who I am. It was what I needed to keep on living.

Peephole confessions

Repent and you will be foreskin.

Voyueristic Intensions

Spent the afternoon in Cuidad Juarez, Mexico.

Ah, yes - Juarez. It has finally become a burned out cinder - a literal, beat ghost of it's formal self. The wild and woolly heyday that I previously lived had been put on a bloody hiatus.

Before I left that morning, the Stateside news droned on about more cops being killed, pedestrians shot for no reason in the streets. One unfortunate paleta seller witnessed a gang of cartel pull up to a car on a busy street and spray all within with machine guns. When said seller pulled out his cellphone to call perhaps relatives, the gang thought he might had been calling the cops and filled him full of lead. A ver...

So, myself trudging over the International Bridge in gusty heat - wind whipped plastic trash bags that snagged on razor wire fences causing horrible noise. I dodged flabby locals and begging junkies as I eventually passed the bored and uninterested Mexican custom agent. I met my friend Eduardo waiting for me on the other side all decked out and handsome in his vaquero gear. Old friend, new him for years. He had a wife and two kids but was up for some filthy homo-buggery now and again. Never met a Mexican that wasn't.

He was glad to see me and I him - it had been far to long that we had trolled the Red Zone together. After fist bumps and howdy's, we darted over to the El Paso bar strictly from thirst. Stomping along Mariscal - the whore district - you could smell the tension mingled with rotting garbage and urine. The fact that shocked and depressed me the most that all - ALL! - the places I used to haunt are now gone. Not vacant buildings replaced by other businesses - but, vast dusty lots - even the rubble had been cleared. Fausto's, El Arbolito, Nebraska bar, Freegay, Rex's billiards, Hollywood bar - all gone. Sigh.

I gawked in beat sadness as the hookers of both sexes huddled in the shade of crumbled walls of what was once majestic and quite popular whorehouses - sorry, I mean strip joints. They all looked so sad, so lost - dusty relics with no clients strictly from fear. Even their clothes of calling - bright yellows, pinks, blues - faded in that horrid, unrelenting desert sun.

The El Paso bar is a small joint run by a fat hag with a mean streak. Never ask for credit - bitch will shank you. Long bar with red topped stools a few dented, metal tables occupied by bored-looking hookers and a mix of locals and loud Americans. Eduardo and I sat at the bar and ordered Tecates. The jukebox wailed ranchero as the sun swung around and all just sat mostly silent, sweating in the heat.

Two girls slinked up to us, both short, big tits, fat asses, thin waist (which is rare) - flirting and grinding their wares onto us - I, of course politely declined, yet Eduardo was being his macho ass self. So, under Eduardo's plea - bought the broads a drink and invited them to stay.

The two girls who sat with us were actually nice and I had to admit they were very pretty. Alma, the shorter of the two - she held copper skin and an indigenous face - Alma talked to me and was very amused when I stated that I liked men. She actually became friendlier and we hit it off. Eduardo and his girl, Clarissa - long black shiny hair and her boobs always seemed to want to bust out her blue dress - sat together, arms draped around each other. I noticed every single time her hand dropped down and squeezed Eduardo's cock. I wonder what she would say to the fact that I had sucked that fucker a few times before?

Side note: Any of you straight guys want to easily score with women? Invite a gay to come with you. We are pussy magnets. Trust me on this. You get hit on far more than usual and you don't have to worry about competition from your gay friend. Win win.

The beer flowed and Alma and I sat giggling and talking of men. She was actually really funny. I started interviewing her on her job - she related stories about some interesting men met in her career. She came from Mexico City when she was twelve and her aunt was the one that pimped her out. I love family. I related some of my crazy adventures - even pulled out a dogged copy of a novel I was working on. She shyly stated she couldn't read.

Eventually, Alma slipped a small paper in my hand and said, "It's for you, guedo." I knew what it was and leaned over to Eduardo, said into his ear, "Hey, man - this chick just handed me some coke. Follow me into the bathroom."

Nothing in this world is free, of course - I slapped a ten into Alma's hand as I slid off my stool, "Don't you go nowhere, we'll be right back."

Eduardo and I walked into the dingy, foul smelling mensroom. At the long piss trough, some old fat fucker had his dork out staring at us as we huddled in the corner. Rolled up a twenty-peso note and snorted that junk up.

We got back to the bar all twinkly-eyed and shit. Eduardo, Alma, Clarissa, and I sat and laughed and joked. Drank and got pretty happy. It was a good, drama-free time spent.

However, it was getting late and I surely did not want to be in Juarez walking back to the border at night - not in this part of town. I mentioned to Eduardo that I needed to get going.

"No wait." He said. "Come with me."

I followed Eduardo into the back of the bar and up some stairs. The short, dingy hall was lined with wooden doors. From a couple of rooms came the muffled banging of a bed and distinct moaning of a hooker making that rent.

Nice. I thought, A whorehouse.

A thin old man in a bow tie and white shirt approached us. Eduardo and he gabbed in Spanish a bit as Eduardo slapped 200 pesos into his hand. The old man took a ring of keys from his belt and ushered us to a door.

Drunkenly, we went into the room - which consisted of a ratty, sagging bed and a nightstand along with the wafting mildew smell of a million fucked vaginas. The old man took off as where as Eduardo began pealing off his clothes and lay on the bed. As he yanked his blue man-panties off, he was already hard and rarin' to go! Damn, he looked fucking good! Sprawled out on the bed fully aroused, he was nice enough to let me snap a picture of him.

Suddenly, Clarissa came in as Eduardo said, "We got some business, guedo. You want to wait outside?"

Damn! I though I was were going to get some!

Shut the door behind me and waited in the hall.

Alma approached smiling, "You're friend is busy?"

"Yeah. Lucky fucker." I said.

She put a finger up to her lips and took my hand, leading me to a small alcove. She pointed to a slit in the wall. When I looked, it was a pretty good view into Eduardo's room. I stood and watched as Eduardo tussle in pre-coital grope with the hooker he had purchased.

Alma's hand slid a small hand across the erection in my jeans. I kindly pushed her hand aside.

"You sure you don't like girls?" she whispered.

"Definitely." I smiled.

"Wait here." She smiled.

Two minutes later, she comes back with a tall, lanky guy in his midtwenties. I grinned at him, looking the boy over. Not bad.

"Have fun." She smiled and walked away.

The guy glanced through the slit in the wall, sucking air between his teeth and mumbled something in Spanish. He pointed at the hole for me to watch. I did as he squat down in front of me, unzipped my pants, and sucked my erection like his life depended on it.

I stood there watching Eduardo - a sweaty mess pumping his gorgeous cock into that whore, he thrust and lunged as she squirmed, grabbing his slender ass. She threw her feet up onto his shoulders as he banged her harder. I couldn't take both the awesome visuals and that guy sliding his lips and tongue up and down my dick - I blew my load into his mouth. He leaned over and spat the matter onto the dusty, warped, wooden floor. As I zipped up my pants, he asked in Spanish for ten dollars. I reached in my wallet and pulled out a twenty,

"Ten for you and ten for Alma, okay?"

Before leaving, he hit me up for five more. Sure, why not. Boy's gotta make rent, right?

He slinked off and I turned back to the hole - my friend was pounding fast like a rabbit, he grunted, then slid his dick out as sperm dribbled out of her pussy and spilling down, pooled onto the bed.

"Fuckin' A!" I whispered.

I walked back to the hall and lit a cigarette.

Eventually, Eduardo came out of the room, dressed but dripping from sweat, "You ready? I'll walk you back to the border."

As we were walking through the bar, we said our adios's - Alma sat at the bar smiling with her friend that blew me. She gave me a hug, while rubbing my back, asked, "When you coming back?"

"This weekend." I lied.

Eduardo and I quickly strode through those darkening, mean streets littered among piles of garbage the grasping hands of clawing hookers, dodging police patrols and rumbling paramilitary vehicles - angry brown eyes under black ski masks eyed us as the troops fingered their Ak-47's.

At the international bridge, I said my goodbye to my old friend and darted over that long stretch under a twinkling navy sky. Damn, I miss Juarez...

Things Out of the Blue

I had spent the afternoon at the cafe editing my novel. Tired and hungry, I left in the late afternoon. Golden sun rays beamed all slanted and shit between the dusty, vacant spires of downtown. Trudging past a Subway restaurant, I hear behind me a baritone voice, "Hey! Joto!"

I turned to see standing with outstretched arms and Cheshire cat smile a phantom I hadn't seen in almost eleven years. A tall, lanky handsome Mexican named Tony. He stood there in well-worn jeans, jean jacket and black workboots.

Tony and I used to run amok through dark nights of drunken shit way back in the day until like most others, he had burned out with El Paso and returned to Maine to be in the arms of a girl.

After back slaps and howdies, I sat with him in the restaurant and a long string of whatever-happened-to-so-and-so's issued. He had married the girl in Maine and lived in Canada with her and their ten year old daughter. I related the best i could on the events of my life.

He stated that he still spun around the country taking high paying odd jobs and was on his way from Cali to Houston - his bus leaving at 9 tomorrow morning.

"Well, Hell" He laughed. "Let's go drink!"

"I'm up for that!"

We crossed the street and hit the Tap Bar - sat with frosty brew and dredged up all kinds of forgotten nostalgia. We both agreed how we had aged - weathered and gray. Played pool, drank, ate tacos, drank, all night digging our minds into crazy past nights of forgotten memories. Pitcher after pitcher - we got fucked up.

Eventually, the bar had to close and inviting himself - Tony and I drunkenly stumbled back to my flat. After casual conversation and a bit of joking, wearily we both stripped to our boxers and crawled into my bed. For the next hour we banged around - sucked and fucked each other until we passed out covered in each others semen and saliva.

Next morning, I made pancakes and walked Tony to the busline. He said before I left for wherever when my TEFL classes are done and when he had finished the job in Houston - he wants to return and us both hightail it a few days to Vegas.

I'm looking forward to it.

Road Meat.

How many cigarettes does it take to wait? How many cups of coffee? Paul sat in the dead-end diner with napkin firmly under coffee cup - he was told in that style, you can tell when someone was waiting - watching nothing out of the big, dust streaked pane window.

Outside, it was cold and colorless. Gritty wind whipped eddies of trash down a lonely street. A long cry from the sunny, warm surf crashing against the beach that he was anxiously anticipating to see. Here the sky was a harsh, cold blue - though dazzling bright, gave no warmth - only a bitter cold, you could feel it in your marrow.

Paul sipped more coffee, took another drag.

Across the street, a bum, the same colorless shade of everything else, stood in front of the Roman Deco post office hitting passerby for change. Paul looked around the café - a cavernous room and only he occupied it. Every sound was amplified.

El Paso is a dead, nowhere town.

The Creep

Let's boogie!

Scam them before they scam you.

This just in - I was notified by several teacher acquaintances around the globe that attaining a fake degree in something is a cheap and quick way of jumping these Kafkian hoops of needing said document to get a worthwhile job overseas. Hmmm. I don't know. Last thing I need is to be stuck in some foreign village and their Thought Police show up and boot me out of the country for false documents.

Opposed to popular opinion - I do have a conscience.

Anything Goes.

I had recently been in contact with a gentleman in China on starting my teaching career there. At first, from the brief comments I had read on websites - you not only need a university degree, but also your TEFL certificates. In Latin America - they seem a bit more lenient.

This is starting to not be the case.

The gentleman that I am in contact with runs an agency in mainland China that will not only help you settle in - i.e. apartment, living expenses, visas - but, most importantly he has contacts of a shitload of schools that require only that you speak English and have the gumption to teach. I got that and soon to have four certificates from a world renown TEFL school.

I think China and/or the Orient is quite rather tasty at the moment.

Received my rough proof of Dark is the Night. I must say - without bordering flagrant ego - that is my best work, yet! I am juggling with the online classes and editing this book. I am planning to leave and have the book available online by August.

Life is weird.

Ya.

2:13 on a Saturday night. Dark winds howl dust and debris outside my window. I sit in my favorite chair - overstuffed espresso colored lounger - in the darkness of my apartment lit only by the crimson of my cigarette tip - watching the green velvet curtains breathe. A long streak of white crosses the dusty mosaic tiled floor from a baneful moon shut on and off by the undulating curtain.

I sit and I smoke and I think. I feel so empty. So emotionless. So lost.

I seriously need a change in lifestyle.

Times a Changin'

I have set the gears in motion. I am halfway done with my TEFL course and have begun to sell the furniture that I had accumulated over the year. In a few weeks I will have my certificates and I plan to be in South America by August. During that time, I will need to acquire all the necessary paperwork - visas, permits, vaccinations - for my relocation.

I may start in Ecuador to get teaching hours under my belt, explore the country then off to Peru and Colombia. If I was to settle anywhere, Costa Rica is high on my list. I guess I will just have to see where the winds if fate blow me.

I can't wait.

On the writing front, I had just ordered a rough copy of Dark is the Night. 436 pages. And there will be more. It is my swan song of American decadence, my final say on the broken shambles of the American Dream told in the usual raw, peeled way. And, it is my first largely heterosexual work. Only one chapter is puto queer - so, you can buy a copy for grandma without her getting her panties all in an uproar. I really like this book. I look forward to writing more about my travels across the globe.

Under God.

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

I remember when we would recite this in class everyday.

Of course it is illegal to say this in schools now on account it may offend students from other countries. How fucked up is that? On every level?

On a similar note and because of - my classes in TEFL are going smooth. I am going to wait until I get my certificate to choose where I am going. At the moment it is either Colombia or Costa Rica. See how the mind of a bipolar bear operates? hehe

I ran into an old friend on the street yesterday. He being Mike McCabe. It has been five or six years since we had last spoke. As a matter of fact, it is the same Mike McCabe - a heterosexual who was one of the type that would crudely go on about his escapades with females - calls me up one night and invites me to his home in lieu of beer and chat but wounded up seducing me. Wacky.

Well, he is married now and staying at the Hotel De Soto across the street from the cafe that I haunt. The De Soto is a notorious flea bag known for it's seedy clientele and rampant drug busts. It was good to see him again, never the less.

Yesterday about five in the afternoon, I was sitting in the Plaza in downtown El Paso. Sunday afternoon. Long, lonely times, I tell you - streets devoid of all life, quiet as a tomb, the sun setting behind buildings casting long yellow rays between the dark shadows. I sat and I thought and thought some more as I had many, many times before...it's time to split.

44.

Happy birthday to me. I turn 44 today. And, I still feel like I am 30. Neat, huh? I sit here and think about the past decade - hell, the past 20 years for that matter and what a wild, crazy blast it had been. No regrets, actually. Why should I? I had done things and traveled to places most if not all my friends dream of doing. And the best part is, I came out unscathed. Ok, a little on the eccentric side - but, still kicking.

And it will continue. I am half done with my TESL class and as soon as I recieve my certificate, I will start making plans of which South American country to relocate too. Colombia sounds great - both seedy and furtive, Ecuador is high on the list, or I may give Costa Rica a whirl. Once I have a year under my belt teaching English - the world is virtually my oyster!

Avanti, bitches!

Fried Chittlins

I originally was going to end the book with a chapter about mental health. However, this damn book is writing itself - or so it seems. When I sat down at the cafe to write - this vomited out. I guess I am ending the book on a note concerning child abuse. It is very raw - I spewed this out in just under an hour. Yeah - they'll be more.

Fried Chittlins
an excerpt from Dark is the Night
rough draft

“GET UP! IT’S TIME TO GET UP FER SKEWL! GET UP! AWWW, GAWDDAMIT! YOU WENT AND DONE PISSED THE BED AGAIN! GAWDAMMIT!”
Eric opened his eyes - groggy and slowly from a night filled with lucid nightmares. He dreamt of being chased through a dark mansion by the Cyclops from The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. The Cyclops would smash through each door he attempted to close and lock, striking at him with a leather whip.
Half awake, Eric laid on his stomach wearing nothing but his white briefs. From his knees to his upper chest was cold from the large wet spot that he had made during the course of the night.
He looked guiltily and with fear at the short, plump woman that stood in the doorway to his bedroom. “I’m sorry momma. I’m sorry.”
“GAWDDAMIT! GET INTO THE BATHROOM AND CLEAN YERSELF! HURRY BEFORE YER DADDY FINDS OUT AND BEATS YER LITTLE ASS! GAWDAMMIT, I SWEAR!”
As he rapidly jumped up and passed his mother, she smacked him on the back of the head.
“YOU LITTLE SHIT! YOU STINK LIKE PISS! I’LL HAFTA WASH YER SHEETS AGAIN! WHY?! WHY DO YOU DO THIS EVERY NIGHT? YOU RETARDED OR SOMETHING?”
Eric hurriedly dashed to the bathroom, glancing down the short hall to his parents door. He heard him - his father was awake, getting dressed. Eric shut the bathroom door behind him, pulled the wet shorts off and began running the water. He quickly washed his torso in the warm water with a red rag, the soap covering his small frame. His mother opened the door and placed some clean shorts on the sink’s rim.
“HURRY UP! BREAKFAST IS ALMOST READY! JUST DON’T STAND THERE! HURRY UP! GAWDAMMIT, YOU CAN BE SO DAMN STUPID SOMETIMES, YOU HEAR?”
She turned and waddled out. Eric shut the water off, stepped out of the tub, and began drying himself with a towel hanging from a nearby rack.
“WHERE’S THE BOY?!” It was his father. He stood outside the door, obviously bumping into his mother coming out into the hall.
“AWW, HE’S TAKING A BATH. HE PISSED HIMSELF AGAIN!” The mother said condescendingly.
The bathroom door swung open as Eric was putting his right leg through the opening of his briefs. He froze.
“YOU PISSIN YERSELF AGAIN? YOU LITTLE SISSY, PISSIN YERSELF? I SHOULD PUSH YOUR DAMN FACE IN IT LIKE A DAMN DOG MAYBE THAT WILL STOP YOU FROM PISSIN YERSELF EVERYNIGHT!”
Eric simply stood there not saying a word, staring at the matted bath rug on the warped, tiled floor. His father slammed the door behind him.
“WHY DONCHA LEAVE HIM ALONE? YOU’RE GONNA MAKE HIM LATE FOR SCHOOL!”
“THAT’S HIS DAMN PROBLEM! YOU BABY THE LITTLE SHIT TOO MUCH! YOU LET THESE DAMN KIDS DO WHATEVER THEY DAMN WANT! HE PISSES THAT BED AGAIN, I’LL BEAT HIS LITTLE ASS!”
“AWW WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP! YER ALWAYS YELLING ABOUT THESE KIDS! WHY DON’T YOU JUST LEAVE IF YOU DON’T LIKE EM!”
“DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP! YOU SHUT UP! I’LL BEAT YER ASS, TOO! YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ME, DUMMY! I MAKE THE MONEY IN THIS HOUSE! YOU’LL DO WHAT I TELL YOU! ALL OF YOU!”
“LET GO OF MY ARM, YOU BASTAWD! LET GO! GET YER STUPID ASS TO THE TABLE AND EAT YER BREAKFAST AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!”
“STUPID WOMAN! HURRY UP WITH THAT LITTLE SHIT OR I’LL BE LATE FOR WORK!”
“WHY DON’T YOU SHUT YER MOUTH! ALWAYS YELLIN! JUST SHUT UP AND GO SIT DOWN! GO GET SOME COFFEE - THAT’S READY!”
“YOU BEST SHUT YER GAWDAMN MOUTH, WOMAN!”
Eric stood there as the bathroom door swung open and his mother stood there, face flustered and sweating, holding his clothes for the day. She knelt down and roughly grabbed his legs, shoving them into each pant leg, yanking a shirt over his head and pulling it down, with jerking shoves, slipped on his socks.
“CAN YA TIE YER OWN SHOES AT LEAST OR AM I GONNA HAFTA DO THEM TOO? I GOTTA GET BREAKFAST!”
Eric bent over to pick up the two small red and blue sneakers, “I can tie my own shoes, momma.”
Eric sat on the closed toilet lid and slipped into his shoes as his mother waddled out.
At the door of the bathroom, a thin scowling face peered around the corner. Large green eyes under a mass of fluffy brown hair that cascaded down over shoulders stared at him with contempt, “Are you done yet? I gotta pee.”
It was his middle sister Tammy. Just one year in High School and she already had the reputation of being a slut. Eric overheard her once in the backyard bragging to her friends at the black boys in the neighborhood who she frequently banged.
Eric finished tieing his shoes and walked out, “All yours.”
He made his way into the dining room. His father already was sitting there with his oldest sister, Cindy. The two sisters were from a previous marriage and looked exactly like their mother. Small eyes, pug nose, and an unattractive thick body of German decent. His sister Cindy had always been the fattest.
“DIDJA BRUSH YER TEETH YET?” His father looked right at him.
Eric crossed behind him and took his usual place in the chair against the wall. “No.”
“WHY THE HELL NOT?”
“I haven’t eaten, yet.”
Eric thought there was never a point in brushing your teeth right before you ate breakfast. He thought it just defeated the purpose.
“DO YOU WIPE YER ASS AFTER YOU TAKE A SHIT? YA JUST GONNA SHIT AGAIN, RIGHT? SO, WHY BOTHER?”
Eric shot his father a look of contempt but was met with an open palm across the cheek.
“DONCHA LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! GET YER ASS BACK IN THAT BATHROOM AND BRUSH YER TEETH!”
With the stinging still strong on his face, Eric meekly slid off his chair and returned sullenly to the bathroom. He grabbed his toothbrush, added paste and languidly began stroking it across his teeth.
“WHATYA HIT HIM FOR? HE’S GOTTA EAT BEFORE HE GOES TO SCHOOL! LEAVE EM THE HELL ALONE! YER GONNA MAKE HIM BE LATE!”
“SHUT UP! GIMMEE MY BREAKFAST BEFORE I’M LATE FER WORK!”
“WHY’D YA HIT EM FOR? HE COULDA BRUSHED AFTER! HE’S GONNA BE LATE!”
Eric heard his mother slamming dishes down onto the table.
“Eric GET IN HERE BEFORE YOUR BREAKFAST GETS COLD!”
As Eric swished water in his mouth and spat into the sink, he heard his father slide his chair out from beneath the table. Eric wiped his mouth across the table and darted out of the bathroom. His father blocked his way to the dining room.
“DID YA BRUSH EM? DID YA BRUSH EM GOOD?”
“Yes.” Eric said looking at the floor, trying to pass him to hurry and get back to the dinner table.
“LET ME SEE EM!”
His father grabbed him roughly by his slender arm. Eric opened his mouth and grit his teeth at him.
“GET YER GODDAMN ASS BACK IN THERE AND BRUSH EM AGAIN! THEY’RE FITHY!” He ended the sentence with a whack across the boy’s head.
Eric turned back the bathroom, whined, “But, I did brush them, daddy.”
The father lifted his foot and planted it roughly into the boy’s lower back that sent Eric sprawling onto the hallway floor.
“DON’T LIE TO ME! GET IN THERE AND BRUSH THEM TEETH! I’M GONNA STAND HERE AND MAKE SURE YOU BRUSH THEM, TOO! AND I DON‘T WANNA HALF ASSED JOB!”
“WHY DONCHA LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE’S GONNA BE LATE FOR SKEWL!!”
“SHADDAP AND GET BACK TO THE KITCHEN! HE’S NOT EATING ANYTHING UNTIL HE BRUSHES HIS TEETH!”
“YOU ASSHOLE! LEAVE EM ALONE! GO EAT YOUR FOOD BEFORE IT GETS COLD!”
Again, Eric grabbed the toothbrush and between sobs applied the paste and started brushing his teeth.
“DO IT HARDER! BRUSH EM GOOD!”
“COME EAT YOUR BREAKFAST BEFORE IT GETS COLD! LEAVE THAT BOY ALONE!”
Eric kept brushing until his gums started to bleed.
“NOW RINSE AND GET YER ASS OVER THERE AND EAT YER BREAKFAST!”
Still sobbing, Eric sat quietly at the table as his mother plopped a plate of greasy eggs and limp toast down in front of him. His father devoured his meal. Between gulps, his father began belching - foul wafts of halitosis and egg drifted across the table. Between words, he would drop open his mouth and let a guttural croaking burp without covering his mouth.
“WHEN YOU ALL GET HOME FROM SCHOOL, (belch) I WANT YOU TO RAKE THE LEAVES IN THE (belch) FRONT YARD. I WANT IT DONE BEFORE I GET HOME, GOT IT? DON’T STOP (belch) TO PLAY WITH YER FRIENDS OR WATCH CARTOONS OR I’LL WHIP YOUR ASS!” (belch)
Cindy looked up from her food, “I got band practice. I’ll be late.”
The father turned to Tammy who sat next to her mother, “YOU? YOU GOT ANY STUPID DUMB ASS EXCUSES?”
“Nope.” She said snidely. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home. But, I can’t spend all day, I have to meet someone at six.”
“HANGIN AROUND WITH THEM (belch) NIGGER BOYS NOT AN EXCUSE!”
“SHUT UP! LEAVE HER ALONE! SHE NEEDS TO HAVE FRIENDS.”
“I DON’T WANT YOU HANGING AROUND WITH (belch) NO GODDAMN NIGGERS!”
Tammy looked at him defiantly, “You’re not my father - you have no right to tell me what I can or can not do.”
(Long belch.)
The mother poured Eric another glass of milk, “YOU GO ON AHEAD, Tammy. DON’T BOTHER WHEN YOU COME HOME TODAY. Eric IS CAPABLE OF RAKING ON HIS OWN.”
“I WORK! I’M THE ONE PUTTING FOOD IN YOUR GODDAMN (belch) MOUTH, YOUNG LADY! AS LONG AS YOU LIVE HERE, YOU DO AS I SAY!” (belch)
No one said nothing. It was quiet for the moment except for the occasional burp. Eric slid off his chair and went into his room. He glanced at the stripped bed with the large yellowed stain in the middle of the flower printed mattress. The entire room smelled of stale urine. He grabbed his little backpack and threw it across his shoulder.
“OH, THAT’S RIGHT! IT’S REPORT CARD DAY TODAY, AIN’T IT? I WANT TO SEE THAT AS SOON AS I COME HOME! THERE BETTER NOT BE ANY BAD GRADES OR YER BUTTS GONNA GET IT!”
“AWW, LEAVE EM ALONE! Eric, HURRY UP YER GONNA BE LATE.”
“YER TOO EASY ON THE LITTLE SISSY! I WANT THEM LEAVES RAKED, GOT IT! AND DON’T DO NO HALF ASSED JOB! I WANT IT ALL DONE BY TIME I GET HOME!”
Eric walked through the living room and glanced at the four still sitting at the table. His mother pointed a fork casually at his father.
“DON’T BE SUCH AN ASSHOLE TO HIM! YOU’RE ALWAYS SHOOTING OFF YER MOUTH! WHY DONCHA SHUT UP FER ONCE? NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR THAT SHIT THIS EARLY IN THE MORNING!”
“DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP, GAWDAMMIT! YOU SHUT YER FUKKIN UGLY MOUTH! ALWAYS RUNNING IT! DRIVING ME CRAZY!”
“I WISH I COULD DRIVE YOU CRAZY - THEN THEY’D COME AND TAKE YER WORTHLESS ASS AWAY FROM ME! AND DON‘T SAY THAT DAMN WORD IN FRONTA THE KIDS!”
“AH, SHUT UP, GAWDAMMIT! YOU COULDN’T LAST ONE GAWDAM DAY WITH OUT ME!”
His mother snidely chuckled, shoving her pinkie up her pug nose and fished abundantly for the offending matter. She yanked out a glob, looked at it and wiped the greenish gray snot onto her gown.
His father leaned in close to her, puckering up, “SHUT UP AND GIMME A KISS, YOU OLD HAG! YOU KNOW YOU LOVE ME!”
She leaned over and pecked her chapped, thin lips against his greasy thick ones, “YEAH, YEAH! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS.”
A disgusting, lascivious look came across his face as his eyes scanned across the three children, “ALL YA’LL GET YER ASSES TO SCHOOL! GET THE HELL OUT! I GOTTA TALK TO YOUR MA!”
Both started to chortle and grunt like herniated, amused hogs.
Eric walked out the door into the pre-dawn darkness. It was still cold. Cutting across the front yard, he made his way onto the road and walked the half mile to his grade school.
Halfway there, he stopped. On the far corner were two older black boys that attended his school. They stood there watching as Eric approached. The taller one smiled.
“Hey, boy! Where’s ya sista?”
“What?”
“That sista of yawls. My brotha told me he done tapped that shit last Saturday.”
They both started cackling.
“Shut up! He did not!”
“Hell he didn’t! My brotha said he was all up in dat shit! Had her screaming an moanin so loud the neighbors threatened to call da police!”
Eric started walking faster past them. “Yer crazy! She didn’t do nothing!”
Eric felt a sharp pain in his upper back. Then another on his back thigh. A small rock whizzed past his head and bounced loudly down the asphalt of the street. He looked back and saw the two boys picking up gravel and hurtling chunks at him. He began running.
‘Yo sista’s a ho! Yo sista’s a ho!” Echoed down the lane as the sun began peeking above the misty dawn.
Huffing and a few blocks later, Eric slowed down and continued his walk towards school. A lanky red headed boy walked up next to him. It was his friend Albert.
“Hey, Albert!” Eric chirped.
“Hey, buddy! How’s things?”
“Same. You?”
“Same.”
They walked quietly for a moment. They crossed the busy intersection a block from school. Albert darted into a convenience store and bought a soda. Popping the can, he took a swig and then handed it to Eric.

To be continued...