Creative Writing Paper: The Great Dope Run

Back in 2001 I took a creative writing class in college.  I felt really good about my short story, "Strom Thurmond's Body Must Be Destroyed."  I felt so good about it I decided to continue the story of my lead character, Raymond Steele.  (Yeah, that's a 90's name if there ever was one, huh?)

My creative writing teacher loved me.  She absolutely adored my writing.  But then again, I took her class seriously, and turned in quality papers.

So, if you are out there in internet-land I hope you enjoy this story.  But please!  Last minute writers!  Do not plagiarize this work.  It will easily show up in Google Search.  It will take your professor two seconds to check it.  Otherwise, enjoy!

The Great Dope Run



"Oh..., ah..., pain..., unbearable... pain," I barely muttered. "Oh my God..., the pain..., get me a.... Budweiser for God's sake.., get me... some sort of alcohol."

I could barely open my eyes, couldn't even lift my arms. It felt like they were chained down. Now that I thought about it, I couldn't feel my legs either. Which was odd, because I generally had to drink a lot before my legs would go numb.

"Ray!" someone shouted. "Ray, are you awake? Do you know where you are?"

"Who... is that?" I asked.

Truthfully, I didn't know where I was, if I was awake, or if my name was Ray, although that did seem familiar.

"Ray, it's Jack, your friend and lawyer. Do you remember what happened?"

"Hey..., I'm the one... who should be asking.... something like a question.. I .. , where ... am....," I didn't get a chance to finish.

"Nurse!" yelled Jack. "Get this man something! He's in excruciating pain!"

I could only hear. I couldn't see what was going on. I heard the nurse say,

"Ray, Ray, give me a sign. Can you hear me?

"Yes...," I whispered.

"That's good Ray," said the nurse that I could just start to make out. "Are you in pain Ray?"

"Oh God yes," I muttered.

I felt like I was starting to come around. My voice was a clearing up as well.

"You should not be in pain," said the nurse with puzzlement in her voice. "You're hooked up to a morphine tap."

"Nurse...," I started. "I am a professional drug addict..., and you're going to have to give me a hell of a lot stronger stuff than a simple morphine tap. I would kill for a Bud to drink, and a bud to smoke, as well as some Vicodin, Heroin, Percocet, whatever thirty-one flavors of drugs you have."

My eyes were starting to focus. The first thing I saw was Jack and the nurse standing over me. This was not one of those twenty-seven year old hot body nurses fresh from college. No, she looked like my grandma. Right now she was looking at me like I was being completely ill rational. So I made myself a little more clear.

"More... drugs..., please!" I exclaimed as best I could.

"I'll get the doctor," she said as she took off out the door.

Well, at least she had a good work ethic. Anyone who would run that fast to get drugs for me can't be all that bad.

"Ray!" yelled Jack... again.

"Jack..., you're at an eight...., I need you at a two and a half," I said.

"Thank God you're alive," he said, much quieter this time. "Ray, do you remember anything, and I mean anything that happened."

"Happened?," I asked. "When, what, I don't know. My head is still spinning. Tell me, I've been unconscious haven't I?" "It feels as if my brain was shoved into a blender, and poured back into my head. Jack, why can't I move my arms and legs?"

"Ray," he said with a look of extreme sadness. "You can not move your arms because the police handcuffed you to your bed, and you can not move your legs because you bruised your spine in the accident."

"What accident?" I wondered aloud.

"I'm still trying to put the all the facts together. All I know is ....," he paused. "There was an accident involving your boat. It somehow flipped and crashed. After it crashed, the beach was littered with drugs, pieces of your boat, dead Cubans, and an injured manatee that is now recovering at the Lowery Park Manatee Hospital in Tampa. Ray, I hate to tell you this, but your political enemies are coming out of the woodwork on this."

"A manatee?" I asked. "I love manatees..., they're so... darn cute. I have... a... manatee... license plate."

"Yeah, well, the press loves them too. This one's getting more air time than President Bush. They're calling him Snuggles, Snuggles the Manatee," stated Jack with an irritable look on his face. "Damn it Ray! What the hell were you doing out there? What happened?

That was a good question, what the hell did happen?

(48 hours earlier or, what the hell happened)


In the land of waffles, the man with the biggest waffle iron is king. In the land of fishing the man with the biggest rod does not always catch the most fish. That's why I use dynamite. The underwater shock wave obliterates anything near the initial blast. After the fish come floating up to the surface, it's as easy as throwing a cast net out to collect dinner, and the cat's fish head buffet. It's been hard to fish for mullet as of late, with the illegal netters and all. Almost as hard as finding a hungry hooker with no front teeth.

I love fishing. A true fisherman has no excuse to waste a day of his life. Every day has potential, and the excuse to get away from crazy housewives who's minds are more fucked up than West Virginia's gene pool. My boat is a thirty-five foot Excalibur cigarette style boat with a seven-hundred horse power inboard engine. Cigarette boats are built for one thing, and that's speed. However, I like using the Natural Disaster for dynamite fishing because the hull is reinforced for high speeds. Fishing puts men back in touch with their roots. Where else can a man get totally shit-faced, kill animals in obscene ways, drive at inappropriate speeds, and still be legal?

Tonight was a dark and stormy night, well, no it wasn't. True, it was dark on account of being nighttime, but a nearly full moon echoed like a soft lightbulb across the water. The few puffy clouds that were in the sky made me think of my pillow, and that I should really be at home sleeping right now. 

I, however, was on another mission. At 2:00 in the morning and 20 miles off Miami's shore, I was here to meet somebody, or should I say pick up a package for a friend of mine from Cuba, by way of South America. At three foot high, the waves were not that bad for being so far offshore, I hated any kind of rocking of my boat. Especially when I'm trying to cut cocaine with a fishhook, because I forgot my razor. My friend's associates were already an hour late, which gave me plenty of time to savor every drop of my gin and Gatorade. The gin was to get drunk as fast I could, so I would actually go along with this plan, and the Gatorade was to keep my electrolytes up so I wouldn't get that nasty hangover in the morning, which I probably deserved. Mainly for going along with this crazy scheme.

After some heavy drinking, a few lines, and enough speed to kill a horse, I finally heard the plane. Looking out with my Bushnell binoculars, I could see the lights of the small single engine plane. Those morons probably hadn't changed their watches over to Eastern Standard Time. I grabbed the CB and let those egg layers have it.

"Breaker, breaker, this is Flapjack, did you get lost? It's only ninety miles straight up, you mentally deficient red commie bastards."

They started spouting something back at me over the CB, but hell if I knew what they were saying.

"Hey Castro!" I shouted. "You're in the U.S. now. Speak English or die!"

Again, all I could hear was mass confusion over the CB.

"Listen, you are acting way too unprofessional for a drug dealer. I am going to have to report that your work is very unsatisfactory to your boss. Also, I don't give a hoot in hell what your problem is. I am here to do a favor, and you are not making this easy for me you fucking retards."

At this time I could see the plane coming in. It was one of those water landing, single engine, prop planes. I also noticed a much bigger plane sitting almost on top of it trying to force it down. I guess they had a reason to be panicking.

"Sico..la...ah..no....ah.....no...Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" yelled the pilot over the CB.

At least, that's what it sounded like to me.

"Hey Chico!" I shouted into the CB. "Get your head out of your ass, and land the damn plane!"

At this time, both planes were flying low and fast. I could just make out the letters on the big plane. D.E.A.

"Oh fuck me like a thirteen year old runaway." I muttered.

The United States Drug Enforcement Agency. This guys were worse than the Alabama Highway Patrol, and twice as vicious. These guys would rip your guts out with a plastic fork, or nearest utensil. Well, at least they were predictable. Their next move would be to bump the plane, and send it spiraling into the Atlantic ocean.

"Yep, yep," I muttered to myself. "Here they come."

With one almighty swoop, the federal pig's plane blew over the smaller aircraft disrupting the air flow, sending Pedro and the grass into a tailspin straight into the ocean. As all this was going on, I cranked up the engines on the Natural Disaster, and started making my way to the aerial dogfight.

The show was spectacular, from my perspective anyway. Lupe was probably shitting his pants right now. A very unprofessional thing for a smuggler might I add. The light display was grand, almost too grand. That's when I realized that the LSD that I was carrying in my sock had gotten wet from the saltwater, and was starting to kick in. Thank God for those little blessings.

"Hey Jorge, pull the goddamn plane up you worthless excuse for a smuggler!" I yelled over the CB.

This was starting to become way too much work.

"Where did you get your driver's license?" I screamed. "New York or Walmart?"

Ricardo might not have heard me, seeing as how he was still in a tailspin with the nose of the plane pointed straight down at the ocean, and he was only five-hundred feet off the water. I just knew that a lot of good home grown pot was going to end up in Davey Jones' locker, along with a small plane and some dead Cubans. At about two-hundred feet above the water, Lupe somehow managed to pull the nose of the plane up enough for it to land.

"Thwap!" echoed across the water as the plane touched/crashed down.

Thwap, a kinda half thud, half slap, a thwap. Although the plane was mangled, it did manage to float, although probably not for long. I kicked the boat up to seventy miles an hour to pick up my delivery, now that they had finally landed. 

I thought to myself, most people would run from this sort of situation. I mean, it's pretty obvious that they've been caught, and why should I put myself at risk? I've got a dog and a turtle at home that need me. However, the bacon isn't expecting the pickup to be so close to the crash site. Hmmm.

At that point I kicked the engine up to eighty miles an hour. Hey, I had a job to do, and I had to show these amateurs how it was done. This situation actually reminds me of something that one of those communists reporters over at the St. Petersburg Times said about me.

"In trying to pull something this big off, it shows just how crazy, how insane, how.... arrogant you are."

Of course, I was in a different predicament then, but I still kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could. It wasn't about the insult, it was about integrity.

I pulled up to the plane to see a grizzly scene. It seems one the Cubans was sticking though the front window. He was bleeding profusely with a piece of the plane's window in his stomach and sticking out his back. Believe it or not, he was actually moving. He was whining about his mother and some chick named Mary, whoever the fuck they were?

"Hey Pedro," I yelled. "I'm here to help you out."

"Crack!" went my Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver as I shot him in the head.

"That hurt me a lot more than it did you," I told the now dead body.

I now counted three Cubans in the boat. Why the hell did they send me so many? I needed drugs, not immigrants.

"Listen up!" I yelled. "Fuck the Pope, and your filthy cunt mothers! I'm your new boss, and I'm going to make you work for a living. Not like living off the government tit, like you do down there in Cuba!"

At this point they started to question my authority. A very bad move, if I do say so myself. They immediately jumped into the water, and tried to get aboard the Natural Disaster.

"Back, back!" I screamed as I beat them mercilessly with my boat paddle. "Back to plane!" I yelled as I pointed to the plane. "Grass first, boat ride second! If you don't move it, I'll turn you over to Aryan Nation, the Black Panthers, or U.S. Immigration, whichever I get to first!"

Now that I had asserted my authority, they suddenly got a lot smarter. In no time they were moving the huge, carefully wrapped cube blocks of Mary Jane out of the plane, and into the boat.

"That's it! Put your backs into it!" I said trying to sound like one of those pirate captains from 1950's television. "Arrggghhh! I'll make ya walk the plank. I'll shiver me timbers. You know, I'd hate to think that Castro has to put up this shit everyday to get you people motivated!"

Now the Natural Disaster is thirty-five foot long, but it's not very wide. It's built for speed, not comfort. It's a typical cigarette boat with it's center console located halfway between the back and middle. So cubes of pot, or square groupers as they're called by the authorities, had to be set up near the front of the boat. Therefore, by adding all that weight onto it, it's a pain to keep it balanced enough to hold the nose down so it doesn't flip.

"Here's the rope! Tie it down tight! Move the contraband up near the front to keep the nose down, and center it down the middle to keep us from leaning so bad! Stack them low, so the center of gravity helps to keep the boat from flipping!" I yelled, forgetting the fact that they didn't understand a word I was saying.

However, though my great managerial skills, and tough love, all the weed was secure.

"Get on the floorboards now! Put your fingers in your ears, and open your mouths. I'm going to cause some major destruction.!"

It was then, that I took out the rest of my dynamite sticks.

"In case you wonder what I'm doing, that plane needs to be gone when the feds get here. These twenty-four sticks of dynamite are going to help me accomplish that," I said as I wrapped the wires together.

"Thirty seconds after I light this, we need to be as far away from here as possible."

I fired up my Zippo, and lit her up.

Like Joe Namath, I threw the bundle of dynamite over the dead guy/cornerback through the giant hole in the windshield.

"Thirty seconds!" I yelled as I kicked the boat up to four-thousand RPM's and climbing.

"Hang on boys!" I told them. "We have twenty miles until we hit shore. Get down on the floorboards to keep the center of gravity low!"

At this point, I could tell by the look in their eyes that they were going to try and pull that, we don't speak English bullshit. Totally unprofessional, seeing as how I couldn't get the boat up to speed unless the center of gravity was right.

"Get on the ground!" I shouted as I waved my revolver around. "Hit the deck, you monkeys! We have fifteen seconds!"

Smith and Wesson, the ultimate in motivational techniques.

"Alright, all engines Go!" I bellowed in my best Captain's voice as I kicked the engines up to escape velocity.

I had put a comfortable distance between the plane and the Natural Disaster when I heard the explosives go off.

BOOM!

I could hear the explosion echo across the water, as well as see the fire reflect off my windshield and dashboard.

"They're not going to find anything now," I said talking out loud to myself. "I can hear the morning news now, the D.E.A.'s plane bumped a suspected smuggler's plane, and sent it spiraling into the ocean where it was destroyed upon impact killing all crewmembers."

I could pull this thing off yet, and make the D.E.A. look bad to boot. Not a bad day's work.

"Listen up mateys!" I said yelling over the roar of the engines. "The first ten miles may be a little rough! Once we get inshore, the water will be like glass, and I can kick her into high gear! Just watch the merchandise, and make sure it doesn't go sliding around!"

For the first time on this disastrous trip, things were starting to go right, grass on deck, Cubans on the floor, compass pointing me in the right direction, and Elvis on the radio.

"Oh yeah, this is what it's about boys!" I said doing my best Elvis impersonation. "Come on, sing with me! Cause there ain't nothing higher, than the sweet smell of desire! Come on, you're not singing! Burnin up! I said a hunka hunka burnin love! 

You guys are such pussies. You see boys, that's your big problem. You just roll over and play dead. Then you wonder why Cuban women act like such bitches, and not just to you, but everyone. Do they collect your balls upon receiving a certificate of marriage? You need to smack em around a little, show em who's in charge. Show some initiative."

I shook my head in disgust.

"You might think I'm being a little hard on you boys, and you might be right. What you have to understand is that the merchandise comes first. This whole thing is bigger than any one man. Me, you all, the dead pilot, the president, we are all a far second to the merchandise.

The waves were now starting to become nothing more than little ripples. This gave me the opportunity to show these tourists just how fast this boat could go. However, they would probably freak out if I really showed some gumption, so I figured that sixty miles an hour while carrying a full load might be about right. That way it also kept the engine at about forty-five hundred RPM's.

"Things are starting to look alright boys," I said.

It was that very moment that a spotlight shined brightly in my eyes. There is no greater feeling in the world than thinking that you have pulled off a great crime. However, there is no worse feeling than having the marine patrol shine their lights on the hundred bails of marijuana that are sitting on the deck of your boat.

"I am so fucked," I said knowing full well that I was, so fucked.

"This is the D.E.A., stop your engines, and prepare to be boarded!" said the voice out of the loudspeaker of the approaching boat.

Shit! These guys weren't the usual sea pigs. Someone had called out the big guns. Not only were they in the air, but on the sea. This could only mean they had been tipped off, or I had been set up. Either way, I was pissed.

"Mr. Sulu, prepare for warp speed!" I yelled.

Like I told the boys, you just can't roll over and die. Especially when you've been set up, sold out, and own a boat that can go three times faster than anything the D.E.A. is driving.

"Hold on to your hats boys! The ride is going to get... fast!" I yelled, thinking of nothing better to say.

At this point I kicked the engines up to nine-thousand RPM's, while the Cubans were in the floorboards, lying in their own urine. Almost in unison, six boats flipped their high beams on the Natural Disaster. This was starting to get worse by the second. I could outrun them, but I couldn't outmaneuver them.

"Boys," I started. "It's times like these that you know, no matter how doped up you are, that the end is near. If you believe in God, now's the time to start praying."

I only had one option.

"Prepare for ramming speed!" I yelled as I steered the Natural Disaster toward the Fed's boat that was directly between myself and land.

"I've never had her full throttle before boys, but there's a first, and a last time for everything!" I yelled as I pushed her to the max.

"Stop your engines, and prepare to be boarded!" came the voice from the loudspeaker again.

"Go fuck your mother!" I screamed, drowned out by the roar of the engines.

You should have seen the Feds scatter as they saw me and the merchandise coming straight for them at one-hundred-thirty MPH. It's a wonder that the Natural Disaster hadn't flipped yet. When a boat this big, is driven this fast, it actually rises off the water, with only the engine props touching the water. It felt like I was flying.

"Prepare for impact!" I shouted, as we bore down on the Fed's boat with only seconds left before imminent destruction and annihilation.

Woosh echoed across the water as my boat dodged to the right of the Feds. I may be eccentric, but I'm not stupid. Although, I didn't turn so much to my right, as the Feds turned to my left. They weren't in the mood to play chicken, especially with a man who can't turn the wheel of his boat too far, because he is using one hand to give them the bird.

"Sit and spin on this you monkey fucks!" I bellowed at them while giving them the one fingered salute.

"Damn I'm good!" I half yelled, half laughed.

Now came the hard part. All the boats were behind me, but I had only four miles to go until I hit shore. Speeding at one-hundred thirty miles an hour, that gave me less than two minutes to come up with a plan. I could start to make out the mangrove islands as I was coming in. I had to keep the Natural Disaster down the middle of the channel where she could run in the deep water.

"What to do? What to do?" I kept muttering to myself.

The best thing I could think of was to make a run at the boat ramp, and then cut right into the harbor so I could dock in my private hanger. I had enough distance between me and the Feds, to where, if I could make it to the hanger, the merchandise could be loaded into the awaiting truck in five minutes or so. This was depending on a lot of ifs, but's, and maybes.

I was now half a mile from the boat dock. I was going to have to time this turn just right. I needed to keep my speed up enough to avoid my pursuers, but I needed to slow down just enough to make my turn.

"Get ready boys! We're going to be pushing our luck!"

The mangrove islands were close on both sides of us. As long as I stayed in the channel we were alright. At five-hundred yards from the boat dock, I cut the speed back to ninety MPH.

"Just hold her straight." I muttered. "Only a few more yards till we..."

My eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. In the span of a few seconds, everything went wrong. It was early morning, nothing should be in the channel. Nothing except a school of manatees passing through.

"Oh shit!" I screamed, knowing they were too close, and I was going too fast to avoid them.

Just as I threw the engines into reverse while turning a little too sharp to the right, the Natural Disaster hit one of the manatees.

"Aaahhhhhh!" I could do nothing but scream, as my boat was ejected into the air, and sent into a roll.

I was flying, sent into the air trying to scream again, but I couldn't even breathe. I felt like a golf ball being hurled forever through space and time. The only thing I could do was watch myself being thrown towards the mangrove island that was originally to the right of my boat. I kept flying and flying, knowing full well that I was not going to hit the water.

This is the end, I thought. Please God, not the big tree.

Splat!

(Back at the Hospital)


"I'm sorry Jack, I don't remember anything," I said.

"Ray," Jack started. "For the time being, try to get some rest. I am going to find out everything I can. Ok buddy?"

"Thanks Jack," I said with a smile.

Jack was the best lawyer that a guy could have. His cool demeanor said everything about him. How was I to know that in five minutes all hell would break loose, and Jack would be in the middle of it all?

"Mr. Raymond Steele?" said a voice walking into the room. "I am Officer Kraft, and this is Officer Clem. We are here to read you your rights."

"Ray!" Jack halfway screamed. "They are required to read you your rights by law, ok. Just let them read them, but keep your mouth shut! Don't say anything!"

"Excuse me sir," said pig number one. "I'm going to have to ask you to step aside and let us do our jobs."

"Excuse me sir!" Jack stated with an apparently irritable attitude. "I am Jack Bourgois, and I am this man's attorney, and I am here to make sure you do your job, without violating my client's civil rights. Let me say this, you and myself are going to have a conversation about placing handcuffs on a man who can not move from the waist down."

I loved it when Jack went into full lawyer mode. He was tearing new assholes for the both of them. I couldn't understand three-quarters of what any of them were saying, but it was funny to watch.

"Alright," said Jack. "You can read my client his rights, but he will make no statement."

"Fine," said Officer Kraft. He walked over to me and started to read this giant warrant.

"Mr. Raymond Edward Steele, you have been charged by the State of Florida on this, May 4, 2001 with the following offenses. 

One count of endangering a federally protected animal, a manatee, tagged as manatee number 1247, also known as Snuggles the manatee, a first degree felony. 

One count of endangering a federally protected tree, a mangrove, a third degree felony. 

One count of possession of LSD, a second degree felony. 

One count of possession of LSD with intent to use, a second degree felony. 

One count of being under the influence of LSD, a second degree felony. 

Fifty counts of possession of a square grouper, better known as bails of marijuana, a first degree felony. 

One count of drug trafficking, a first degree felony. 

Three counts of smuggling illegal aliens into the borders of the United States, a third degree felony. 

Three counts of smuggling illegal aliens into the borders of the Untied States with intent to avoid law enforcement agencies, a first degree felony. 

One count of possession of an incendiary device, dynamite, a second degree felony. 

One count of intent to use an incendiary device, dynamite, a first degree felony. One count of using an incendiary device, a first degree felony. 

One count of resisting arrest with violence, a first degree felony. 

One count of resisting arrest using a moving vehicle, a boat, a first degree felony. 

Eleven counts of reckless endangerment, a third degree felony. 

Three counts of manslaughter, a first degree felony. 

Twelve counts of interfering with the duties of a law enforcement officer, a third degree felony. 

One count of destruction of evidence, a second degree felony. 

One count of speeding in a no wake zone, a third degree misdemeanor. 

One count of criminal mischief, a third degree misdemeanor. 

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can not afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the charges brought against you, and your rights?"

"No," I said. "I just had my head bashed in. My middle name is Edward? Yuck. What the hell kind of mother do I have?

"Shut up Ray," said Jack. He then turned to the cops.

"Under federal law, you can not take my client into custody, or take a statement from him since he is not mentally competent, and I will have any number of doctors testify to that right now. Get those cuffs off him this second or I will have your boss, the Miami Herald, and the ACLU on the phone in the next thirty seconds."

That's why Jack was worth the money. The cops knew they were beat, and my wrists were free at last. After they left, Jack said to me,

"You realized that you just created a lot of paperwork for them, don't you? Of course, I didn't make things any easier for them myself."

"Jack, I don't remember much, but I know that I love you man."

"Remember this," Jack said. "You don't know it yet, but the whole world's a show to you."

"What's the world to you?" I asked.

"Right now," he started. "It's a card came. However, I'm not playing to win. I'm playing not to lose. You really messed up this time my friend. They have enough charges to put you away for life, or at least two-thousand years. The only thing as certain as those dead men on the beach, was the marijuana found scattered everywhere. Do you remember anything?

"Truthfully," I said. "I don't remember anything."

"I was afraid you would tell me that," said Jack with a mournful look on his face. "I'd hate to think, that all this death and destruction, was the result of a few smokes.

Creative Writing Paper: Strom Thurmond's Body Must Be Destroyed

 Back in 2001 I took a college creative writing class.  I was in my Dr. Hunter S. Thompson phase at the time, and wrote this short story in the vein of Dr. Thompson.  I was quite happy with my writing.  I was thinking about it the other day, and realized that I never got around to posting it.

I've had my blog for coming up on twelve years now, and I can't believe that I never even thought of posting it until now.  My blog is for all things that come in and out of my head, and this story is directly from my head.  But the good news, is that, I am now posting this.  I hope you enjoy.

And for those high school/college students who are thinking of ripping off my story for their creative writing class... Don't do it.  This will easily show up in Google search.  Besides, this story is about 20 years out of date.


Strom Thurmond's Body Must be Destroyed


"Break out the guns and neutron bombs!" I declared as I broke into my lawyer's office. "It's an emergency!" I made a mad dash for the secretary's desk, and grabbed a hold of Jean. "Jean, didn't you hear me? I need to see Jack right away. It's an emergency I tell you!"

"Mr. Steele, please, you're going to have to calm down," she said. "Besides you know you need an appointment. We've been through this before."

Damn secretaries, they always think they know everything. I never met one I liked. Especially Jean, she was the ultimate bitch. She looked and acted like an angry librarian gone dyke. I knew I needed an appointment, and she knew I needed an appointment. Why then, did she even bother telling me something that we both knew anyway? I wish I knew what her problem was. However, since I knew, that me knowing what her problem was wouldn't help either of us, I decided to drop it.

"Damn it woman! I need to see Jack pronto! Our very lives are at risk!" I shouted. Looking very perturbed in her wire rimmed glasses, she said,

"Mr. Bourgois is busy right now, you just can't barge in here and demand to see him without an appointment."

Obviously this woman didn't realize, or didn't care about the danger we all were in. I had to put up with this type of attitude all the time, she was no different.

"Jean, if you don't let me in to see Jack right now, you leave me no choice but to strip naked and run through the lobby. Come on woman, what's the point of having a lawyer on retainer if I can't barge in and talk to him?" I asked.

"You know that's not the issue Mr. Steele," she replied. "You are in here three or four times a week, and twice on Tuesdays. You know Mr. Bourgois has other clients he has to meet with."

I think she was trying to use some sort of reverse logic on me. Too bad for her it wasn't going to work.

"Ok," I casually replied. "I understand." I was down to my boxers before she finally broke down and called Jack on the speaker phone. She was unhappy, but she'd get over it.

"Mr. Bourgois, I am sorry to interrupt your meeting, but Mr. Steele is here, and he is in one of his moods... again."

Out of the speaker phone I heard Jack's voice.

"No problem Jean. Mr. Martinez and I have finished. Send Raymond up." Jean glanced up looking slightly afflicted,

"Mr. Bourgois will see you now. I'm sure you know the way."

After putting my clothes back in order, I raced up the stairs into Jack's office only to find Jack, and some well dressed Cuban guy speaking to one another. If this was "Mr. Martinez," why was he still here? More importantly, what did he want?

"Ray, come on in," said Jack. "I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Robert Martinez of the Law Firm Martinez and Fernandez. He works in this building as well, on the seventeenth floor."

At this point I had bigger things to worry about, than Jack trying to get in good with one of the cites most powerful lawyers. The fate of the world was at stake.

"Yes, hello Bob, have we met? Oh, you were just leaving right. Ok, see you soon, bye." This was no time for niceties. Sometimes you have to help people help themselves by giving them a shift kick in the shins. I used to play rugby, and I can kick hard.

"We'll talk tomorrow around ten," Jack said to Bob as he quickly walked him to the door. Bob looked as if he were stuck in a black hole and didn't realize it yet, but Jack knew what was important.

Jack closed and locked the door behind him to make sure our private conversation would stay between me, him, and the goldfish. It took me a while to break him into the habit of locking all three locks on the door, in fact, I'm the one who put them there. I consider it a good investment. We didn't need any anyone on the outside meddling in our conversation.

"Ray, have a seat," he said shaking my hand. "What can I do for you today?" he said as he leaned back in his huge leather cow skin chair smiling a wide grin.

He was in one of his "smiley" moods. I hated it when he was like this. He was always so much more ineffective like this.

"Damn it Jack, there's no time for niceties!" I yelled, as I never even bothered to sit down. "We have a crisis on our hands!"

"Actually Ray," he said, as he put his feet up on his mahogany desk. "I need to know before we start if you are on any type of drugs."

I couldn't believe he said that to me.

"Hey, you know I don't do illegal drugs anymore. I've found the legal ones are much better," I replied.

"Honestly, please tell me what you are on right now so I know how serious to take this," sighed Jack.

Jack was a good lawyer, but I found his lack of faith most discouraging. However, Jack was always honest with me, so I tried to be honest with him, or at least as honest as one could be with a lawyer.

"I had two Xanax, one hallicon, a shot of blackjack, and some herbal tea. Overall, a light morning. You know, you really should have a full body cavity search performed on your secretary," I informed him.

"If any man other than you would have said that, I'd take that a lot differently. Also, please don't crawl under my desk and start looking for listening devices again. I had the place swept this morning," he said as he got comfy in that monster of a chair.

"Really?" I replied.

"Really" he said with that smiley sort of smile.

"Well, you can never be too careful." I said with a crook in my brow.

I could trust Jack. He was a good Catholic man. Not necessarily a good Catholic though. A good Catholic would have turned me over to the Pope's goon squad years ago for all the meddling I've caused them.

"Anyway, I came here to tell you something drastically urgent, and I don't think you're going to like it."

"Tell it to me straight, and I'll help you out the best I can," he replied, again with that smiley sort of smile. Looking him straight in the eye, I told him,

"Strom Thurmond's body must be destroyed."

At that point it took me a few minutes to calm him down. Some people cry when faced with adversity, but Jack tends to laugh. He laughs hard. The kind of laugh that sends one sinking into the extravagant carpet of their glamorous eleventh floor downtown office complete with big chair, and a desk the size of a Volvo. Jack was definitely taking this one hard. Being the compassionate soul that I am, I helped Jack back to his chair, and poured him some ice water. After he finally regained his composure he said to me,

"I'm not a fan of the GOP, but why does Strom Thurmond need to be destroyed?"

"No!" I shouted from across the desk. "Strom Thurmond does not need to be destroyed, Strom Thurmond's body needs to be destroyed!"

He put his hand to his forehead. Suddenly, the smile was gone. I knew he was not taking this well. Jack started to raise his voice.

"What's the difference? Ok Ray, just stop right there. This is where you need to start at the beginning, and work your way forward."

This was the hard part. This was always the hard part.

"Forty-six years ago Strom Thurmond was elected to the United States Senate representing the state of South Carolina. During the 1950's and 60's Thurmond was best known for being the main leader for the pro-segregation forces in the Senate. Because of his hard line stance, he has become a symbol of hatred and intolerance for the rest of the U.S. since the 70's." Jack interrupted,

"I know this, but that isn't a reason to kill the man. As your lawyer I am extremely concerned about you. You've never wanted to go this far before," he said with a storied look on his face.

"You have to let me finish man!" I screamed, as I stood up once again. "Do you know how old Strom Thurmond is?" I asked while sitting back down.

Jack thought for a bit,

"He's pretty old. I know that."

"Strom Thurmond is ninety-eight years old," I replied, as my knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the desk. "You see, it's not that the man should be dead. The man is dead! He died!" I found I was standing yet again. "His corpse was then taken over by aliens trying to infiltrate the government!"

Jack suddenly turned very white. He did however manage to croak out a few words.

"What the hell do you mean aliens?"

He looked like I hit him with a giant tuna. It was time to let him in all the way. There was no backing out now. I walked over to pour a drink of ice water from his mini-fridge.

"You see, nobody likes Thurmond except those damned racist rednecks in South Carolina. He's always a sure bet. If you were an alien race trying to infiltrate the Senate, there would be no better person to take over. Your re-election is guaranteed."

Jack sat there for a while as I poured two glasses. I didn't want any water, but he looked like he could use some. We sat there quietly for a few seconds while Jack regained his composure. This kind of info is always hard to swallow at first, but like bourbon whiskey you get used to it.

"Ok," he started out. "Let's say I actually take you serious this time, besides the age factor, what leads you to believe that Strom Thurmond's body has been taken over by aliens?"

I knew for Jack to believe me, I had to let him in slowly.

"It started when I was websurfing. I found a conspiracy site, or should I say, an enlightenment site that taught me the true nature of the world's affairs."

"Wait!" he interrupted as he threw his hands up. "You don't mean to tell me that all this commotion you've brought in here is based on some degenerate website?"

"Can I finish, please? Can I?" I asked as we both leaned into each other across that huge desk. I had to keep Jack under control to some extreme or else he might never let me finish.

"Go ahead, my time, your money." Jack said as he leaned back in his chair while throwing his hands up in defeat. He was no longer smiling. I continued.

"This webmaster who goes by the name Placebo dug up information going back to over a decade. It seems that in 1989 Strom Thurmond went on a business trip to California. On his way there he was suddenly struck ill, and hospitalized in Las Vegas, Nevada. This brings up the question, what was he doing traveling by car, and not plane, to California? Anyway, before he got sick, his route took him close to Area 51, the secret Air Force base where human/alien hybrid spacecraft are tested out. You see, if his destination was California, he would have traveled by plane."

"Again," he interrupted. "I have to interrupt."

He turned his chair to look me dead on.

"Many older persons travel by ground, because they can't travel by plane. Their bodies can't handle the pressures that are exerted on them during flight. And if he did get sick in a plane, how would he get help? More than likely he is medically required to travel by ground."

I looked at Jack. I almost looked through him, but I thought better of it. I was going to start yelling again, but I thought better of that too. I just kept sitting and continued.

"The true destination for Senator Thurmond was Area 51. A project that he helped create in the 1950's. However, while he was there, something happened. Whether by accident or purpose, his body was taken over. Then, he spent the night at a Nevada hospital, but not just any hospital, but a U.S. military hospital, and here's the kicker. He never completed the trip to California.

Since then, his behavior has been erratic, even when dealing with his own political party. As of late, he has not been acting normal at all. He has misspoke at times, can't remember at others. In addition, he has been hospitalized repeatedly in the last year for a variety of illnesses. He has taken to having two "aides" at his side at all times. Two guesses as to who, or should I say what, they really are. You see Jack, the body is dying. The alien implant inside the body is spending as much energy as possible in an attempt to keep it going, but eventually it will lose it's fight with mortality.

The two aides have been sent to collect the alien parasite once Strom Thurmond's body has finally died. They want to do this quietly so that the alien can be implanted into another U.S. Senator, like Jesse Helms. This is only scratching the surface however, the real question is, why are the aliens are here. What is their purpose?"

Jack just looked at me for what seemed an eternity. He took a long drink of water, and thought for a bit. I could hear the mouse in his brain turning the gears. Taking a deep breath, and looking me in the eye he said,

"Well I can see why you wanted to see me. The way you put it, it sounds very serious... to you. Tell me Ray, has it occurred to you that this sounds like an X-Files episode?"

"Actually, it's more Invasion of the Body Snatchers." I hated to correct Jack cause he immediately got that pissy look in his eyes, but it had to be done.

"I mean," he said harshly, "that this is over the top. This is TV science fiction. It's some asshole on the internet twisting the truth and jerking people off. Tell me, do you actually know what Placebo means?"

I stretched out in my chair and thought for a minute. Then I just half assed guessed.

"Isn't it a medication of some kind?" I said with a look of perfect innocence on my face.

"Well, it's a type of pill. It's a fake. A fraud. It's a pill that they give to hypochondriacs that demand medication. It's a sugar pill that is harmless, and causes no effects, but hypochondriacs think it magically cures all their problems." he stated as he set his hands in his lap, and leaned back in that wonderful chair.

I was wondering what Jack was getting at.

"Jack, what are you getting at?" I asked.

He again came forward in his chair, this time speaking a bit slower, and a lot softer.

"Ray, you've been a great client a long time, and you know that I have always tried to help you with advise, whether it's legal, financial, or personal. Trust me on this, and please don't do anything stupid, this Placebo guy is just messing with you and others on the net."

I couldn't believe Jack was saying this. The evidence was so clear. With a startled look I asked him,

"Are you telling me that you think all the evidence is fake, and just like that, you're going to dismiss this entire conversation?"

He calmly got up from his chair, and came around his desk. He pulled up one of the smaller chairs so we were looking face to face, just inches apart.

"No, no listen to me," he said quickly, effectively, but softly. "I heard everything you said, and yes, at first I thought it was hilarious, but now I'm concerned because you seem to be taking this too far. This theory, if you can call it that, has more holes in it than Swiss cheese."

According to your logic, why would aliens want a dead body to implant a parasite in, if Thurmond was dead at the time of implantation? This Placebo guy said that the parasite needs a live body to survive, but he contradicted himself by saying that Thurmond had already died while in Area 51."

"O' Lord I can't believe I just said that," he mumbled under his breath quickly. However, he quickly regained his thoughts."

"Not only is this guy a liar, but he's a bad liar at that."

"Another thing," he exclaimed while still sitting only inches from me. "Why control the GOP? Sure, they have the money, but their conservative philosophies might make it hard for them to accomplish an "alien agenda."

He was starting to get on a roll, speaking louder and louder.

"Why come to America at all? Trying to climb up our political ranks is impossible, trust me I know. Why not go to Iran, Iraq, or one of the former Soviet republics? They could climb the political ladder a lot faster over there.

He kept getting a little closer. I could start to feel his breathe on my neck.

You know," he started to shout. "I can't believe I'm even arguing with you about this! I don't even believe in aliens! The other stuff you bring me week in and week out I can deal with. Drugs, yeah so what. Explosives, sure why not. But, aliens in D.C. Come on! You don't need a lawyer, you need a psychologist and a padded cell."

He was almost standing with his hands resting on the arms of my chair by the time he finished.

"Uh Jack," I interrupted. "Do you need a Nardol and Vicodin? See, I'm just trying to save the world man, and I just thought you might want to come along for the ride. I didn't expect you to go Tony Soprano all over me."

I knew he was upset. Whether it was because of his straight edge moral beliefs that left him unprepared for the event of an alien invasion, or because he hadn't been getting any lately, I suspected that he just wasn't ready for this.

"Ok, let me calm down," Jack said.

He stood all the way up, and walked back over to his big comfy cow chair. After taking a drink of water, and rubbing his temples he said to me,

"To tell you the truth, I just wasn't ready for this. When you came in here, I thought you were going to take me dynamite fishing with you this weekend."

I thought that wasn't a bad idea, but I had other things to do.

"Listen, we can go fishing when the earth isn't being invaded. Although, I did just get a full case of dynamite from one of my friends in Madagascar. Traded him a few cartons of Marlboros. I think we both came out ahead."

"If I could get us back on track here," Jack interrupted... again. "As your lawyer how about if I suggest a compromise."

That's what I liked about Jack, he was quick on his toes, however, he danced like shit, but that's another story.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked.

I was anxious to see what he had thought up in just ten minutes. Like I said, he was fast off the cuff.

"First off, do not kill or harm anybody. Ok. That's a must. If you want answers about Senator Thurmond, look up things on public record. Then contact this webmaster about things you know are true, and see if he falters. I guarantee he will. Again, this guy is a fake who either has way too much free time on his hands, or gets his rocks off by jerking people around. Don't waste your time with this stuff. That's the best advice I could give you. That, and don't kill anyone," he said as he leaned back in his chair, proud of himself.

"So what you're saying is that, this is just some guy who enjoys messing with people in his spare time?" I asked.

"Exactly," Jack said with a strong look in his eyes.

"One man who messes with another just for the fun of it? Why? Why would he do that?" I asked while shaking my head in wonderment.

"Maybe he's ill rational. Maybe he's lonely, or has nothing better to do. I don't claim to know or understand those types. All I know is that they are out there, and sometimes we have to look out for them," Jack said with a look of satisfaction in his eyes.

That's the look he gets whenever he feels he's won an argument, or any verbal battle. That was my Jack. I knew the alien business would get him at first, but he never fails me. Like a true high powered attorney, he comes across great. Everyone should have their own personal lawyer. It's sad that some people don't. It's even sadder that some people actually believe in aliens.

School Dayz: Second Week In: Scholarship Edition

I just completed my second week of school at Erwin Technical College (formerly Erwin Vo. Tech.)  On Friday all of our tools came in.  And it wasn't just a few tools.  It was $1200 worth of tools. 

However, instead of pulling a "Tim Allen" and talking about tools, I wanted to talk about something a little different.  I wanted to talk about how I received those tools.  I know you're thinking, "Well, with cold hard cash right?"  In a sense that's correct, but it's a bit deeper than that.  So let me start at the beginning.

The first thing I did was talk to "Employ Florida" about going back to school.  They sent me to the Social Services section of Hillsborough County.  (It's still in the same building.)  To go to Erwin, I would have to apply for a Pell grant, then get turned down for the Pell grant since I have a Bachelor's degree.  Then, Hillsborough County would help out with their Greater Opportunities program.  Their reasoning is that, "It's better to pay to send me to school than pay for me to collect unemployment."

So, my tuition, books, and tools were all covered by the program.  For 15 months of school, the cost was around 3,700.  The tools were $1200, and the books were $400.  So it totaled a bit over $5.300.  Compared to the for profit schools Erwin is a fantastic deal.  At that cost the school isn't making any money.  The program is 15 months, and there are 15 people in my class.  I have two and sometimes three instructors at a time.  So I have to say it's a great deal, and a great program.

I know a lot of people complain about, "What is government doing for the people?"  Well, this is a social service that I believe that people can get behind.  I think this is the kind of thing that government should be doing.  And I have to admit, I am thankful for it.  I am very thankful.     

So I have come away with a new point of view on scholarships.  I always knew they were important, but now it's a bit more personal for me.  Otherwise, I don't think I would have been able to go back to school.  So I extend a very heartfelt, "Thank you Hillsborough County."

Back to School: First Week In

I'm almost hesitant to write a blog about going back to school.  After the first week I don't feel so smart.  But let me start at the beginning.

So, I managed to enroll, then get in an earlier class, then I got my financial aid all lined up to attend Erwin Vo. Tech.  Of all the funny things I found out, they changed the name to Erwin Technical College.  I guess they did that so it sounds more prestigious. 

This past Monday was my first day.  My two instructors shoved a bunch of info at us at once.  But even they admitted that they were trying to change up the things we learned during the day.  You know when you went to grade school you had English, math, social studies, and so on?  Well, we have been learning the basic design of A/C, OSHA certification, and basic tools.  So three courses are split up over six hours. 

I have a huge book on HVAC/R but it overwhelming.  It also costs $200.  While it is technically correct on everything, I feel a lot of it is going over my head at the moment.  I know it's only the first week, but I am really worried that I won't be able to keep up.  My two instructors tell us not to worry, in that, they are teaching us the basics of HVAC/R before we even get to that chapter. 

On a strange side note, my instructor Raul looks a lot like Conrad Keely of the band, ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead.

But back to my worries.  As I look back on my blogs I see past blogs when I was hopeful, when I was confused, and when I had interesting ideas.  I also look back and see when I was extremely wrong about something, or about to make a major mistake in my life. 

I worry that I will look back at this post, and see where I was trying to turn my life around, but managed to screw it up.  I know I don't handle stress well, and am worried that something bad will happen. 

Having to learn all these new terms has me extremely stressed.  It's not like when I was college that I learned English after taking 12 years of English.  At that point I was just building on what I had already learned.  Right now, I am starting from the very bottom, and I feel like a child trying to learn math for the first time. 

As school goes on I will update my blog for better or for worse.  With a little luck, it may not be that exciting at all.  I kind of hope it will be nice and boring.