The next position I held as a carnie was that of jointy. Now the job of a jointy is to part rubes with as much of your hard earned money as possible by first luring them in with various cat calls and other interesting remarks and second talking you into the game and then not giving you shit unless he just had to. I was good at this, I was real good at this. I could get more marks to belly up to that bar to bust one to win one that it was just insane. On a good night at a good fair I could clear five hundred dollars tax-free and that was making fifteen cents on the dollar. And of course the people I worked for loved me cause I was making them a shitload more money than I was making for my self. I believe they would think to themselves “so what if he looks a little young, so what is he has no ID, he brings in the cash and that’s all that matters”. I ran every game from the bust one to win one to the flat store. I would take a mark’s money as fast as he could pull it out of his pocket. It was an interesting life to live. You either slept on the ground or in your game unless you got tired of that then you would rent a hotel room for a night or two. Traveling with the carnival I learned how to drive, grift or con (which is a fine art in itself), chase women and how the side shoe really works. I can remember the very first time I ever drove, I was taking a game to the Houston livestock show and rodeo; the rig I was in was a Chevy dully and I was pulling a thirty-five foot trailer behind me through rush hour traffic. I can still taste the vinyl from the seat covers in the back of my throat. I have seen much of the country from this experience and even though it was a nasty life it kept me fed and clothed, and I really enjoyed it. I have many, many stories that I could tell you about the carnival and about being a grifter. This is just kind of a rough draft to put some memories on paper. Anyway, back to my story, I traveled with the carnival for about two to two and a half years, maybe even three. Time gets kind of funny when it doesn’t mean anything to you and in a life like that you don’t need time so I know that I was with it for at least two years.

One fateful day in Deland, Florida a group of bunco agents raided the group I was with and gave us a good shakedown. They checked us for ID’s which I did not have, they checked us for drugs which I did have, and they checked our employer for federal gaming stamps which he did not have. So we all got to go to jail and after a long interrogation and a real interesting routine of good-cop/bad-cop I finally gave in and told them that I was thirteen and was a runaway from Texas and had been gone for a very long time. They checked this information and found out that it was true and promptly took me to a runaway shelter.

The runaway shelter after my arrival first gave me a shower cause I was stinking something fierce and then called my mother. Now that was an interesting conversation because the Texas police already told my mother that I was a lost cause and was probably dead somewhere. At first my mother told them that I was dead, and after a few minutes of convincing her that I was not dead they gave me the phone. I talked to her for a few minutes and the conversation went kind of like this. She asked my why I hadn’t called in the last two years, I told her that I was under the influence, that she did not care then she asks me how I got to where I was and I told her that I traveled with the carnival. The counselor that was listening in then asked her how she would like to get me home and she replied “tell hem to get home the same way he got there” and then hung up the phone. Well they couldn’t do that so they put me on a bus with no money for food and an escort. I wanted to point out the no money for food because I went without eating for about six days while the escort ate real well. Well we arrived in Waco on a Friday, the escort called my mother and she came and picked me up. The next day I was enrolled back in school and I was left to live alone while she went back on the road. Well by then her and Harry had moved out of the rat hole and into another house. To say the least it was a lot nicer of a place and I was left one hundred dollars to live on for a month while she was out on the road. Well that wasn’t too bad. But still I could not stand school.

The new school that I was in was in Bruceville Eddy. Yes we had made a circle. Bruceville was still a small backwater town. I think the only addition that was made to the town was they now had indoor plumbing in most of the houses. Well I really did not get along good with most of the other kids in school. I was in junior high, they had to do a lot of tests to decide where to put me because even after being out of school for so long I was still advanced from most of the kids. The biggest problem I had in school now was getting along with others because even though most of them were the same age as me, I was not a kid anymore. The stuff that the other kids did would have gotten you killed in the real world that I just came out of but I did manage to make one friend and that was Jim or should I say Jim’s father Tom.

Tom was an importer of sorts. His main means of making a living was the importation of opium, weed, and coke into the United States and then distributing it to smaller figures in the underground. Me and Tom hit it off the first time we met. He found in me a son that was expendable, but someone that he could show the family business to. And someone that he could trust, love, and not worry too much if I got killed because I was not his real son. although he did treat me like one. Tom also believed that I could someday take over his business and not ruin it and still take care of his family. Tom did as much as he could to keep his own child safe and one way of doing that was by not letting him in on too much. Well Tom was also the first person to give me my first gun and teach me to shoot. The pistol was a small snub-nosed thirty-eight. I believe it was a five shot, and was black with a shaved hammer and no trigger guard. Tom took me out to his hunting cabin every weekend to teach me how to shoot. His cabin was on the bank of White Rock Creek. That cabin was also used for other miscellaneous activities that I would find out about later.

The first job I ever did for Tom was that of being a mule. A mule is someone that moves or delivers stuff for you. What I would do is I would pick up a car that was loaded--usually the tires were full of drugs--and I would take this car to a specified place, park it, and hopefully there would be another car there with either a bag or something with money in it. If the other vehicle was not there I left. No second chances--if it was not there I was gone. Or, if someone else was there that I could see I was gone. Fortunately I never had to use the guns I was provided. I also got to see a lot of the world with Tom. After a little while Tom convinced my mother to give him rights over me which she did. she kept custody of me but Tom could act as a legal guardian. So Tom took me and got me a passport and our next stop was Thailand. Tom would do most of his importing from there and he also enjoyed the opium dens. Anyway, Tom would go to a friend’s house that lived there and would buy whatever he needed, have it taken to his plane and loaded up, then Tom would go lay up in a den for a day or two. My place in all this was to be the big motherfucker that stood behind Tom with a gun showing. A little note about Thailand is that most of the small villages are somewhat lawless and the one that Tom would frequent also had private airstrips. Once we were ready to leave we would fly back to the US and land at another private airstrip outside of Waco near Rock Creek where Tom’s people would $ 2>We also made frequent trips to Turkey to buy hash, opium, and weed. After about a year of doing this kind of stuff Tom figured to bring me in a little deeper and show me more of his world. This is where I found out what the hunting cabin was used for. Tom would front to dealers and also loan money out to people at a small rate of interest. He would give them lots of chances to pay up before he gave them a warning and when he gave that warning they listened and Tom would have his money a few days after. Tom’s warnings were blunt to say the least. What he would do was send someone out to find the said offender and kidnap them and bring them back to the hunting cabin where they were stripped of all their clothing and tied to a straight-back wooden chair. Then Tom would take off the blindfold and politely ask if he could have his money now. If the person had the money Tom would allow them to get dressed and we would go get the money. If they didn’t have the money Tom would smack ‘em upside the head, slap them around a little, then he would get out his staple gun and staple the offender’s scrotum to the chair. He would leave their cloths there and give them a pair of pliers, tell them that if they went to the police “it would all end” and we would leave. I only attended about two of these little parties, I just did not care for them. And I shudder to think what else might have happened there at that cabin.

Well I worked and lived with Tom till I was seventeen and by that time I had developed a really nasty coke and speed habit. Being fried on speed, weed, and coke is how I learned to deal with some of Tom’s business. And I had just learned to shoot up meth and heroin which at that time was just another way to cope. I feel today that if I kept going the way I was going I would have been dead in less than year because someone would have killed me or I would have killed myself. Which might not have been so bad.

It was December 19, 1989. I was supposed to fly out that night to go to Turkey with Tom to do business. But I was sick, bad sick. I had Hepatitis and did not know it. I called a few of my friends over. I decided that since I wasn’t going out of town I would party a little. I could not think of anything that would make me feel better other then getting stoned. So I was at my mother’s house. Tom didn’t like me bringing my friends around. He would tell me that we had no place for friends in the type of life we were leading and I guess he was right. I had a few friends; they where Danny, Chad, and Robert, besides Tom’s son who Tom did not allow to go anywhere with me. Anyway we were all sitting around smoking premos (weed mixed with crack) and snorting coke and speed. We had partied all night long and well into the next day and were all severely fucked up. We had just run out of weed and were sitting there smoking our last joint. I was taking a hit when Danny picked up my pistol off of the coffee table. At that time I was carrying a 44-40 Smith & Wesson revolver and all the bullets where laid on the table besides the gun or so we thought. Danny was wanting me to pass the joint his way so playing around he picked up the gun and pointed it at me and pulled the trigger the gun just went click. Well, me playing around back, I picked up the gun and pointed it back at him and pulled the trigger and instead of just going click the gun went off hitting Danny in the side of the head. I can recount what happened almost play-by-play after that because the images of his death are permanently stuck in my head.

After a few minutes of intense panic I called the police to try to tell them what I had done. The dispatcher told me to stop prank calling the police station and hung up on me. So I drove myself to the Waco police station and turned myself in. I went into the station, walked up to the first person I saw, and asked to speak to a detective. The receptionist I spoke to told me to go away, that she had no time for jokes. I explained to her that it was no joke. She called a detective up to talk to me. I told the detective what had happened and being that it was out of Waco’s jurisdiction she called the county sheriff’s office and told them. They came and picked me up and I took them back to my mother’s house where they, after going into my house, read me my rights and handcuffed me.

The officer radioed for backup and once they arrived, read me my rights once again. After about three hours of sitting in the back of a police car they finally took me to the county jail. It was December 20, 1989 about five or six in the evening, and I was sick as a dog. I had just killed a good friend of mine. I was in one hell of a state of shock as soon as I was booked I was asked to have a powder test done on my hand, which I had agreed to, then I had a urine sample taken and some blood taken by a nurse. As soon as the nurse saw that color of my piss I was immediately confined in a segregation cell. Let me tell you of the tricks the human mind can do when a person whom has a conscience and has just killed someone that was close to them. That month and a half I spent in that confinement cell with noone to talk to almost drove me crazy. The only time I would see anyone was only one day a week when I was allowed to shower and see the doctor. I would wake up from sleep after having nightmares over what I had done. I started seeing things that were not there. As I look back on it now I don’t quite understand how I managed to hold on to my sanity at all but it was a living hell. Finally I had all that I could take so I was able to pry off a piece of metal from the hospital bed that was in that cell. It took me a few days but I managed to sharpen the metal to where it was sharp enough to cut flesh and so I slit my wrists and laid down to hopefully go to sleep.

TUNE IN SUNDAY FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION AND FIND OUT IF JYATES IS DEAD OR NOT

Now that the holiday season is over, it's time to buckle down and take care of things. Tidy up the loose ends you've left at work and you could have a great week. Don't meddle in others' affairs of the heart this week. You don't want to be the one responsible for what could happen.

Now what this really means is...

Hopefully, they didn’t find anyone that could figure just what the hell you have been doing at work and you still have a job. Plead ignorance when asked about the whereabouts of your pal the other night. You will only wind up sharing a hospital room if you stick up for him.

Things you've put off because of the season should now be taken care of. Don't relax too much at work- the supervisors are watching and do not approve. Keep up the energy level and things will be much smoother in a few weeks. Your sudden independent streak in your romantic life is causing mixed feelings with your mate. Take the time to share with them how you're feeling and they'll understand.

Now what this really means is...

They are going to repo your car if you don’t get a payment in. Someone in management can’t seem to figure out exactly what you DO. You need to make something up that appears productive. You need to reaffirm to your mate that you are only going to the bar every night because you have a drinking problem and not for the company.

You're feeling very creative this week- take advantage of it and let the holiday stress melt away. You're going to be very lucky in love if you pursue that person you've been gazing at from afar. Married Gemini's will also feel a rekindling of passion on the home front. You'll also notice that you're extremely lucky this week, as long as you're careful where you're spending your money.

Now what this really means is...

Return all those stupid gifts your relatives bought you, go buy a paintball gun with the money and do a few drivebys of your relative’s houses and redecorate for them. The person you have been watching in their bedroom with your binoculars knows you are watching. Don’t spend money.

If you've been having problems with your property, it would be best to sell now. The problems won't go away by themselves. You continue to have good fortune in the romance department, as long as you don't let a friend talk you into an emotional mistake. Travel is in the stars for you in the next couple weeks.

Now what this really means is...

You know that spec property you bought in the 100-year flood plain? It’s the 99th year. Your buddies are bullshitting you, she NEVER told anyone she wanted to be wakened to anal sex. You may be either deported or kidnapped by aliens.

It seems that the new year was only the beginning of your social calendar. Parties, parties, and more parties are on your agenda this week. Take the initiative and look into the classes you've been interested in. You'll feel the urge to step into the middle of a friend's relationship in the coming weeks. If you do, you risk losing them.

Now what this really means is...

You will try to keep your New Year’s resolution to drink more. That hot thing in the bar is taking the pottery class you looked into at the community college. Sign up and get a copy of ‘Unchained Melody’. Letting your neighbor screw you to get back at her husband may get you castrated.

Now that the holidays are over, it's time to implement that plan you've been holding off on. If you wait much longer, it will never come to fruition. Be careful what you say at work this week, as an argument with a co-worker could cost you your job. Relationship trouble may crop up in the next few days- don't take your work stress out on your mate.

Now what this really means is...

If you don’t go ahead with that liver transplant you have been wanting, your brother may come out of the coma and rescind the living will he signed. Keep your debate with the jerk who works next to you at a manageable level, beating him to a bloody pulp with his keyboard is a major breach of company policy. When your mate tells you to quit whining about the jerk at work, try not to beat her to a bloody pulp with your keyboard as you will be unable to type in your password to your porn site.

Your relatives are starting to get on your nerves. Just be patient, as they will be leaving this week. A so called friend that you have helped out in the past may not be there for you this week. But you had a feeling this would happen. Stay patient on the work front and you'll finally start receiving recognition for your efforts.

Now what this really means is...

Plotting the death of your visiting family is futile. Your drinking buddy only agreed to kill them for you because he was drunk; he will back out when he sobers up. Quit screaming, "SLACKERS!!!" at your co-workers. The boss knows.

You should be proud of the way you held on to your patience this holiday season. If there are mechanical problems with any of your property this week, swallow your pride and consult a professional. You continue to feel outgoing and energetic this week. Take advantage and drag your friends out for a game or two in the park.

Now what this really means is...

You have managed to get through another holiday without committing murder, out of character but commendable in some circles. Yes, electrical work looks easy. Yes, you can die from electrocution. Call an electrician, trust me. Your hoodlum friends are still badly hung over, great time for a high stakes round of golf.

Making new friends from the parties you've attended this past holiday could pay off financially. Keep those phone numbers and nurture those relationships. Now is the time to start that home improvement project you've been thinking about.

Now what this really means is...

You may actually be able to get that idiot you met at the Christmas party to invest in your ‘Raising Frogs for Fun and Profit in your own home Kit’ scheme. You really need to replace the porch steps you crashed into when you came home shitfaced New Year’s eve. Your mate is going to get sick of climbing the trellis with a bag of groceries rather quickly.

Show your supervisors your leadership skills this week. Take control of the project that no one wants, and you'll earn new respect from your co-workers. Now that everyone is out of the house, you can freshen up your living surroundings. You may feel an urge to travel sometime this week. If the chance comes up, take it.

Now what this really means is...

Your boss is dreading having to fire his idiot nephew, offer to do it for him. It will also make your coworkers nervous when they see you have that power. There is no reason why you shouldn’t drag the refrigerator over by your Lazyboy with the family gone. Plus their absence means you need no excuses for going on a road trip touring Strip Joints with your buddies.

You've been having ideas about freshening up your website, with the possibility of a financial gain. It's a great idea that will pay off in the future. You'll have convince your co-workers of the soundness of your latest project. If you push it through, they'll be happily surprised at the results you deliver.

Now what this really means is...

Naked teenaged lesbian vegetarians will go over big on your website. Your co-workers will have doubts until they see your ‘fun with citrus’ section which should get you over a million hits a week.

Someone at work may be leaving this week. Take the initiative to offer yourself up for the higher position. Even if it seems like the job requirements are beyond your capability, your supervisors will have faith in you. When talking to others about your personal problems this week, remember to try and point out the positives. Dwelling on the negatives will lead to rumours that you won't like.

Now what this really means is...

You may get a promotion but you may have to put out to the boss to get it. You are incapable of doing the work but if you keep putting out, they won’t notice. It is OK to brag about the promotion and whine about how difficult the job is but don’t talk about what a lousy lay your boss is.

One of my first memories is of Sea-O-Rama in Galveston. Well I have to say that is my first memory. I don’t remember much cause I was I guess only about one year of age but what I saw did make a mark. What I remember is that there was this giant black and white thing that jumped up and took something out of some person’s mouth. Then I did not understand it but now I do; it was a killer whale that jumped up out of a big pool and took a fish out of its trainer’s mouth. I also remember there was another baby there with me who I later found out was my cousin.

Now we fast-forward about four years to the small town of Bruceville Eddy. Now Bruceville is one of those small backwater country towns where your supply of sunlight is pumped into you. I remember that I lived on a farm there where we had cows, chickens, dogs, and a goat. My best friends that I had at that time where a collie named Sugar, the goat named Nanny, and a big red rooster named Applejack who rode on my shoulder. I remember having a lot of fun at that time in my life. A few things stick out in my mind about that time, the first of which is that goat. My mother raised that goat from a baby. I mean she bottle-fed it; the first few weeks of its life it even slept in the bed with her and my dad. But mom would soon learn that was a mistake cause when the goat grew up it still wanted to sleep in that bed. Every time that nanny would see the door of our house open she would make a mad dash for it, knocking over whomever might be in the way then down the hall she would go into my mom’s room and jump into the bed, grab the covers, and get comfy. Then mom would have to go and fight the goat out of her bed and drag nanny kicking and screaming down the hall and back out the door.

The next memory I have of that time period was me finding a snake. It was a beautiful copper-gold color with a spear-shaped head and catlike eyes that where also a golden color. The snake seemed to stand straight up when I walked up on it and must have been at least four-foot long. I have to say I was fascinated with it cause I walked up to it and picked it right up and went straight to my father to show him my newfound friend. My dad was not amused. He did not think that Mr. Snake made a good friend at all cause he grabbed the snake out of my hand and promptly cut its head off with a shovel. I cried for hours over my newfound friend recently deceased. I later in life found out that Mr. Snake was a copperhead but I have to admit to this day snakes still amaze me and I have studied and kept quite a few of them both of the poisonous and nonpoisonous varieties.

Now one thing I came to realize, as a child, is that we moved around a lot. Later I learned that was because of my father’s dislike of having to pay the government. The man, to my knowledge, still owes the government an unknown (to me) amount of money. My father was for the most part a hard working man. His main means of survival was the auto body trade and most of his pay was under the table. And so he would work in a given town doing the normal auto shop scams until either the local police or the government would start to catch on then we would move on. So that made for us never staying in one place for more than a year or two. And in turn that affected me in one major way. I was always a loner who yearned to have friends but was afraid to make them only to lose them a short time latter. Another thing I learned about Gene was that he liked his scotch and women a whole lot. As a matter of fact he enjoyed those a lot more than his family. Eventually Gene tired of moving and settled for about three years in the suburb of Richland Hills in Ft Worth where he worked at Lee’s paint and body shop. Gene was a fairly good teacher he taught Lee the owner of the shop the fine art of tax evasion and he taught me at a young age how to rebuild a motor.

The first school I ever attended was North Richland Hills elementary school where my teachers quickly discovered that I was a little different from the other students. I bored real easily of the lessons that they taught and my spelling and handwriting sucked. But math, science, and reading--along with my comprehension skills—were things I excelled at and as a matter of fact I could read long before I ever set foot in a classroom. So by me being different from the other children, I was placed in classes with other kids that were different and only allowed interacting with the rest of the school during planned functions or recess and lunch. But being in these types of classes was a lot more fun than being with the other kids because it kept me interested in what I was learning. The classroom environment was more interesting, most of the work was harder, and so it kept my attention and we did a lot more than the other kids in school got to do. We would go on field trips to the public library at least every other weak, the class would go to a different museum once a month, and we got special test done every other month. But unfortunately this was short lived because it was time to move again. I later in life found out that this class I was in was a test bed that the gifted and talented classes are based upon now. The special tests that were given to me every other month were a combination of psychological, academic, and IQ tests.

The next stop was the small town of Aledo, Texas. Aledo is located between Ft Worth and Weatherford, Texas. I was around the age of six to nine here and I have to say that this is where my childhood was about to end. Although we lived in Aledo longer than we ever lived anywhere else, and up until this point my life to me seemed normal. Although it felt strange living in one place for so long, but mom and Gene where not getting along too great. I spent many nights listening to them fight or hearing my father beat my mother. Well as Gene got worse with his drinking the beatings went from my mother to me and my mother so we both learned to walk on egg shells around him and do everything possible to keep him happy. The only times I remember being happy around Gene is when we would go camping. For one, he would lay off the scotch and only drink beer, which would not make him as mean. And two, he would go out hunting alone for two days at a time.

You see I had this uncle who owned a peanut farm in Dueleion, Texas. For those of you that don’t know that’s fifteen miles right out side of Blanket, Texas (look it up on a map). This peanut farm encompassed about (just a wild guess here) 2000 acres of land with some of the best deer, bird, and cougar hunting to be found in Texas, not to mention the fishing. Uncle Stacy had two lakes on his farm and a few ponds. The ponds were mostly for swimming. The lakes, on the other hand, were for fishing. One lake was somewhere around one hundred and fifty acres big and the other was at least one hundred, and both had to be at least 50 feet deep. Uncle Stacy would stock these lakes every other year with an assortment of game fish. And to make sure the fish would get enough to eat he would take two hundred pounds of dog food out to each lake once a day, load it up in his paddle boat, and paddle to the center of the lake and dump it all in. There were catfish in those lakes that where bigger than most men.

Whenever Stacy knew we were coming out camping, two weeks beforehand he would stop feeding the fish. We always caught something in those lakes. Also Stacy would have a fish bake for us when we would be there and he would catch the fish himself. Usually only one fish would do. Stacy would go out in the middle of the lake with a deep sea fishing pole with the biggest fish hook you could ever see baited with a stinking piece of meet and drop it in. Now back on the bank there would be someone with a wench truck waiting. Within a few minutes you could see the paddleboat start to lean over almost capsizing and the deep-sea rod would be almost bent in half. Uncle Stacy had dinner on the line. It would be either a channel cat or a yellow cat but he would fight the big fish up to the side of his boat and when it was close enough he would slam a hay hook into the fish. Usually he would try for its head or he would shoot the fish in the head then get it with the hay hook. When he gave the signal the person with the wench truck would wench the fish to the shore where it would be cleaned. I have learned from my mother that most of those fish would weigh around one to two hundred pounds. Can you imagine a two hundred-pound catfish? But during the summers we would spend anywhere from two weeks to two months on that peanut farm. I have to say I loved it.

Another highlight of our stays at the peanut farm was harvesting fresh honey. There is nothing that I can think of that tastes better than fresh honey, the kind that you yourself squeezed out of the comb. I used to just love to go raid the beehives. But our trips where always too short for my liking; we always had to go home. Once back home it would all start over again--the drinking, the beatings, and so on.

School at Aledo sucked for the most part. They really did not know what to do with some one like me, and so they stuck me in the resource classes. The poor teachers in those classes where dumfounded with me; there was nothing they could give me to keep me busy. The work they would give the other kids that took them hours to do would take me minutes. And I have to say that reading the Dick and Jane books sucked Dick. So they made me help teach the other kids in the class which was nice but soon led to resentment from my classmates, so the only friends I had in school were the other teachers.

Back at home things were getting worse. Mom and Gene fought all the time--not just yelling and arguing, but actual fighting with fists and shit. I remember helping my dad put up a fence to keep our horses in and I kept doing something wrong so instead of showing me what to do he picked up a two by four that was about five foot long and beat me with it. We finished putting up the fence and went home. He did not hit me in the face with it, but he did hit me in the ribs, chest, and legs. I remember later that night my mother over my father wishes rushed me to the hospital because I was having trouble breathing. Chest X-rays where done and it was found that I had a punctured lung and all of my ribs where broken. So I got to wear this neat chest brace for what felt like forever. It was not soon after that, that mom and Gene split up.

The last fond memory I have of Gene was the last night mom and me moved out (got kicked out). It was the normal nightly fight when mom or maybe it was Gene had enough. Well mom went and tried to pack her clothes and Gene would not let her. So mom came into my bedroom to get me. She told me that we were leaving. I did not know where Gene was at the time but I got up. We were headed down the hallway, I was in front of mom, when we heard the workings of a lever action 30-30 rifle. Mom tackled me and I heard the gun go off. It missed us. Mom got off of me and dragged me as fast as she could to the back door, opened it, and forced me out. By that time Gene had caught up to her. They were in the kitchen and I heard another blast. Scared for my mother I tried to get back in the house but the door was locked. I heard a crash of something big and hard hitting a wall (a chair) and then to my relief mom opened the door. Then I heard the lever of the rifle again. Mom turned around just in time to grab the barrel of the gun that was pointed at her head and raised it up. The gun went off again blowing a hole in the door seal. Gene jerked the gun from her hands and pushed mom down the steps backwards which were pretty steep and she landed on her back unconscious with blood coming out of her nose and mouth. I thought she was dead and all I could feel was hate for my dad, I could feel the hate for him in every part of my body, yes I was worried for my mother but at that moment all I wanted to do was kill my father. That feeling is something that no 9-year-old should ever even know. I picked up a shovel-it was the kind that you use to dig holes for posts with-and I ran at him. At the same time I could see him reloading his gun, I swung the shovel and hit him in the knees breaking one of them. He fell to the bottom of the steps where I could get to him. I raised the shovel above his head. My mother screamed NO! The shock and joy of knowing that she was not dead made me stop the shovel in mid swing. I dropped the shovel on Gene and ran to my mother’s side and helped her up. The first thing she did was kick the rifle out of Gene’s reach, then she went into the house, gathered me and some cloths and we left.

I believe that my childhood ended that night. Because the feelings that I had that night of wanting to kill another, especially my own farther, like I said is something no child should ever feel.

We drove from Aledo to Waco that night to my Aunt’s house. She took us in for a little while and we lived there for about 4 months. There again was an abusive man, his name was George Love. He too, like my father, was an alcoholic and thought that he liked to beat up on women and children. The reason we lived there for such a short period of time was that he tried to beat up on my aunt and her three kids a lot. The kids and me would go and hide in the travel trailer that mom had bought and lock him out but another thing mom had bought was a .410 shotgun. Well the last night we lived there George was beating up my aunt pretty good, and one of my cousins came running out to the camper to hide. Well I had seen enough of that shit I got the shotgun, loaded it, went into the house and into the room where they where fighting and took aim. George saw me and said “boy, I’ma gonna shove that thing up yur ass.” I shot him in the leg. My aunt called the ambulance (one of the EMT’s patted me on the back and said good job), then the sheriff showed up and took me off to Juvenile hall where I spent a month before I went on trial for attempted murder. The case was dismissed immediately after the judge read the report. And my uncle was brought up on charges of abuse and assault.

After that we moved into an old apartment complex in what could only be called “the ghetto”. That place had roaches that where so big that when stepped on the crunch would drown out the sound of the TV and if that wasn’t bad enough when me and mom ate dinner we had to fight with the rats over who got the first bite. Most of our neighbors there were fine upstanding citizens. I saw my first heroin junkie OD in the alley next to our apartment, he was shooting up in his neck. Well this is where life started to get fun; this is where I really started “living”. My mother after the divorce had to work three jobs to make ends meet. She would work during the week in a drapery shop and at night at a diner called Steak & Eggs and on the weekends she would hang drapes and wait tables at the diner and being that there was not much supervision on me I ran the streets.

I met a guy by the name of Ken. Ken was a street bastard of the worst kind. He preyed on people’s feelings and some of the things that I am going to reveal here is stuff that I have never told anyone. First Ken was bisexual or just a plain old pedophile that liked to play with little boys and being that I was a little naive boy at that time I was prime prey and I’ll leave it at that. He had an uncle that was the same, he was the first person to get me high and introduce me to cigarettes. Looking back on the time that I associated with him I learned stuff that no eleven-year-old should ever know. Ken had two major problems about himself: he enjoyed cocaine and speed a little too much and he could not handle his alcohol, and thanks to that he helped me get laid for my first time.

It was on my birthday I was turning twelve and Ken his girlfriend Connie and a friend of hers named Sherrie had a present planed for me. Sherrie’s family owned an old farmhouse that my birthday party was held at. There was a lot of whiskey there and Ken drank as always more than his share and passed out. That was when the fun started. Both of the ladies that were there were over 21 and knew a lot more about the ways of the world than I did. Hell, I hadn’t even figured out how to jack-off at that time. Sherrie, after a few beers, came over to me and took off her shirt and bra. Now being that it was the first time that I had ever seen a woman’s breast, well I almost came in my paints right there and since Ken was completely passed out Connie did the same. The two women laid me down on an old mattress and proceeded to undress me. I swear I had such a hard on that it hurt. When they got my cloths off Connie started to kiss and suck all over my chest while Sherrie played with my testicles and sucked on my dick. I swear I came as soon as she put her hands on it but she just wiped it off and started sucking on it. It was back up again in no time. Connie saw that I was good and hard again and got on top of me. This was the first time that my dick had ever been inside of a woman and it felt good. I loved it. Sherrie straddled my face and instructed me in what to do. Soon in felt like my balls were going to explode and they did but Connie kept going and I never lost my hard-on. she stayed on top on me for a few more minutes before she got off. Then she went into the washroom and cleaned herself up. While she was doing that Sherrie took Connie’s place and rode me for what seemed like hours. Soon Connie was back and she climbed onto my face and I went to work. Soon after that I came again. Then I was spent. The two girls tried to get it back up but it just wasn’t happening, I was done for the night. One thing I shall add is that Sherrie was a redhead and Connie was a blonde. I have been hooked on redheads and blondes ever since.

Life was just a little different with Gene not around. For one, I didn’t have to worry about getting the shit beat out of me at random and mom was a lot happier. But there was one problem. Mom, being a woman, had all the normal urges that all women have. There was just one problem. No one really cared to have a woman with a twelve-year-old kid, or at least not the men she went out with.

Mom went out with a lot of different men but she finely settled down with Harry. Harry was a very large man from what I remember. I believe he weighed in at about five or six hundred pounds and he was a truck driver. Now being that he drove a truck he expected mom to go with him and so she did. I was sent to live with a woman named Irene. Irene was not a bad person, at that time she was my mom’s best friend and she had three kids of her own. I did not care much for this arrangement and with a little help with Harry (he told me that him and my mother did not want me around), I ran away and being that I liked to eat and I was only twelve I could not get work anywhere. And I am not the type to whore myself out, so I hooked up with the carnival.

YEAH, YOU THINK YOU'VE LIVED!? OUR BOY JYATES HERE HAS MORE LIFE EXPERIENCES IN HIS LEFT FOOT THEN YOU DO IN YOUR FAMILY TREE!!! TUNE IN FRIDAY FOR PART TWO OF THE FIRST ASYLUM SERIAL!!!!

Also, check out the cam portals. We have added quite a handful of new ones in the last few days, most recently illussion and Logan. Note to cam people: try to update with some regularity, k? I have been staring at that same damned pic of Shnakeman for far too long now.

Everybody is returning from their holidays, hope all of them went well, everything around here is picking up once again.

By the time Carol was a year old, she was given to her grandparents to lived in a small house that was shared with eight other children, as her parents left for her father to pursue a career in the United States Army. Understandably, she recalls little from the first few years of her life, mostly what she’s been told from other family members. Though to her, the lack of memories means that there wasn’t a horribly traumatic event to scar her and she accepts those early years, although faded, with great appreciation.

From four to eight years old, she was again living with her birth parents and now had two younger siblings, Cathy and Jimmy. Cathy, two years younger then Carol and Jimmy, four years younger would be faced with much less physical abuse, although the abuse would still be greatly prevalent in their lives. Carol, however, would prove to be the object of unthinkable cruelty throughout the next few years, and be left with recollections of beatings that would remain with her to this day.

Memories are painfully pieced together as she fights the urge to forget her past. On one occasion, she recalls being very young and walking hand in hand with her brother and sister to their house after school. Upon opening the door they were faced with their father lying on the floor, drunk and almost completely naked, with a loaded shotgun in his hand. In all of her youthful innocence, she asked her Daddy what he was doing. His reply, “I’m going to kill your mother when she gets home.” Thankfully, Carol knew to get help and the situation ended there, although they were returned home to their parents that evening.

She knows that was certainly not the beginning of her horrid childhood experiences, or was it to be the end. With a laugh she tells of being dragged out of bed by her hair and forced to wash every dish in the cabinet because she failed to clean a single bowl that was left in the sink. She doesn’t remember her exact age, only that she had to stand on a stool to reach the sink. And then laughs again and tells how she use to steal cigarettes from the store in hopes it would please her father and she would be spared a beating for the night. I’ve noticed that laugh is always present as she searches her mind for the events of her past that she’s tried to bury, but always seem to resurface. She laughs not to cry, I suppose, and to hide her humiliation. It’s a laugh of pain and disgust and one of shame that isn‘t hers to own, although she‘s adopted it all the same. It’s a laugh that I would strip her of forever if I only knew how.

It both amazes and sickens me to think that there was a time where a child could be abused so frequently and no one would intervene. Beaten for her shoes wearing out, for the stove breaking or because her mother would have sex with any man in reach to get money. Left alone in an apartment for two months at the age of ten, yet too ashamed to ask for help. The burden that she’s placed on herself is heartbreaking to hear, let alone to carry. She carries with her the guilt of a family falling apart, of her grandfather’s gun related suicide that she was to be the first to discover and of years of abuse. Somehow, even though physically she has survived, mentally she has never left. She still remains the scared little girl that is afraid to go home because she’s scuffed her new shoes.

She’s lived her life striving to please everyone around her, never taking the time to ask herself what truly makes her happy. Fearing if she fails to please that we’ll fail to love. And despite all of the words and acts of love that we show her, she continues to feel unworthy and unwanted. I’ve thought many times of how to make it undeniably clear to her how wonderful she is. I’ve told her, yet she always comes up with a reason why she feels as if she is less then what I know her to be. I’ve said how I appreciate her unconditional love and support throughout my life, but somehow she still feels as if she should have done more. I can only hope that one day she will believe me when I say that I couldn’t have wished for anything more.

(An awkward state of dissatisfaction inhibits my judgment.)

…

The calm…

I am nearer the core now, and looking back I can see my few regrets, my few mistakes. Looking from the center of this hurricane out at the endless stretch of my wake's influence I can see where, I can see who I came from.

Crouching in the eye of the tempest, meditating on a wanted emptiness.

…

The maggot lays dormant, my mind's juggernaut rendered inoperable.

(Danger sometimes seems to recess, and I allowed myself time to forget a poison, a dagger, a self-destruct sequence initiated by my ignorance.)

…

…before…

Obscured by atmospheric haze, I am witness to the distant tormented motions of a people and culture I had given away. Heaps of dumb material balancing precariously on the summit of pride, surrounded by the thin air of inaction…

Among these bungled mutants gyrates an old friend; someone who could be here with me now, naked in the eye of a beautiful storm. I see her. She is tearing at her cunt with a jagged signpost, bleeding and crying while she mutilates her genitalia for the judgmental amusement of an anonymous teenage jury.

Somewhere, within her tangled movements and seemingly irresponsible motion, I think I see her smile out at me. Flashing across her tear-streaked flesh was a beautiful, conscious, knowing smile.

Cousins from a war with no sides save those that we ourselves so foolishly defined.

…

I shift the maggot’s bulk, and drive it from its hibernation. I coax it to continue circling my mind, as milestone to the loves of another, of a younger me.

(I had deceived myself. I had created Judas as a puppet definition for my fears; an escape from a me that I was very afraid to know.)

…calm.

The storm never moves, and its center, its eye, the catharsis of our own existence is defined by our presence within it.

I see someone's head explode into a billion fragments before my eyes after they dropped litter in the bushland. I crush the stump beneath my stoney boot. Another polluter tied up before me is sliced asunder by my dagger. Before me someone drives their car and hits an animal. They do not stop but just drive on. They are engulfed with flames, but the flames kill slowly. My grimace becomes a smile as it was I who threw the match. This death will last for as long as I choose.

A dog neglected dies in pain. No pain so great as the human neglecter felt from my trusty nailgun. Pierced a thousand times, pinned to the ground, but still they live and feel. Their death release will be slow.

The bitter taste of rage a potent brew of life.
The acid flow of hate a lifeblood for one who avenge.

Well, we're re-accepting applications to be on the cam portal, this time with no age requirements. All are welcome. That means you, MrSherman. So give one of us a ring if you would like to be on one of our illustrious cell blocks. Or post in the corresponding thread in Suggestions.

Time to get some hair of the dog. Hope you all had as happy a New Years as Dick Clark and I did.

That is all.

Yes, that’s what this is. It is a farewell…for the time being, at least. I have to go now. These four walls have come to represent more prison than shelter, and I must shuck them off and go forth to seek that which I crave.

Before doing so, however, I would like to thank you for allowing me the grace of your time and attention. Through that gift, you have honored me, surely. There are many of you, whom I have come to know in these past months, who have become very important to me. Each of you has, in one degree or other, gifted me with something precious. I thank you for that, as well.

But, time passes on, and so do people. There are things in my world that demand attention, and I must address them now. I suppose that means that I will be gone for a while. I won’t be posting. I will be doing me very best to attend my mail, however. Of course, there may be times when I am abroad, wherein I will be unable to respond for a short time. But, do not despair. Write and you shall receive a response in due course. As always, I will be honored to hear from you.

If you would allow it, I shall leave you with a parting thought:

A few days ago, I was engaged in a telephone conversation with a close friend of mine. It started out plainly enough. She and I were discussing dreams, and their hidden meanings. I was listening to her speak of one particular dream wherein she had been walking through a forest, and all of the trees were textureless and flat because, in her life, she had never really paid attention to the intricacies of their surfaces. Her mind had no accurate point of reference with which to define the tree, itself. So, despite the fact that she had spent all her life among them, she realized in that moment that she had never really stopped and looked at one before. She had never taken her fingers and run them across the convoluted surface of the bark, or lifted it to find the spongy underneath, pungent, earthy, and fragrant.

And I thought…

If there is such a thing as sin in this world; whether you subscribe to the beliefs of Christianity, or you cling desperately to agnosticism, sin lay somewhere in allowing the precious, ineffable beauty of life to slip past, unnoticed.

If you believe in the concepts of eternity and afterlife, then know that all that you are is made up of all that you touch, feel, and see. It is all that you carry with you through this life, and all (should you believe in such things) that you’ll have to take with you beyond. Just that. Nothing more.

If there is one thing that I hope I can say about myself in years to come, it is that I shall not dream silently of featureless trees and imagined sunsets. I will go out among it all, drink it in, and carry those precious gifts inside of me wherever I roam. It is my way of being worthy of it. And, I think, that is all the service that peace and happiness require.

With Love,
Redguard@blackvault.com

P.S. I will still be there in the Summer for our proposed Las Vegas rendezvous. I hope that you will be, too.

Write me.

Goodbye.