“I imagine every person will want to read your story, so take good notes.”
Memories of the lawyer who lost my case; the lawyer with a conscience.
“Barney. Are you serious? That just cheers ‘I love kids’ way too much for me. Let’s try Baxter...or no, how ‘bout Brickem? Yeah. Though ain’t nobody throwing bricks anymore.”
“Thank you for shopping at Super K...i get off at six.”
“Max, these are the easiest people to steal from; all you have to do is act poor.”
“Here, I don’t want us getting pegged for doing anything to get us locked up. Just take in some nature and spend lots of time by the pool.”
“The Swiss Scotch tastes so much better when you’re actually in Switzerland to enjoy it.”
“Oooohhmm...what? I gotta...stay like this...until...I can...control...my breathing!!”
“He did it again! This brotha has just got one straight poker face.”
“So I like watching the news—-gives me the sense of a job well done. I sleep better now too-—less afraid of all the sick people in the world. Heh-ha!”
Heh-heh. Oooo, heh-ha. Memories of the good times—-talk about self-actualization. Those were the days of being whole.
Movement, I’m being stirred—-not a memory. “HEY, WHAT IN THE H...!!!” ...no, that’s probably not the right approach.
“A held tongue; the result of a healthy fear of Me perhaps? Yes, you have approached Me rightly and therefore the stirrings will stop.”
Arrrrrgggggggh!!!!! ...naw, can’t get mad. I gotta get my rest, this is prison. But that guy is gettin’ to me. Memories, keep to the memories.
That woman. Red hair, light skin, dark circles around her eyes, and looking ghastly under that street lamp—-gorgeous.
My Iphone. Special release, shiny gold chrome, three gig, with “A Milli” as my ringtone-—favorite birthday gift.
Janet’s cat. Tabby, fat, orange, soon to be skinny, red, buried-—most fun I ever had getting revenge.
Officer Franco’s badge. Half ‘U’, half ‘V’, half ‘W’ shaped; “Baton Rouge Police Department” it read—-my greatest trophy.
Popcorn pillow. Plain white, stuffed with cotton, streaked with butter-salt stains-—loved waking up to the smell of the movie theater.
My little friend. Donnivan, submachine gun, black-silver duo-tone, five-round burst, taped an ace of clubs to the handle. And his little mistress. Shyannie, sleek, slim, sliver, semi-automatic—-inseparable.
Dad’s 7-Eleven cup. Big Gulp, orange-red, stayed on his nightstand, always had warm milk in it—-that’s all I wanted of his after he croaked.
Picture of mom. Hung over, face full of shock, drugs in her hands, front page; “Mother of 4 Prays Her Kids Don’t Get Caught”—-funniest thing ever.
Memories, I’ve got so many. They make me feel so many things. Why’d they all have to stop, I’m human too?
I hate this place—-can’t wait to forget it. As for the all mighty voice in my head who runs it, I’m making a place for you in stank memory—-can’t wait to send you there.
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