Sample Chapter

Part 1 “Enlighten the people generally, and tyranny and oppressions of body and mind will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day.” Thomas Jefferson We are all a bunch of cowards- Fucking pitiful, useless, fat, lazy fucking Americans. Too concerned with our football, beer, new cars, celebrities, and who’s my baby’s daddy to give a flying fuck about anything of importance. There is no way your average American is going to get off their ass to demand any kind of change. All of us are brainwashed- fooled into believing in the false pretense of the American Dream. Well I’m here to tell you the American Dream is dead. The Dream died with Martin Luther King Jr., the dream died with JFK, and Malcolm X, the dream died with Watergate, two World Wars, Vietnam and Desert Storm. The dream was murdered with 911, the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan. The dream died with the belief that our once great country had somehow, by some miraculous transformation, reached a new era; an era where we would break down the ignorant barriers of our racist past and make a change. It died with the gathering cloud of inbred ignorance, enveloped in for spacious skies of a land once teaming with opportunities. The dream crushed beneath the weight of the deregulation of Wall Street venture capitalist tycoons, the deforestation of our lands, and the violent pacification of our once great nation. The dream smothered by the advent of the Federal Reserve banking system, corporate greed, and the wants of the few over the needs of the masses. Where once the dream consisted of a desire for unity, it was divided amongst clashing social issues. Issues that are of little relevance to the overall picture and help camouflage the hidden truths of the social elite. The dream was tread upon beneath the boots of the upper class, the chosen ones, and the rulers of all things economic. The dream that has been built on the backs of slaves, the working class, and the downtrodden. Shot to death in a steaming stream of bullets in our schools, the innocent killing the innocent- the savage youth raised by the children of Reagan. The Dream… slaughtered with credit, debt, and the never ending flow of SUV’s down our nation’s highways. It died with debit cards, black Friday, newspapers and the massive corporate coup d’état of the mainstream media-all of it dead. Drones are killing children- monitoring the skies- first in foreign lands- now in our own. The Dream, gang raped in the privatized prison cells of America – creating a never ending demand for more prisoners. The American Dream was slain with the Patriot Act, and the rape of our constitutional rights - the historical profits of our gas and oil companies. Burnt at the stake with the scorched earth policy of stealing social security, and pensions, and gambling away the average person’s life savings: it died alongside the Unions, brotherhood, and caring about your fellow man. The genocide of the American Dream was nobody’s fault-but yet the fault of us all. -The Journal of JT Blackburn Chapter 1 “Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret--it leads only to evil” Psalm 37:8 I sit at a small corner table at the trendy Irish Pub in downtown Dayton, I observe the celebration in silence. I have been drinking for the past couple of hours. The much welcomed inebriation threatens to cloud my judgment. I get up from my seat to use the bathroom, and overhear the boisterous party gathered at the end of the bar. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Miiiiles, happy birthday to you….and many mooooore!!!!” The celebration is led by a blonde in her mid to late twenties. She has the look of a washed up stripper who found her sugar daddy after years of searching. She wears a long black sequin dress that exposes an expensive pair of fake tits, accented by a tacky gold necklace in the shape of a heart. Her shoulder length hair hangs straight down and her enlarged lips are too big for her cute, but leathered face. “Happy birthday baby!” she squeals as she kisses the rotund, bald man with his white dress shirt and sissy light blue tie. Bile collects in the back of my throat as I walk past the group on my way to the John. According to the plastic sign hanging above the bar, the man is turning 60. He has a group of eight suck asses gathered around him, patting him on the back and giving him hugs. I stare straight ahead and walk into the men’s room to relieve my bladder, afraid of my reaction if anyone from the party so much as looks at me. I stand at the urinal taking a leak, when the bathroom door screeches open, followed by a soft thud as it shuts. The birthday boy with his business attire stands in the stall beside me. He is hammered, the foul stench of booze, cigars, cheap cologne and whore perfume, drifts into my stuffy nostrils. “foorr, heesh a jolly good fellow.. for heeesh jolly goo…,” mumbles the drunken filth that resides beside me. I resist the urge to grab the back of his slimy head and smash his fat face into the wall in front of him, the situation tests my reserve. It would be such an easy task. Even though we look to be the same weight, I am taller, standing six feet, he is lucky if he is five foot nine. For a split second, I pity the foolish man-child standing beneath my presence; but for a fraction of a second. I refuse to show mercy to those who refuse to care about others. Don’t hate the player, hate the game motherfucker. “You enjoying your party?” I ask. “Oh yesh… thanks you. Happy day to youuu tooo,” he slurs. Fucking idiot is too drunk to notice the hate that immerses my sarcasm. I finish and exit out the bathroom door, returning to my corner of the bar. He didn’t recognize me, not that he would anyway; my looks have changed a lot in the past eighteen months. Hell who am I fooling, he never knew I existed, me or anyone else affected by his greed filled and reckless decisions. Too much has changed for me and my family, and the others ruined by these bullshit times that we live in. I have gained twenty pounds of muscle, grown a full beard, and have both arms covered by tattoos. Not for a fashion statement like most, but in remembrance. Remembrance of a life that used to be and shall never be again. A dark and forbidding hatred now courses through my once proud veins. I wait in solemn silence, as the waitress approaches. “Another drink, hun?” She is cute with her small but tasteful nose ring, shoulder length ginger hair, and emerald green eyes. I’m not sure if she is flirting for a tip, or if it’s genuine. She stands next to me twirling her hair and making eye contact as I undress her in my mind. “Yeah sure, if you’re gonna twist my arm you can bring me another.” I say with a wink and a fake smile. I stare at her small, inverted heart shaped ass as she walks away. She turns, looks at me for an instant, and smiles. I take a sip of my Crown and Coke as I watch the MMA fights on TV. I glance out the window to my left, it is raining. The sound of the downpour forces me to strain in order to hear the fighter's song as he emerges into the cage entrance. The fighter enters the ring to some half rap, half metal hybrid, commercialized bullshit, I have never heard before. This is a heavyweight fight, each fighter’s stats scroll across the screen, the first one is Hispanic, six foot three, 260lbs, and he is covered in tattoos. The word Warrior is displayed across his oversized and ripped chest. Some of these guys rise from nothing. They come from poor neighborhoods, fighting became their only avenue of escape, the only path to redemption. A warrior must have a cause and causes have no rules. Rebels do not need a cause, but warriors do. A true fighter must battle for something greater than his self. He must battle for his beliefs, his survival, his people, and his family. Not for money, fame, or glory, and not for the business of mass consumer capitalism being broadcast to millions of viewers. Common people, who are able to forget their mundane existence and live through the senseless brutal violence of others. For that is not the way of a warrior. A true warrior will sacrifice his own self for the greater good of his tribe, his people, and all of mankind. Then again, causes can be like assholes; everybody and their brother has one. Miles Ullery and what’s left of his company are still at the end of the bar. The party has dwindled down to just him, his suck ass sidekick, and his gold digging slut of a girlfriend. Suck ass gets up off his stool and says his goodbyes. As he staggers past my table on the way out the door, I know nothing but hate for him. I will never understand how people can suck so much dick to get ahead in life… pathetic. It’s safe to assume the cock sucker is some sort of underling of the great Mr. Ullery. I wonder how many toes he had to tread upon to get into his current position. How many assholes did he lick? How many coworkers did he stab in the back as he smiled to their face and called them friend? How many palms did he grease for his corporate masters? People like him would sell out their own mother to get a chance to climb the corporate ladder. I wonder how much money it took for him to sell out. How much does it cost to drive a stake into the heart of your fellow man? Ullery and his lackeys what a bunch of worthless pricks. What are the chances of me running into him down here? Is fate fucking with me? The last year and a half has nearly killed me. To keep my sanity intact, I work out obsessively, and three nights a week I attend a self- defense class. Krav Maga and mixed martial arts all combined into one. The instructor calls it Urban Street Survival. After tonight’s class I didn’t drive back up the highway home, but came here instead, to The Hound and the Hangman. Now I sit and glare at the waste of air down from me. As I watch the prostitute kissing him on his neck, she slips, and almost falls out of her chair, drunken laughter ejaculates from her fat lips when she spills her drink onto the bar top. The overbearing screech of her obnoxious voice pierces my eardrums. I so want to fucking strangle this bitch. The bartender shakes her pretty head, annoyed, as she gets a rag and starts to clean up the mess. Inconsiderate pricks don’t even thank her. Oh, how I would enjoy taking my glass and smashing her big ass lips with it. That would shut her the fuck up. The place is dead, except for me, the cute girl behind the bar, and Mr. and Mrs. Scumbag. I am greeted by her smiling face as I walk up to pay my tab. “You cashing out babe?” she asks. “Yeah, I’m all done.” I give her another smile and wink. She leaves the rag lying on the bar across from me as she turns around to the cash register and cashes me out. I Grab the rag and place it in my pocket; it feels damp and cool as it wets the inside of my shorts. That swine Ullery and his cheap whore. The rage is growing inside me, searching for any avenue of escape. I take two deep breaths to calm myself. I must be patient, for soon it will be time to unleash the fury. The rain pours down in steady sheets, the wind blowing it sideways, as I leave the bar and walk into the warm August night. It’s about a half hour until closing time. I had to leave before the insects decide to exit, so I do not arouse any suspicions. My head swivels in both directions, searching for a good spot with plenty of shadows and no light. A storefront with glass display windows covered in metal guarding to protect it from intruders, stands to my right, the perfect place. An awning hangs over the sidewalk, and a few feet inward are the doors to the store, the area is engulfed in darkness. Lightning flashes and the rain slows to a drizzle. I cross the street and sneak into the entrance. My camouflage shorts and black T shirt are proving useful tonight as I crouch down, perched in the shadows, waiting. The perverted sugar daddy and his tramp share an umbrella as they walk into the night. I can see the red head inside the bar as she locks the door behind them, she flips them the bird behind their back, and turns back around and walks towards the bar. This girl is rather amusing. I think I could learn to like her. Shadows disguise my silhouette and I wait for the two love birds to stagger down the block. I cross the street as they turn the corner; my shoes are soaked from the puddles, chilling my toes. I reach into my pocket and wrap the bar rag around the knuckles of my hand. I unclip the pepper spray from my key chain, too bad I don’t have a rape whistle, I could shove it the tramps ear hole. I tread down the street and onto the sidewalk, stalking the two lovers. As I turn the corner, streetlights shimmer off the blacktop. The rumble of thunder hides the sounds of my footsteps as I run up behind the scum. They are stopped in front of a new black Cadillac Escalade; the whore is taking off her heels as Ullery is fumbling for his keys. It doesn’t surprise me that this bastard would be trying to drive. He doesn’t give a fuck if he is drunk, he will just pay his high priced attorney to get him out of jail. Hell, he could mow over some pedestrians on the way to his mansion and not spend one day behind bars. His rich ass would get off on some technicality, maybe even a hung jury. Corrupt ass judicial system. Money is the new god. Worshipped by the masses and obtainable by a select few. I snap back to the current situation, the dumb bitch lets out a yelp, like a wounded puppy, as I grab her hair, turn her around, and spray the pepper spray into her eyes and mouth. I push the filthy whore onto the ground, splashing her into the stream that runs along the curb, the overflow of the night’s rain flowing towards its reservoir. Ullery turns around; his eyes grow to the size of golf balls. I place the canister back into my pocket as he holds up his wallet. “I’ll give you wha…wha….whatever you want, here ju..ju..just take it,” he says, sounding sober and afraid. His hand trembles when I take his wallet and place it in my back pocket. I say nothing and grab him by his half buttoned shirt; I unleash a right cross that finds its way to his bulbous nose. My knuckles welcome the cartilage as it crunches beneath the blow. Another blast descends onto his face, this time right in the mouth, as I continue to use him for a punching bag. I can’t stop now. Blood covers his lips, and pours from his nose, and gets absorbed into the rag. I shatter his teeth with another raging burst from my fist. He slumps down, unable to hold up his own weight. I push him against his SUV, peppering him with blow after blow, face, head, ribs, and gut. “Why?” he manages to whimper. I pound him, and pound him, the wrath of my fists contain his answer. He falls to the ground as I let go. I kick him in his face. Stomp his head, stomp, stomp, stomp, blood puddles around his head, as the fury is released from my soul. “Because I can motherfucker!” “Miles… baby?” gasps the blond, whining, and unable to scream. She is grabbing for her cell phone. I kick it out of her hand as I pass her and rush around the corner towards the parking lot where my car is parked. I stop and kneel down next to a street gutter to deposit the blood soaked bar towel. I walk to my car and notice a homeless man, seeking shelter from the rain under the small roof of a service door. A brown bag rests next to him as he snores, passed out, and oblivious to his surroundings, he is covered in newspapers and an old tattered blanket. My hand is steady. I remove the wallet from my back pocket, open it and examine the contents. Six, crisp, one hundred dollar bills are tucked inside. I walk over to the man and place the money under his blanket, being careful not to disturb him. As the rain continues, lightning strikes, and the wind picks up; blowing me into tranquility. The events that led to tonight are still fresh in my memory, calling me back.