Crime Report: How Crappy Prison Is

Me and some of my fellow Skids gang members were sitting around shooting the breeze. It's pretty cool. Just a couple weeks into my new life of crime and they've accepted me as an actual criminal. And of course that's what I am. Fie to normal society and its life! Fie, I say!

A few of the guys have already been in prison in their life, which gives them something to talk about. I always thought if I'd spent time in prison I wouldn't want to be blabbing it around. But that's one of the dictates of life on the outside, like if you're trying to get a job. If you're with other criminals, it's a plus.

One of the guys started talking about his experiences in the slammer, how crappy he said it was. I hope I didn't look too shocked, but at one point I felt my mouth drop open. Because some of the conditions indeed sound shocking.

According to him, and this is bad, meal time really sucks. He said they have spinach every meal. Not the leafy kind that tastes fairly good on salad, but the canned vinegar spinach that looks like pond moss. Spinach really sucks. To me this is stupid, serving it to these guys. It rubs them the wrong way, leads to mess hall riots, and tastes terrible.

As for the comfort of the cells, he didn't have much good to say either. The bars on the cells are unheated, so they're cold all the time. They have color TVs, but the tint is 100% pure green, and it's restricted to only religious channels. He spent a lot of time reading up on the law in the prison library, and says watching Pat Robertson an hour a day is unconstitutional, cruel and unusual punishment. Of course I agree with that.

Then there's the other prisoners. It's just like driving. It wouldn't be half bad if there were no other drivers on the road. The same goes for prison. All the coughing, farting, snoring, and clanging of tin cups against the unheated bars -- it's enough to drive you insane. If you weren't already a killer, it about pushes you over the edge.

He said the biggest thing people ask him about is the sex. Is prison sex as bad as everyone makes it out to be? My teeth were chattering 100 mph, because I've always heard it was pretty bad. But he said no, actually sex is one of the best things. As long as you're discreet, you're always getting plenty, and everyone expects it. They're cool with it. Even the guards are cool if you don't make a nuisance of yourself.

According to him, you can pair off, which is good for your personal security. Or you can join in swinging group sessions, with your mate's permission, and it can even include some of the wilder guards, too, if you want. He says it's all very kinky and very hot. Which is good, because you don't want to be denied, especially if you have nothing else to live for.

I've been thinking it over. Do I really want to pursue a life of crime? I could quit right now. I haven't done anything so bad yet. Certainly I haven't been caught, let alone charged with anything. Listening to this guy, the thought definitely came to me, I could walk away right now and go back to my normal life. It was almost enough to scare me straight.

That just about happened, but not quite. Yes, eating spinach at every meal is a complete turn-off. And the unheated bars, that's bad, but it's not a deal-breaker. It's hard to imagine, but you have to expect some inconvenience. Then there's the green tinted TVs and only religious channels. For me, I don't watch much TV anyway. And I could probably plug my ears when Pat Robertson was on. It's bad but I could probably work around it.

Do Criminals Just Know Each Other?

This is the last thing I would have expected! I've been around this town all my life, and nothing has been off limits to me. I went about my business in all parts of town, never giving a single thought to whose turf it was.

And that's the way it is for everyone else. We always go freely wherever we want, to the grocery stores, gas stations, garage sales, and really everywhere. Sure, I'd always heard rumors about criminal gangs, but since there was never any trouble from them as far as I was concerned, I figured they had a clubhouse somewhere and the rest of the rumors were just overblown.

Now it looks like I might have to watch my step, now that I too am among the criminal class, officially a member of the Skids organization. I've got a map of the town at this link, how the gangs have everywhere divvied up. The Skids have the central district. If you look at the map, we're the only landlocked organization, which might pose a problem if the others get the idea of starving us into submission. That's a fear I have now, a fear I never thought of before, again, because of the easy, unimpeded access to the town I've always enjoyed.

I was going on that assumption earlier today when I buzzed out to the Tastee Freez for a hot fudge sundae. Of course now I know the Tastee Freez is in the Ciggies' district, something that never occurred to me before. I have literally never had any inkling of it. But today, there I was, and a guy with a cigarette stopped by my table and said, "I smell a Skid." I thought, What? I don't smell any different than I ever did, I hope. But I suddenly realized, maybe I do! I haven't been home for several days. I've been sleeping on a couch in one of the empty places on Skidrow, right in the heart of the Skids' headquarters. This guy's obviously honed his senses, if he's able to smell out that you're a criminal and which organization you're with!

I thought maybe I could be cagey, saying, "I don't smell anything, except that cigarette, and I believe this is the non-smoking section." Little did I know he wasn't in a mood for sass. He grabbed me by the lapels and lifted me from my chair. I felt ridiculous, hovering between heaven and earth with a little red plastic spoon in my hand. If I'd brought a gun, I could've killed him and finished my sundae at my leisure. As it was, I'd be lucky to escape with my own life, not to mention my investment in the ice milk treat.

But I thought, This is no time to show fear. You have to show confidence in the face of these bastards, criminals. So I said, "Put me down, Ciggie, if you know what's good for your health. Of course you don't or you wouldn't be dragging on that butt!" He smiled, a big tar and nicotine brown smile, not quite as brown as the hot fudge but still brown enough. Then he lowered me back to my chair. I looked in my bowl. Not much had melted during the interlude.

He pulled out a chair, but instead of sitting on it normal, he flipped it around and sat on it backwards. I thought, Good grief. I'm a criminal myself, but this dude's classless. He proceeded to lecture me about turf, and that the Skids needed to stay in their own place. He pointed out, rightly, that we have a DQ right on the edge of our turf. I allowed that, that he was right, but said I'd been eating at Tastee Freez for years, like everyone in town. "That may be," he said with menace, "but those days are over. Now you're a Skid!"

The whole thing hit me in a terrible way. Just because I'm a criminal, I'm not allowed to go to Tastee Freez!? It's almost enough to scare me straight! What good is a life of crime if you're restricted like that? And obviously if I can't go to this one store, then everything else is off limits, including garage sales. And I've been to a lot of them in this section of town. It's sort of middle class, not too rich, not too poor, so the garage sales are pretty good, things not usually overpriced like in the rich section, but not dirt quality like you see in the poorer neighborhoods. I'm going to have a hard time adjusting!

How did he know me? Was it truly just the smell? I didn't smell anything. If every criminal knows every other criminal, that's really going to cramp my style!

Criminal Turf -- The Lay Of The Land

This is the map I've got in mind. Nothing but this. I'm living, eating, and sleeping this map. I'm trying! I'm sweating it out, studying it, going over it again and again, memorizing it, committing it to memory, trying to let it take up an enduring domicile in my memory cells, anything, just so I master it. Good grief, you would too! Because my future as a successful criminal, maybe the greatest criminal this town's ever seen, depends on this knowledge, and I must not let myself down. Must go over it again!

The town, if I'm reading the map correctly, appears to be divided up into five territories, or what they call "turf." Five different turf, or is it turfs? Whichever, I've got to review it for my own benefit, lest everything I've mastered thus far slips. And just like schoolwork, it's hard to remember without looking. I'll try a mnemonic. The west side has two gangs that both start with vowels, O and A. The Outlaws and the Aristocrats, north and south, respectively. The east side also has two gangs, but they both start with C. The Ciggies and El Conquistadors. Then, I'll think of it like a nipple, there's my own gang in the middle, The Skids, our headquarters being the Skidrow district of town, and our turf the Central section. Like a nipple, that's great! Too bad the town isn't round!

OK, I just looked at the map for 10 minutes straight. My mind only wandered off to nipples like two minutes out of 10. Other than that, great focus. The Outlaws: They're not that hard to remember. Just think of cowboys being out west. And reaching for their gun from the top. But there's no precedent for Aristocrats being on the bottom. And that's killing me. That little butler dude, or maybe he's the effeminate "master" of the house, would he be on the bottom? Maybe so. His wife probably tells him when to get up and which shorts to wear! He looks like the type! But I can't think that way. He's just a symbol for a murderous gang.

Now, looking to the east. El Conquistadors, which is a real mouthful, and too bad they didn't come up with a simpler name, they're what you call your Ethnics, folks of a different division of the human species, not quite normal. Unfortunately, they're also into crime, so they've carved out their own turf. I'm going to memorize them for sure, believe me, because I've suddenly got a desire to take them out first. That turf would look great under my own belt. My house is actually in that area, and if I can't annex, dominate, and exploit my own side of town, then I may as well hang it up. I'll send them packing back to whatever land they came from, down south somewhere. Wow, thinking about it like that, I've already got the El Conquistadors part of the map memorized!

It's the others I have to work harder on, since I haven't got that personal a stake in it. The Ciggies up north. Of course they also start with C, which only gets me so far. The industrial section of town is in their area, so if I associate smokestacks with cigarette smoke, that's probably the memory device that will help me get it down. Big smoke, little smoke. I'll put it in Freudian terms, they've got these big phallic things sticking up from their turf. And they go around with little phallic things hanging from their mouth. Sucking and blowing, blowing and sucking. Now that I think of it, I think I met a Ciggie gang member in a restroom the other day. He said he was going to roll his cigarette in the bathroom because it was cold out! He had a big can of tobacco, then he licked the paper and rolled it. So he's into licking as well as sucking and blowing. These guys may be worth keeping an eye on.

I'm reviewing. I think I about have it. Central, that's me, the nipple area, the aureole district. The Old West, where the Outlaws always are. Aristocrats, they're the other vowel, with an effeminate butler dude on the bottom in his relationships. Conquistadors are known for living down south. And Ciggies and smokestacks go together. So it's O, A // S // C, C.

If I can't get this firmly in mind, I don't see any hope for survival.

My Criminal Carpet Store Is Closing

I see now why criminal fly-by-night carpet stores never last! Thankfully, we're selling out today and moving on. And not a moment too soon!

I've had so many irate customers in the store today, I've had to be in disguise to save myself. What I did, and I hate to stereotype the poor rubes, but it's not like they're going to notice, is dress in bib overalls to fit in, pull a big floppy red felt hat with ear warmers over my head, and walk around with a weed in my mouth. When I'm near someone complaining, I'm just as irate as them, calling for the manager's head. Then when I'm with a fresh new customer, I drop the weed and hick accent and make a quick sale.

Fortunately, the organization, being familiar with the pattern of this particular shady branch of merchandising, sent me a few helpers to carry in returned carpet and carry out new carpet, in most cases being the exact same stuff! There's been a line of people at the refund counter all day, but they've been put off by claims of the cashiers going on break, computers being down, and the bank screwing up our cash flow. After a while, we'll tell them to come back tomorrow, for their convenience, with the promise of refunds being ready to go. But of course there will be no refunds, and by then the store will be vacant.

As for all the new carpet being sold, since we're so swamped, I told the helpers to not even bother putting "Three Week Protector" on it, which is meant to gum up the tufts at the root so it won't fall off for a while. At this point, what do we care? If it falls off in the customers' pickups and trucks, and if they're able to register a complaint -- since we're so damned busy -- they'll have to prove it wasn't an act of God. And if they happen to have a lifetime guarantee, meaning they can bring the carpet back for a full refund if even one strand is out of place, I believe there's something in the small print about acts of God being excluded.

The two memorable couples we had in here yesterday have been back, angry and crying, the whole tiresome bit. The old couple who wanted a throw rug but was sold enough carpet for two whole houses were crying about what they called "a swindle." I don't know about you, but to me that's a hurtful word, calling into question my character. I don't like it. But I thought, They're old and don't know any better, so I took them back to my office and told them about my own dear grandparents and their hopes for me. By the time the three of us dried our eyes, I had sold them enough carpet for an additional house. And to sweeten the deal, as a tribute to my grandparents, I graciously gave them two lifetime guarantees for the price of one.

Then there was the younger couple, newlyweds, who had foolishly spent all their monetary wedding gifts and their tax refund on a mountain of carpet, based on the sales pitch that prices in the future will always go up. They were very irate, especially the groom, trying to prove his manhood. But I softened him up, telling him it was a lucky break that he came back when he did. I said, "You couldn't have timed it better if you tried!" and clapped him on the back as congratulations. He calmed down. I explained how it seemed clear to me he was a real wheeler-dealer, knowing we had a big 50% sale going on today. His wisdom, I said, was to back me in a corner, knowing I'd "cave" and give him an extra 10% off. Fortunately, they still had nearly $200 to their name. So, with 50% off plus an extra 10%, that meant they'd be able to get ... [figuring here] ... "You know what? $200 will completely cover it, and I'll even throw in a dozen free lifetime guarantees! Son, you drive a hard bargain!"

It's been a good run for me, managing a carpet store. We had a great run. And it's a little sad to see it end, but we had three wonderful days. And you can't ask for much more than that. Now, if I can only make it through the rest of the day -- all the way through vacating the building and running -- it ought to be interesting what comes next, what the organization has for me. Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be great. Ah, yes! The criminal life, that's for me!

Criminal Carpet Store: Everything Must Go!

The carpet store just opened yesterday, and already today we're declaring, "Everything Must Go!" The lifespan of the criminally-operated fly-by-night carpet store being a week at the max, everything has to be very compressed.

We had a great day of sales yesterday, on our first day, and now that we trying to thin out the excess merchandise, of course the values are great. My personal recommendation to each of you is, If you need carpet, you better get down here, because it's going fast!

Customers were waiting at the door when we opened. I quickly scanned the crowd for anyone from yesterday who might be back for a refund or with a complaint, and seeing none, I stayed in sight. I welcomed them in, feeling very robust, but now that the day is wearing away, I'm getting a little fatigued. Still, as long as they're spending money, I'll be here to take it. Proudly! Knowing they're getting value for their money, something pretty resembling actual carpet.

So things have been going great. Except for one little thing. When I got here this morning, there was a minor fiasco. Some of the boys from the gang had brought in some new rolls last night which I didn't know about. I sat down to take a break and put my feet up on one of the rolls. I was shocked when the tufts started coming off on my feet. Obviously, they hadn't been gummed down properly with "Three Week Protector," so I had to fly around spurting it on haphazardly. There was no time. The only thing I've worried about today is if there's carpet coming off on people's hands while they're carrying it out. But there haven't been any complaints. I'll just have to be extra careful when opening tomorrow.

Like I said, sales have been great. The psychology of "Everything Must Go!" really plays with the folks. Who knew? They're more interested in scoring carpet before other customers get it than they are the price. Giving me the opportunity mid-morning to raise the price 10%, and no one complained. And since they're really stocking up, I've sold lifetime guarantees and all the various cleaning kits and supplies with every order. Every order except one. A teacher stopped in for a remnant for some school project, a little square, and she wouldn't buy the lifetime guarantee.

My two most memorable sales went to the very old and the very young. An old couple essentially needed a throw rug for their hall, something they said would be about 2½ foot by 8 foot. But I saw an opening for a bigger sale if I could keep some fast talking going, get them confused, and quickly close the deal. So they went out with enough carpet for one or more houses. My biggest fear was their skeptical son, who had to bring his truck to pick it up. But one of the guys told him I was on break.

The other sale was to a young couple, flush with cash from two sources, marriage gifts and their tax refund. My sales pitch was to buy all the carpet you think you might need in your life, because the prices are only guaranteed to go up. So they really loaded up, the young man's father having to rent a U-Haul truck to take it all away. (He was also skeptical.) As to the lifetime guarantee, they needed several, because I came up with a new policy on the spot that a lifetime guarantee only applies to a single type of carpet, and they bought several different ones. Plus, there was two of them, a husband and a wife, so that's two guarantees needed right there. Hey, no one held a gun to their head, although of course that could've been arranged...

We're raking in the money. Faster than printing it. And my aim is to do everything I can to rake in more. Because if I excel at this job, who knows what heights I might rise to in the organization! This time next week I could be one of the big bosses, if not before!

I'm Manager Of A Criminal Carpet Store

Imagine this, it's hard to believe but true! Just three short years ago, I was railing against the fly-by-night carpet stores. And now I'm the senior manager of one! How great is that?

And I owe my terrific progress -- a promotion on the first day! -- to choosing a life of crime. Who said crime doesn't pay! Johnny, the boss of our little subset of the organization got a call from Mr. Big, who said he was watching my progress -- me! -- and apparently liked what he saw! Mr. Big just put in another fly-by-night carpet store and he thought I could handle it!

Today's my first day. And if everything goes true to pattern, I'll have a pretty good job for a week, since these stores always close down about that fast. But that's OK with me. If I do good, Mr. Big will probably put me in charge of something else. I just have to show I'm real good at cheating customers, paying no attention to their complaints, and keeping out of sight if they persist.

OK, I'm going to level with you. I don't think the guys know about this blog. The carpet sucks, sucks bad. Just as an example, the tuft will barely stay on a month. But we have this spray solution, called "Three Week Protector," that gums up the tuft at the roots to hold it secure temporarily. By the time it adheres to people's feet, or sticks to their dog's tongue, or just blows off from the breeze through an open door, the store will have long since closed and moved on.

The whole thing is win-win-win for the organization, since we not only sell the carpet, we make it and the Three Week Protector. I'm honestly not sure how you make carpet, but my past experience with carpet, with it lasting for years and being durable in the face of vacuum cleaners, tells me this ain't it. And yet, and this is a indisputable point, even if you don't make it right, it still looks terrific. The patterns are great, just like what the Persians do. I love the designs. I just can't breathe too heavily anywhere near it till the Protector is on.

Along with the carpet, sold to unwary twerps, we have a pretty good lifetime guarantee they can buy. It's very very cheap and sells itself. Think about it. If you can get a lifetime guarantee on something for 100 bucks, and you've bought $3,000 worth of carpet, that's a great deal. If you see even a single strand that doesn't look right, whether it's your fault or not, whether the kid spilled grape juice on it or not, you just call and we'll replace the entire carpet in your home free of charge, no questions asked. Shoot! You buy that much carpet and somebody's going to replace it no matter what, for a one time fee of $100, you have to take it! But there's a downside: The guarantee's no good. LOL, this time next week there'll be a pizza joint here!

As far as supplies, this is where you need great sales skills. Because there's an intrinsic contradiction. We want to load up the customer with various chemicals, brushes, and protective throw rugs. But our basic sales pitch goes beyond just keeping it clean. We really sell with the pitch, "Protect your carpet investment." And people nod and fall for it. The contradiction is, since most people go for the lifetime guarantee, what's there to protect about the investment? We're supposed to replace it for free, one strand out of place. The way I'm going to do it is sell the kit with all the maintenance items before I press them on the guarantee. Sell the carpet, get a handshake. Sell the kit, get a handshake. Sell the lifetime guarantee, get a handshake. And the sale is made!

I'm looking forward to the week ahead, or three days or whatever it is. The better I do, the higher I will go in the organization. Plus, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing my customers have put their hard-earned money into a product they'll easily outlive.

Criminals Drink Freely On My Dime

There's a lot to learn when you enter the world of the criminal, as I have. You think normal society is tough, paying your bills, taking care of yourself, telling phone salespeople you're not interested and don't call back, letting the dog out all the time, and staying happy. The life of the criminal isn't that much better, except of course it's much more thrilling being on the run with the constant threat of being killed.

Already, in just a few days, I've had to learn how to cope with being severely beaten without calling an ambulance, and to have the confidence to hold a switchblade up to the throat of a professional wrestler who's served both as my lover and abuser. And it wasn't just the switchblade [chuckling], I guess I also ground his face in the gravel in the alley. :) One other thing, I'm getting down the pecking order, and I'm seeing how I might be able to rise in the organization. Some of these guys aren't that smart, which is what you get when you're hopped up and crazed on drugs and booze.

So booze has its advantages and its disadvantages. If it helps me gain greater power as a criminal, that's good. I'm myself not much of a drinker, having the discipline to severely limit myself. But these other birds, crazy and stupid like I said, I could easily get them drunk, kill a few, and establish myself as Mr. Big in, I don't know, a few days. Give or take. But right now I'm still the new guy.

One thing about being the new guy is "they say" the new guy has to buy for everyone. And wouldn't you know I'd have to be the new guy on Super Bowl Sunday! So we were over at the bar -- Youngsie's -- and I learned that Johnny, the boss of this particular gang, a subset of a larger organization, had already opened a tab in my name. Whether Youngsie liked that, who knows? He probably didn't have a choice. Just like he didn't have a choice when I stopped in for a pickle and Beer Nuts today and couldn't pay.

So yesterday, all the Guys and Dolls came out of the woodwork and were at Youngsie's. My tab was open and they were helping themselves freely. It was literally a free-for-all, with Youngsie looking at me and giving me a thumbs-up every once in a while, really a kind of question. I kept flashing him a thumbs-up. They started in about noon, then the game was about 5, and it went a few hours, then the post-game BS was on, etc. All around, guys were paying up on bets, blah blah blah, but no one offered a cent of moolah for the drinky-poos.

Today, then, I went in -- me, Big Brute, and a couple other guys. Youngsie looked pained. Everyone had drunk so much and ate so much yesterday he was about out of everything. I thought, WTF do I care about your business? Then I realized the connection. He wasn't going to give me the damned pickle (and he was out of Beer Nuts) till I settled up! He needed the cash to pay his supplier, which about drove me crazy. I felt my face go flush. I reached up and clicked my fingers. I'm no boss but all this happened on instinct.

A couple of the other boys took my signal and charged over to beat the crap out of Youngsie and a couple of his boys. Then I took up a bottle and smashed it randomly against some of the bottles he had behind the bar. What a mess! The guys held Youngsie and I delivered a solid fist to his gut. "That's a down payment on what I owe you," I spat, feeling quite impertinent, lacking a pickle but very full of piss and vinegar.

We went triumphantly to the pickle jar and I proclaimed, "Pickles for everyone, my treat!" My last word to Youngsie as we left was, "Put it on my tab!" I laughed. Big Brute slammed the door and broke the plate glass window. I looked in at the still hunched over Youngsie and said, "That goes on his tab!," referring of course to Brute.

Where's All The Trash Compactors?

SUPER CHEAP TRASH COMPACTORS FOR ALL!

Friends, I have a trash compactor: My foot scrunching it down to save money on trash bags! I know, I know, very grim humor.

Like everyone, I too looked forward to a bright future of electric trash compactors for everyone. Where your garbage would be smashed down about the size of a grape. We really wanted that "brave new world" of very tiny trash (Alvin Toffler, Aldous Huxley.) Making it a true "future shock" when it didn't happen.

I don't know for sure what happened. I haven't seen an authoritative report on the subject for years. Whether everyone forgot what they promised, or it was found not to be feasible, or there was some other more sinister reason, this is what I don't know. I could let my mind wander ahead of me and conceive what might have happened, but I hate to rouse forces that are too powerful for me once exposed.

For now, I'll just pretend that I think it's a case of forgetting or the idea not being feasible. It's too dangerous to suggest something more sinister, although naturally the mind can barely help spotting a conspiracy. Just like cars that were supposed to have such fuel efficiency we'd only stop at a gas station once a month. Although I can almost see the logic to that conspiracy, since gas stations would never be able to stay in business, then when we needed one once a month, there wouldn't be any.

The fact that we don't all have our own trash compactor might be similar. Who makes the big huge dump trucks that pick up the big huge trash? The car companies, the same industry! They make big money at it. If we all had trash compactors, then any little entrepreneur with a push cart could make a sweep through town and pick it up himself. Then there's all the others with a vest interest in keeping garbage big: garbage bag manufacturers, city workers, tire makers for the trucks, etc. Even recyclers are in on it! Since they want their garbage pristine, many not even accepting flattened cans!

The government itself might be involved. And my opinion on every conspiracy is the same: If the government might be involved, they definitely are. Because these are always the guys with the best access to the strings from which everything else dangles. I myself could serve as a microcosm of what's going on, thinking back to the year I got the marionettes for Christmas. When you haven't got them, you're very content not to play with them; you don't know any different. But when you get them, you can't help playing with them and making them jump. So it is in government.

We all thought things were going to get better when the year 2000 got here, rich and poor alike. A trash compactor for $29 or cheaper! But we all saw how that worked out. The "future" was exactly the same as the "past," a scarcity of trash compactors and no push to do anything about it.

Big Brute -- Criminals Get Tough Love

You remember, Big Brute beat the crap out of me and left me locked in a dark room, no light and nothing but a ratty couch. I figured I was in there for the whole night so I decided to make the best of it. But one of the gang, maybe meaning to rough me up, unlocked the door and came in. He put a flashlight on my face and saw I was looking bad, with the dried blood and all. So he stood aside and I left.

I roamed the streets most of the night, thinking it over, Do I really want to be a criminal? For a while I felt sorry for myself. I passed a window and saw my bruises and cuts. But then I came to a new resolve. The bastard jumped me, I took his worst, and I was still able to walk. There was no more doubt: The life of crime is the life for me. And really, getting beat up like that isn't so bad. It's all in the dues a newbie pays.

As for Big Brute, honestly I felt like I actually like him. After all, he did choose me to sit next to, so there must have been something about me that turned him on. Sure, the beating hurt like hell, but, you know, maybe he did pull his punches. As a former professional wrestler, surely he could've done so much worse. Maybe he beat me just enough to let the other guys know I was tough and could take it. Which could've had something to do with the guy who opened the door letting me go. Maybe Brute himself even sent the guy down there!

With my new resolve for the criminal life, then, I did more than brood over my situation. I did a few things wrong. Nothing terrible. Just enough to keep my interest level up. I cut a big hole in someone's screen door. And I saw some rabbit cages in someone's backyard and opened them. That was funny, because the rabbits were in more of a hurry to get away than me!

The next day I went back to Skidrow. The whole gang was sitting there and seemed surprised to see me, especially Big Brute, who looked up and appeared a little sheepish. I told him hi, trying to keep a meek, almost fearful look, which was a ploy. I wasn't making eye contact. One of the other guys asked me where I'd been. I told them about the screen door and rabbits, earning me about five thumbs-up. Conspicuous by its absence was a thumbs-up from Brute.

I went over and asked if I could talk to him, very meek and nice as pie. We went down the alley a bit, within plain sight of the others but far enough that we could speak privately, had that been my real motive. I hung my head, as though submitting to him in fear. Then he told me, "I did all that to toughen you up, so you'd make it..." He looked a little proud of that, but his pride was suddenly removed with a swift kick to the nuts and me behind him in a close approximation of a bear hug with my blade up to his throat.

I screamed out he was going to die! He knew I didn't have anything to live for and of my need for revenge. So he was totally convinced I was going to slit his throat and gut his sorry ass right then and there. "Down on your knees, you worthless scumbag!" I yelled, going down with him with the blade still in place. After he'd dropped, I kicked him full force in the center of his back and he crumpled head first. "Is that tough enough for you?" I screamed, my foot grinding his face in the gravel.

With a new understanding between us, we returned to the group. Of course they had a new respect for me. But for all my anger, things seemed very even with me and Brute. We were cordial, and now the best of buds.

Big Brute -- A Meeting Of Criminals

Well, I've been a professional criminal now for a few days. In case you missed the "extreme makeover," and maybe can't quite believe it, let me assure you, it's true! I've been reading the biography of Jean Genet and he was my inspiration...

I've pretty well fit in with the guys in the alleys in the Skidrow district of town. Socially, that is. I haven't carved out my own criminal niche as of yet, but they assure me I can look forward to various forms of mischief, each with its own distinctive thrills. I can hardly wait!

As it turns out, and this is surprising, they've got a kind of pecking order, just like we're in prison even though we're completely free. They trade cigarettes like currency, that sort of thing. Which might ultimately make me a millionaire since I don't smoke. And I'm not about to start, with the health risks and the fact that my current life insurance policies are all predicated on the fact that I'm a non-smoker.

I don't know the complete pecking order, but clearly the knives are out for anyone who screws with it. Around the fire last night, we were just shooting the breeze, and I said, "What happens if someone crosses the line vis-a-vis the pecking order, whether intentionally or unintentionally, if you indeed allow that distinction?" From each hand, as if synchronized, flashed an opening switchblade. From which I was given to infer that there would be some danger to the person who foolishly made that error. But they were nice about it, even to the point of issuing me my own "blade," as they called it, seeing I had none.

There was another interesting little piece of synchronization that occurred. (They seem to move in sync like birds, although it's more likely they're simply creatures of habit.) They moved and shuffled and were in a circle around the fire. I just kept my place, and noticed that one particular guy made a special move to be on my right. I learned he goes by the name "Brute," having been a pro wrestler at one time known as "Big Brute." We exchanged pleasantries.

Then I saw the nature of the gathering, which probably should be more innocently described in terms of a Society for Mutual Relief. Our dates for the evening were already present and ready to hand, so to speak. A scrawny guy was on my left, with Brute on my right, who moved with some authority to dominate my attention. Clearly, he wanted to get better acquainted, which was very nice. I'm sure Scrawny was happy with his activities, but if truth be known, my eyes were strictly on Brute.

Later, and this is where the story turns a little more unpleasant, we paired off, with me and Brute going down to some little room he knew of, mostly bare except for a ratty couch and an unshaded light bulb strung from the ceiling. Honestly, I figured we'd sit on the couch and talk of our interests, hobbies, and such. But when I looked up, he was all fists and kicks. He beat the crap out of me. So there I was, sprawled on the couch, bleeding everywhere. The guy had power. He reached up and squashed the bulb with his hand. Then he left the room and I heard the door lock.

I lay there in the dark, feeling kind of blah -- is that the right word? Crappy? Cold? Afraid? Dejected? But I still had my thoughts, and so my hopes looked ahead to a brighter future, to even bigger thrills in my new life of crime...

Even Criminals Need Shoes

In case you missed my big announcement, I'm now a criminal, so far with latent derelict tendencies. I still feel the nagging (and unwelcome) scruples of my past normal life, but, believe me, I'm trying my level best to shuck them. I haven't made my first dishonest million yet, but I'm sure I'll feel better when I do.

Anyway, after breaking the big plate glass window on the square, I wandered the streets most of the night, looking for whatever mischief I could get into. I hate to admit it, but being new at this, most of it would probably be classified as trivial stuff to the seasoned crook. I went down one street and switched the garbage cans from one side of the street to the other. It's not much, but my philosophy is, Anything's better than nothing.

Next thing I knew then, it got late. And my body hadn't yet adjusted to the criminal's desire to stay up all night. I've been used to going to bed about 9:30, so anything after midnight and I'm dead. Plus, maybe you've been outside after dark. If so, you know it gets colder when the sun goes down. This night was no exception, and being winter it was that much worse. And yet... I'm either committed to this new life or I'm not. And I want to think I am...

So I wandered down one particularly dark street and tripped over a big rock in some guy's yard. It pissed me off quite a bit. It took everything I had, but I managed to pick the rock up. Then I took it over to his driveway and set it on the hood of his car. Just putting it there did some damage. Then I gave it a shove, and with the early dew, it slid all the way across, leaving massive scratches before falling with a thud off the other side. I'm hoping they can't get prints from a rock, because I left my gloves at home.

After a while I was back downtown and approached the Skidrow district. This is where some very tough hombres hang out, they say. I've always avoided this sleazy part of town, but now I'm claiming it as home base. Here I am, like it or not!

I turned down one bleak-looking alley, defying my better judgment. I saw what looked like four or five wide-awake ruffians looking at me. The sons of bitches were on me in a flash and I felt a series of withering speed-noogies on my quickly bruising pate. It hurt like hell, of course, but I thought of it as a rite of passage. You have to pay your dues.

When I woke up I felt an unpleasant breeze whistling through my toes. That's weird, I thought, paying no attention to the cold blood all over my face, I don't have any shoes! True enough! Some bastard (or bastards) unknown had filched my shoes. Real neighborly stuff...

Naturally I thought, Good grief, what am I going to do? Then it hit me. Even though my feet were cold, I made about as much noise as a cat. So I went to another alley and listened for a good long while. No noise. Then I crept silently down the alley, saw a guy about my size sleeping, and carefully untied and removed his shoes. Then of course I got the hell out of there!

Cursing Your Cup Of Coffee

Just like 50 is the new 30, coffee is the new nectar of the gods, that which we archetypically need in the course of the day to maintain our divinity. Hence, every threat to our cup is a slap in the face or, worse, the possible destruction of our manhood or maidenhead.

I've been fairly well immune to this so I'm qualified to speak on the subject with some detachment. I've always been averse to spending more money on coffee than I need to, so you're not likely to see me walking out of Starbuck's with a $5 drink. This is the honest to God truth: I have yet to spend my first dollar in a Starbuck's! But we see them all the time, the same dolts who'd buy their kids $10 worth of snacks in a convenience store every time they stop for gas, walking around with their precious coffee! It's like lifeblood!

So, as to what I've said thus far, obviously I'm not too far off base. With the same thing applying for what I've still yet to say. Thanks to my perspective, and the detachment of my observations, everything I say has to be the absolute truth. Or better.

And here's what I have to say: If you want to curse someone where it hurts, don't wish them bodily harm; we have doctors for that. Attack their coffee! Curse their cup!

That's the way I'm doing it from now on. I used to carry generic voodoo dolls and big darning needles. Then when someone insulted me, I'd take one out in the full view of everyone and make silent gestures as to my intentions: This doll represents this particular bastard. These needles represent my wish for violence and misery for him. I hereby curse you, first, and now I attack you physically, albeit without any obvious cause and effect that would hold up in a court of law.

Be all that as it may, frankly, people don't feel all that threatened anymore by that. Again, they've got doctors if they find themselves physically dying. Aha! But attack a man's coffee or a woman's coffee! Do that, then stand back and watch the sparks fly! You simply say it! And make gestures toward the cup! They've seen enough Harry Potter movies, they believe it, and I'm not saying it's not true!

You could come right out and say it: "You've insulted me for the last time. I curse your cup of coffee. Drink it to bad health. May it bring forth vermin and maggots. Or just vermin if maggots are also considered vermin. I hate to be redundant." Or you could shorten it to simply: "I curse your cup of coffee," leaving them not knowing whether it's safe to drink. Or you could just mentally curse their coffee, then walk away, leaving them behind. Then next time you pass by a few minutes later, you see them writhing on the sidewalk outside the coffee place. With vermin and/or maggots making the most of things.

The basic message here is, Don't insult me. Because see that cup of coffee in your hand? It'll be crawling, and it won't take long!

Note: In case my picture isn't clear, that's maggots in the cup. I always thought maggots were white but these look like brown maggots, possibly healthier for you, or it could be the coffee discolored them in the transubstantiation process.

A Criminal Wanders The Streets

Now that I've turned to a life of crime, it's crazy time. Which can be a very good feeling. I'm carving out a whole new life, looking for the thrills that criminals alone enjoy.

After they let me out of "the can" (jail), being released on my own recognizance, which is tough to admit, I went back home. I'm sitting there thinking, Criminals don't hang around home, do they? It brought such a feeling of disdain to my spirit for everything normal that I had a brainchild: I arranged a bunch of my most prized possessions in the middle of the room, peed on them, and left the house.

I made my way uptown and wandered the alleys for a while, then a few side streets, then the square. It was when I got to the square, with all the businesses closed, yet with my reflection in every passing window, that I saw the weirdest transformation of myself.

I'm all alone at this point, of course. There's no other criminal worth his salt who'd throw in his lot with me, because I haven't yet been tested and tempered. And I saw a few other hoodlums, standing over by the war memorial. One little squirt they called Johnny had climbed the memorial and was sticking chewing gum up the nostrils of the soldier statue. I definitely approved of his rebellious gesture, but figured I better walk on.

The square was alive with the usual noise, cars going by. But after a while I put it out of my awareness and was focused solely on my own hideous descent. As I passed windows, at first I looked like my usual old boring self. But as I dwelt on the hardening of my attitudes and the coarseness of my thoughts -- I never would've approved of defacing war memorials before -- I felt myself becoming ... whatever. If you have to explain it, then you're not with it.

One window I passed, I noticed I was slumped over a little more, like a real outcast. As I kept going, I saw a sneer on my face a mile wide. I messed up my hair and saw it sticking out like a real crook. I hunched my hands down and arched up my fingers like claws. I took big confident strides, a real devil-may-care nonchalance guiding my movements. I went by one place, stood and looked at myself, then put a hard elbow to the glass, shattering it in a million pieces. Then I ran down the alley as every siren in the county went off.

A crowd gathered over on the north side, watching the police action. I went in amongst them and noticed they were avoiding me. A few of the guys were guarding their wallet pocket. I kept going, determined never to return home. Those days -- those damned days -- are behind me forever...

The truth is, now I'm completely into crime and a bad attitude. I tested out my voice and even it seemed huskier and meaner. As of right now -- I have nothing to live for. That is, nothing but crime and thrills. A final word of warning to every "normal" person: WATCH OUT FOR ME!

My Life Of Crime Begins

I'm torn in writing this. One, I still feel the tug of my normal (to this point) responsible side, saying, "WTF?" But two, I'm really fed up with that whole normal scene. I'm old, man, and I've never done anything wrong, and I'm thinking I ought to have a few thrills.

But is the promise of thrills in the life of crime really true? I think it is. Because you're really living on the edge. In other words, The Man is really playing for keeps when it comes to crime. I attribute that to people's sense of property rights and society's desire not to be bothered by undesirables. So they don't mess around.

And I know exactly how that goes. Before I turned to crime, I myself resented any sort of criminal act against me. If someone came up, as happened once, and removed my bike chain from my bike and stole my bike, I'd be very upset, as I was. And when I'd see neighbor kids stealing pumpkins from my doorstep and smashing them all over the road, I saw that as a bad thing. Unfortunately, when it comes to that kind of crime -- ruined pumpkins -- the authorities really don't pursue the criminals with their full force.

I haven't forgotten my feelings when it came to being a victim. But I've set them aside for the greater thrills to be had in being the actual perpetrator. Your sorrow, yes, perhaps. But my fun, my excitement!

I hate to get into specifics of my crime. But it was relatively minor. There's a candidate running for county supervisor named Hendrix. And I thought, Wow, Hendrix! I've always been a fan of the original Hendrix -- a guy called back in the '60s -- so it was only natural that I'd want to steal these campaign signs. But up till now, with my descent into crime, I would have restrained myself.

As it turns out, this is a crime they really punish, so I spent a night in jail, and was released on my own recognizance, along with $300. I'm supposed to go to court sometime, which date I plan to skip, because, as I said, I'm sick of living a normal life -- I want thrills! It's going to be a super thrill when the judge looks out and sees an empty bench where I'm supposed to be sitting! I might send him a flower basket, a bouquet of poison ivy along with a box of poison ants, which I'll probably have to have flown in from one of the more dangerous countries of the world. Like the Ukraine or somewhere.

The story was in the paper tonight, under the header, "Local Man Charged With Stealing A Bunch Of Hendrix Signs." So that's something for my scrapbook...

OK, how do I feel? Was it thrilling? It was a little thrilling. But there's also another side to it, of emptiness. I don't feel much of anything, like nothing. And maybe that's the whole thing. If I want the thrills, I have to keep doing bigger and worse crimes, and hope then that after the thrill, I'll also have a contented feeling. It's still a little thrilling, don't get me wrong, to know that I've taken a path from which there's no return. A few more days of this and I'll be totally washed up! How great!