1974

I once knew a boy who was eight years old. He existed in the murky, unsettling waters of a nightmare. He was ugly, scrawny, and stayed to himself. He was beat up on a daily basis because he was white. As he grew, he failed to realize why his skin color was a curse.

He loved history. The tales of the Arabian Nights. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. He believed in love and heroes. His aspiration was to become a hero. He knew he would spend his life trying to help people.

One day, he was at his nanny's house. All the other kids were younger than him, so he was allowed to stay up and help the nanny prepare snacks. 

Aunt Coot went outside to hang up close on the clothes line. He heard a noise from one of the back rooms of the house. He went to investigate. Two teenage black boys were doing something to a younger black girl. She looked over at him and started pushing the two boys away, telling them to stop. Even though they were bigger than him. He thought this was his chance to be a hero. He jumped in the room and told them to leave her alone. He did not realize they had no clothes on.

The two boys turned their attention to him. They jumped on him and dragged him to the floor. The young girl walked by and kicked him and called him a stupid white boy. Midway through their physical and sexual assault Aunt Coot returned. She had a broom in her hand and started beating one of the boys. The assaulted boy grabbed the brick that was holding the door open and hit the other attacker  in the head. Aunt Coot gave him a little checkup and doctored him up a little. She apologized profusely. She asked him if he could not tell anyone. She told him that child sitting was her source income. She was very poor. 

He mentioned it to one other adult and was told not to say anything because it would divide the town. He kept it to himself for years.

That little boy was me.

And there began my infatuation with death and suicide.

I don't want your fucking pity. I'm just letting you know why I stand where I do, protecting children.

Room 2A

Finally, the long drive was over. Detective P. Bear pulled into the cheap hotel where he had tracked the killer. It was going to be a long night. 

The sweat of 800 miles of asphalt, with no AC, to wash off in the shower would have to wait. First a shot of Jameson. Irish whiskey had been his sidekick since his partner had been shot 10 years ago. The cold-blooded bastard, Jeffries,  had killed  his partner his wife  and their daughter.  For what?  For a stereo  and a little silver. Or that was the story that was released. Bullshit!

As the warm whiskey slowly crawled down his throat, the cold rain fell outside. "How poetically...perfect," he mused. Phineas upholstered  his Sig and laid it on the nightstand next to the bottle of Black Label on the off chance Jeffries went hunting before dawn. Methodically, he placed his knife near the Sig, before removing his fleur-de-lis pendant given to him by his son. 

"Damn it," he thought, "why hasn't she called? It's been 2 days." He had met the woman of his dreams 2 years prior and they had fallen in love. "Focus, man, focus! The times finally here! Ten long years I've awaited this moment. I hope I don't have to shoot him. I want to hurt him real bad, and then let the judge have him." Phineas took another sip of whiskey and relived the memories of he and his partner touring in Central America and the late 80s.  They've been through High School, boot camp and the jungle together. They had decided to remain a team as law enforcement officers after their enlistment was up.

P felt migraine coming on. He grabbed the bottle of "amber answers" and tried to get to make sense of it all, but he knew there was no means to justify the end of life. He had seen enough death in the jungles of Columbia.

Written Dec 31, 2017