Donald Trump has his catchphrase that he wanted to trademark. Ah, no, floppy dead rat hair. Mine is going to be turd. I never got over the humor in that word since I was five --so Trump that, Donald.
Me telling Donald my plans...
Anyway. Back to your first row seat in my carnival ride of carnage.
Once I was given full control of the foster home, it was time to organize a corporate structure. Turn the wienies into warriors. We started holding Friday goals. Learning the literature. And violating anyone that broke the Vice Lord law.
Before you conquer others, you have to conquer yourself. So I adapted the identity of a Mafia don. Our ranks had grown to over 40 members. We held BBQ's. Only we didn't have any grills so we borrowed anyone's we came across on the way to the park. So this finally solves the case of the missing grills.
Sectarian and internecine feuds were ripe in the Vice Lords, but not ours. People got beatdown, smashed like some ground beef being molded for a patty.
The rise of the empire went on for months. Then the...
BBQ
We held the soiree right next door to our rivals the Gangster Disciples. Among our band of merry Lords we had quite a few scrubs that joined. They looked more like backwoods farmers than gangbangers. But you can turn scrubs into weapons if they idolize the cause enough.
I'll call the guy Roach who's house we were at because I had the nightmare of staying there. There was food and pans stacked up, crusted in food that was around in Jesus' time. I went to sleep in his dumpster room. Clicked off the light.
IT WAS JOE'S APARTMENT! The roaches were carrying me off on the pee-stained mattress. Then they scrambled when I turned on the light -- another two minutes and I would have been swarmed to death.
Remember the part in Indiana Jones' and the Temple of Doom when Indy was covered in bugs? That was his room with the light out.
ANYWAY...
We were eating outside of his roach motel when pork chops flew over the fence. Pork is prohibited in Vice Lord law since they went toward a Nation of Islam type literature.
We fired fish back over the fence at them. As you can guess... fish is against G.D.'s to eat. Everything happened so fast. Shots rang out from both sides of the fence. We then became the cockroaches -- running in anticipation of police.
We went to one of the Vice Lord sister's house down the street. A car full of G.D.'s followed us, perched on the corner of the car and let some shots ride -- my enforcer saved my life when I stood still trying to aim the pistol I had at them.
I was smashed by a freight train by my enforcer, pinning me to the ground as bullets flew out.
BAD DUDE DAD
My problems had just begun. I stood up when the door to the Vice Lord sister's flew open and a tough-as-nails dad ran out. He had more tours in Vietnam than the Greatful Dead concerts. That's when I noticed a little girl was on the porch that almost ate a bullet intended for me.
I was about to be on the receiving end of a mighty ass-whooping. And would have deserved every blow.
He told me to get inside -- my 275 pound enforcer that could scare Jason Voorhies into becoming the next Rupaul, stepped in front with a menacing stare ready to defend the chief. I brushed him aside, telling him to stand down as I walked inside to get what I figured I had coming.
Instead I was issued in to an arsenal and someone that wanted whoever shot at his daughter to meet their maker naked.
Or at best to have their living soul scared out of them into signing an armistice treaty. A plan was formulated to bulldoze their house with bullets. This would take a speech tantamount to a fury riling Malcolm X declamation.
We were coming and playing no games...
Well, things didn't quite pan out as they should... the events of the next few days would change some lives forever. And that's next week, or whenever indolence inspires to write this again...
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