Gothropology - 09.25.15 - Occult & Ourselves - KPCRadio.com

Gothropology - 09.25.15 - Occult & Ourselves - KPCRadio.com

GUNS BLAZING

The sounds of the bass died down...

But the roar of their artillery opening fire gave them their own bass cannons. The guns roared. The woodchips flew off the fallen telephone pole. I managed to get a few pops of my pea gun off. This was probably the reason the didn't just bum rush the telephone pole and plant a few leads in my melon.

It went like this... Them: BOOM BOOM RATATAT RATATAT -- Me: pop pop.

That showdown in the wild west went over like a lead balloon. 

So after a respite of firing and a change in the color of my underwear, I wanted the cops to swoop in and be my knights in shitting armor.  They never came.  It was obvious discrimination. They were in no hurry to haul my body out of the west.

I was rattled but alive. They left without the bass and body. I sauntered back to Lil Tony's and finally found him with eyes glazed over.  Twitches. He was hanging out with a Vice Lord that had been on a permanent acid trip from the 70's from a hit of purple haze. He would carry a coffee cup around with a quarter in it, probably forgetting to ask for change. Tony was toking the pipe and it showed.

They gave me a G-Pack. 

Which is about a thousand dollars in rocks and blows -- crack and heroin. A little salad of weed on the side. Only one big skinny problem -- I stuck out like a white man at the million man march. I was white and I had yet to see another whitey on the westside. It would not be hard to pick me out of lineup. I would attract hustlers as a moth to a flame.

I got baited and switched, crack stole right out of my hand. Got told I was selling Stovetop stuffing. Must have been good stuffing because they kept coming back. It was close to Thanksgiving, maybe they wanted to have the most explosive stuffing known to man. Crarkey.  Then after I learned the ropes. I started making money. But I missed my girlfriend Starkist tuna boat.

I called for the Vice Lord chariot to pick me up.

Everywhere I went was getting searched after I left. Since the dresser incident, they even checked in dryers as if I'd be spinning around in their with a wide grin.  They must have been snorting lines of Kool-Aid.  The cops had egg on their faces. The beanpole white kid was evading them at every corner, jumping out windows on them, and always a step ahead.

I went to Rooster's house. I put a black sheet up over the window so when I watched television, the electrons wouldn't flash on the outside. I knocked all the boards out under his couch so I could squeeze under there. There was only one door and window in, so I couldn't go out a back way. But if someone would have sat on that couch, they would have squished my head.

I was such a great contortionist I could hide under the bathroom sink's counter. And that came in handy when Rooster's mom, who is...

BIG AS A CELESTIAL BODY

And had to use the large lady's room. This was a horrifying and debilitating experience that sent me to repressed memory therapy for the next forever years. No amount of decency could be allotted to the sounds she eeked out. The putrid odor that drained the smell from my nose hairs.  I, I, I,... can't even talk about it without expectorating into the nearest dumpster. I would have rather dunked my head in a litter box of twelve kitties that hadn't been changed in 12 months. Nuff said there.

Then it all came crashing down. Rooster had his own key, and after a few weeks he came to the door after work and said, "It's me." That's when I knew he sold me out. Who comes to their own door and says, "It's me." So I scrambled to the couch as he didn't key in. Nor did he say he lost his keys. Then I heard him say, "They know you're in there."

I yelled out, "I am not." That was as stupid as the "Hey, it's me." Then the dogs started barking and the cops started yelling I had ten seconds to come out.

I had to make a quick decision. Grab the gun. Give up. Or go under the couch....

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CHICAGO -- HIDE AND SNEAK WITH THE POLICE

Only a 3-story Apartment Building

I meant sneak, not seek. I had to rush head long into a game of chicken with the cops. And I was cornered...

Leg dangling out of the window... Three stories up...

The enforcers of imprisonment were so close they could smell my unwashed underwear. They burst into the room. It was either capture or fracture. I jumped, remembering something I read in a book on Ninja training. Roll to the side of your feet when you land from a long jump down.

And it worked. Thanks black clad pajama men of old. I looked up to see the cop putting his leg out the window. He quickly choked on his half-eaten sprinkled doughnut. Well, I had to stick to a sprightly stereotype and defend the cliche. The cop second guessed this jump. He wan't willing to do anything to get his man. He flagged the other beat cops with him to head back down the stairs.

I had speed and 30 seconds on them.

I ran through the buildings of the massive apartment metropolis. Ran into one building, and hid in a utility cubbie hole that I had to crawl into. I'd rather fight alligators naked than be in close quarters with spiders that have 8 eyes to look at you. It was dark. I couldn't smoke cigarettes for fear of the smoke sending a Tee-Pee signal to the rancid rioters of police. I don't know how long I stayed under there -- but when I poked me head up, a squad car was driving by.

These turd feathers didn't want to go away. Finally I exited after the Lord knows how many hours I stayed in the presence of my sworn enemies -- spiders. I heard some girls talking outside of a door. I knocked, and sex answered -- well, only in my pubescent brain touting a bestial nature of instinct at that age did I hear them. I looked like Spider Man with cobwebs and fear plastering my face. I used their phone and visually molested them as they were doing yoga in the living room.

I was the dude in the background.

My baby's mother came in the Flintstone wagon with no Penthouse Forum action going on with the yoga girls. Hey, I don't think like that anymore -- but most teenage boys have turned a large number of socks into concrete after a few trysts with 2-D women in magazines or television.

WEST SIDE TILL WE DIE

So I made it to the Westside to be embraced by the Mafia Insane Vice Lords. I went to a high-ranking Universal's house and chilled with his mom, grandmother, and Tweetie -- one of the chief girls running the Mafia Insane Vice Lords. Grandma Lord was smoking weed like it was going out of style. Lil. Tony never did come back in a reasonable time. He was too busy buried in hypocrisy smoking crack.

We left. Spent the night in the car hearing sporadic gunfire. I woke up in the backseat. It was winter, so the windows were fogged. I thought Rooster the Vice Lord driver was outside the car looking to see if I was awake.

Only Rooster sat up in the frontseat! 

Someone was outside the car trying to see if someone was in it so he could jack the car. Rooster and my girlfriend went home. She was on the time of the month timecard and was making the car smell like a can of Starkist.  Just lost another ten friends on Facebook. Sorry.

PHONE BOOTH BANGING

I think we were in five point star territory. But this is when I realized Vice Lords weren't only squaring off from the Insane family(Shabazz) and the Fluid Vice Lord family without Insanes in their title -- Insanes were fighting Insanes, and fluids fighting fluids. I also found out each branch were fighting internecine battles for control within their own branches.  Then there were the Gangster Disciples.

I was white. Deep in black country in westside Chi. I stuck out like a chopped off thumb in a hitchhiking competition. I went to use the pay phone because Grandma Vice Lord and Tweetie never departed from their device. It was a problematic premonition of the future of cell phones being implanted into the hands of users all across the globe.

I called Rooster to come pick me up, and when I did, a car full of G.D.'s drove by throwing up their symbol -- the pitchfork. I was off Washington near the Malcolm X college - ten minutes from VL headquarters in the four blocks of Holy City. I instinctively threw them down in disrespect.

The forks thrown down is disrespect to Gangster Disciples

I had .25 on me. Who would be scared of a 140 pound bag of wet diapers like me? Their bass system echoed out of distance, then it come from a different direction -- behind me. That gave me the time to look for cover and pull my gun.

They spun through the back of a vacant lot(also a derogatory term for Vice Lords, since we have a lot of vacant lots in Chicago where buildings were tore down.) That is stupid. But stupid people come up with stupid ways to defame.

I found a telephone pole that on the ground. I clambered toward it as the car doors were opening and three G.D.s were getting out of their ghetto cruiser opening fire with artillery. I was outgunned...

My gun...

Their guns...

I don't think I made it in one piece to that pole.

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