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First night back in town and...


Megasoup

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...god help me! Old habits...they do die hard! This is just a passing moment, though. I mean, goddamn...I've been an unwashed vagrant for months; if they're gonna' throw it at me, it's impossible to resist.

 

Anyway, like I said; it's a passing moment. I've listened to the more serious responses from the more respectable posters...albeit, ones that sorta' hate me. @StompGrind, your words have resonated. They are things I already know.

 

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I don't get the clothes you wear

 

You don't? I actually wrote something a few weeks back about the reason for my style.

 

"I wonder if, in this moment, I would be recognizable to anyone that knew me. The last time I stepped on a scale (a couple weeks ago, on the scale of a recycling facility in Long Beach,) it seemed that I lost 30 pounds. I am brown, brown, brown from constantly being outdoors in the California sunshine. I had been sporting a beard, a surprisingly thick and full growth of manly whiskers, up until a little over a week ago, when I shaved it off to begin working as a line cook in beautiful Solano Beach.

 

Upon learning that my employer never had the intention of paying me, I have left. Last night was my last evening. I just may let my allow my bristles to reemerge so that I can more appropriately stay in character.

 

But the person who I once was modeled a style which was a plagiarized version of a man I knew a long, long ago. The long hair, the dress shirts coupled with blue jeans and my generally carefree demeanor, I attribute to him. His name was Larry Duffield and, by look and look alone, the figure he rendered was the embodiment of cool.

 

For whatever reason, I did not see my mother very often when I was growing. I don't fault her because I don't know why. I believe she may have grappled with the challenges that life threw her way and had, for a time, lost many a battle.

 

When I was eight, on one of these rare visits, I was introduced to a man she was living with named Larry Duffield. I do not know how they met. I initially did not like him. I do not like him now. I do not believe you will like much of the figure I paint of this man. I swear to God he had a few redeeming qualities, though...as do we all. So, somewhere in the midst of the years I was acquainted with him, he was a man I admired.

 

Anyway, there is an insignificant, little patch of hell that few of you have ever heard of; a town that billed itself as Puxico. My mother and my younger brother, a sibling I became much more acquainted with as an adult, were living with a man named Larry Duffield. He had a couple well-furnished homes, a sports car and some spending money; all from an inheritance. He did not work. His parents had died. Everybody dies.

 

On that first evening, with my mother present and part of the "fun," he presented a piece of cinematography which I had not yet witnessed at that age. With carefully calibrated stero sound that filled the room with it's presence and on a sizable and impressive big screen television, he directed our attentions, mid-scene, to a close-up shot of a man performing cunnilingus on a woman.

 

I am still haunted by that vision, by the sucking and slurping sounds. I feel the frightened emotion of the child that I was.

 

I wanted to leave the room, but was encouraged not to by both Larry , my mother and my brother Greg, a wizened 9 year-old by that time. I was taunted and jeered and told how it wasn't a big deal. I wanted to go home. I believe that I did, but I can't really remember. It seems unlikely when I consider the distance between Puxico and DeSoto, but I cannot remember any immediate reconciliation.

 

Yes, for a time, I grew up in DeSoto.

 

My mother stayed with him for a few years and that may or may not have been good for me. I found that the next few summers, I would spend a great deal more time around my mother and my younger brother. Apparently, he liked children (having none of his own) and was a willing babysitter while my mother went to work. I grew to like him. Everything he did was "bad," but we all have a tendency to grow learn to accept what becomes our constant realities. He would smoke marijuana throughout the day, and he would drive us around in his 300zx at frightening speeds which, soon enough, became daring speeds. One day I am begging him to slow down and the next, I'm begging him to "go faster!"

 

He had a large collection of comic books and graphic novels. He had large collection of real literature, as well. I read them both without discernation. Would you believe that, at age ten, I read and understood Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Mallory, "The hoole booke of kyng Arthur & of his noble knyghtes of the rounde table?"

 

He had a large collection of firearms; guns that were not legal nor generally available to the public. Would you believe that at that same age, I would regularly shoot a myriad of fully-automatic machine guns...one of them being an M60? (For those who believe I might be confusing "fully-automatic" with "semi-automatic" or "M16" with "M60," I'm not. I'm not.)

 

We often went to professional wrestling shows and saw screenings of Batman at the theatre a half a dozen times. He would take me to the stylists and I would get the wildest "cut and dye" jobs I had ever seen. For a time, I had the Batman symbol shaved into the side of my head in the style of ancient Greece's black figure pottery and he would painstakingly use a permanent marker each day to color in the bat.

 

He also used to severely punish us for whatever reason he concocted.

 

I believe that he was a disturbed man, but his philosophy on discipline had at least some aspects that I agree with. We knew what we were being punished for, however petty a non-crime it was, and he never acted in the heat of the moment. He would have us sit in a room waiting, as he weighed the crime and would determine the appropriate measure. That last point is what made these episodes borderline-psychotic. I'll see if I can demonstrate, but this may be challenging.

 

Let me cover some intricacies, as I remember. He had a four-tiered rank structure. He was the "Captain" and my mother was the "First Mate." Of the three of us, one of us would be promoted to the rank of "Second Mate." If you were "Second Mate," you had a better breakfast and would ride shotgun. The trade off is that the "Second Mate" was to be held partially responsible for the conduct of the rest of the crew (I don't remember the name he used for that) whenever a punishment is doled out, whoever was "Second Mate" got additional blows from the "green stick."

 

Ah, the "green stick." There was the "Attitude Adjuster," a paddle he bought in a souveneir shop that had to constantly be reinforced because he would break it on our asses, the "red fire," which was the red side of a surprisingly sturdy and painful Japanese tea tray left from his deceased mother (she was Japanese,) the "black death," which was the other side of that same tea tray, painted black...and the "green stick." The "green stick" was a green rod of bamboo. It would leave awful whelps with traces of blood.

 

His sentences were probably very entertaining to him. They were complicated and erratic, though at the time, we three probably thought there was a lot of thought and structure applied to the appropriate course of discipline. When he would return to the room, he might inform us that we would get "4 strikes with the 'attitude adjuster,' 9 strikes with 'red fire' and 5 with the 'green stick," while a different offender got "10 strikes with the 'attitude adjuster,' 6 with 'black death' and 3 with the 'green stick." The "Second Mate would get what he had coming and additional whacks with the "green stick."

 

Our asses were constantly black and blue with unsightly and alarming sores on them. I wonder why nobody ever put a stop to this? Mom? Dad?

 

In this world, stained with more than just shades of grey, but also the entire specter of our magnificent and alluring color wheel, to look at anything is to examine an abstraction of intricacies. My dad was often more viscious and certainly less structured, but when I wrap my mind around it and try to understand THAT mind, it seems that he would be offended or, confusingly, jealous that someone else was beating his children. Who ****ing knows?

 

I will say that there was one time that my mother objected. I might have been 12 or 13 or whatever and my mother had left him, but later came back. They were no longer lovers, but she needed a place to stay. I know they were no longer lovers because Larry (actually, "Lawrence" by this time. For whatever reason, he changed his name to "Lawrence" and insisted that was the name we used or else there was hell to pay) told me. He didn't use the word "lovers," because he had his own colorful way of speaking. Anyway, he felt a sudden sense of urgency to renew his personal instruction in all he knew about Christianity (at one point, a few years earlier, he had us all baptised as Lutheran) and felt that the next step we take was to learn the "Lord's Prayer." He locked us in a room and told us to memorize it, occasionally coming in and testing us and beating our still-tiny asses because we couldn't do it. I still remember my younger brother's frightened, quivering voice, "Our father...who art in heaven..." He never got past that first line. It was the only time that he doled out punishment without the usual contrived methodology of solemn and careful judgement. He beat our asses all day that day.

 

My mother came home to the scene, a scene that Larry (oops, I mean "Lawrence") fervently defended, and she was pissed. Way to go, Mom!

 

 

By the way, I can still say the Lord's Prayer perfectly.

 

During those years, though...in a confusing turn, I really liked the guy. In between these random punishments, he was a very cool cat. He was devilishly handsome and he knew how to have fun. He introduced me to a lot of new things; opened my world up just a little more.

 

The years, well they just race by, don't they? One day, a man like that is in a child's life and one day he's not. There was that one time I tried to find him. I was 17 and I had no place to go. I had left my father's a couple months earlier and my mother had thrown me out. It was a cold, cold January. I tried to retrace the direction of where he lived, which was now in Godfrey, but I could never find the place. In my exhaustive search, which was hours, I ran out of gas in Alton because I couldn't read maps, wasn't familiar with the area and had never before had run out of gas at that age. I might have even held some sort of meek faith that is was possible that they actually never did; that it was all a hoax.

 

I'm glad I didn't find him."

 

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...god help me! Old habits...they do die hard! This is just a passing moment, though. I mean, goddamn...I've been an unwashed vagrant for months; if they're gonna' throw it at me, it's impossible to resist.

 

Anyway, like I said; it's a passing moment. I've listened to the more serious responses from the more respectable posters...albeit, ones that sorta' hate me. @StompGrind, your words have resonated. They are things I already know.

 

297f91d555b58f0d1fca02ca5e5ea0.jpg

 

Best of luck to you and your tranny friend in your future endeavors.

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Having someone take a picture of you kissing a girl to prove to the world that you're okay via social media = desperate.

 

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." -Charles ****ens

 

Yes, maybe I am guilty of a fairly common human condition. I'm not going to fight that. But, on the bright side...and considering the path I had been headed down, it might not be such a bad idea for me to take some time out to look on the bright side:

 

-I have friends that are concerned enough that I would engage in such tomfoolery.

-At will, I can find good-lookin' girls that are happy to kiss me.

-And, I'm going to be okay. I thought it was over for me, guys.

 

 

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Having someone take a picture of you kissing a girl to prove to the world that you're okay via social media = desperate.

 

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." -Charles ****ens

 

Yes, maybe I am guilty of a fairly common human condition. I'm not going to fight that. But, on the bright side...and considering the path I had been headed down, it might not be such a bad idea for me to take some time out to look on the bright side:

 

-I have friends that are concerned enough that I would engage in such tomfoolery.

-At will, I can find good-lookin' girls that are happy to kiss me.

-And, I'm going to be okay. I thought it was over for me, guys.

 

 

I'm glad that you took that comment without getting butthurt. I would've said that to any of my friends or family the same way I did to you.

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Having someone take a picture of you kissing a girl to prove to the world that you're okay via social media = desperate.

 

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." -Charles ****ens

 

Yes, maybe I am guilty of a fairly common human condition. I'm not going to fight that. But, on the bright side...and considering the path I had been headed down, it might not be such a bad idea for me to take some time out to look on the bright side:

 

-I have friends that are concerned enough that I would engage in such tomfoolery.

-At will, I can find good-lookin' girls that are happy to kiss me.

-And, I'm going to be okay. I thought it was over for me, guys.

 

 

I'm glad that you took that comment without getting butthurt. I would've said that to any of my friends or family the same way I did to you.

 

Thank you.

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I don't get the clothes you wear

 

You don't? I actually wrote something a few weeks back about the reason for my style.

 

"I wonder if, in this moment, I would be recognizable to anyone that knew me. The last time I stepped on a scale (a couple weeks ago, on the scale of a recycling facility in Long Beach,) it seemed that I lost 30 pounds. I am brown, brown, brown from constantly being outdoors in the California sunshine. I had been sporting a beard, a surprisingly thick and full growth of manly whiskers, up until a little over a week ago, when I shaved it off to begin working as a line cook in beautiful Solano Beach.

 

Upon learning that my employer never had the intention of paying me, I have left. Last night was my last evening. I just may let my allow my bristles to reemerge so that I can more appropriately stay in character.

 

But the person who I once was modeled a style which was a plagiarized version of a man I knew a long, long ago. The long hair, the dress shirts coupled with blue jeans and my generally carefree demeanor, I attribute to him. His name was Larry Duffield and, by look and look alone, the figure he rendered was the embodiment of cool.

 

For whatever reason, I did not see my mother very often when I was growing. I don't fault her because I don't know why. I believe she may have grappled with the challenges that life threw her way and had, for a time, lost many a battle.

 

When I was eight, on one of these rare visits, I was introduced to a man she was living with named Larry Duffield. I do not know how they met. I initially did not like him. I do not like him now. I do not believe you will like much of the figure I paint of this man. I swear to God he had a few redeeming qualities, though...as do we all. So, somewhere in the midst of the years I was acquainted with him, he was a man I admired.

 

Anyway, there is an insignificant, little patch of hell that few of you have ever heard of; a town that billed itself as Puxico. My mother and my younger brother, a sibling I became much more acquainted with as an adult, were living with a man named Larry Duffield. He had a couple well-furnished homes, a sports car and some spending money; all from an inheritance. He did not work. His parents had died. Everybody dies.

 

On that first evening, with my mother present and part of the "fun," he presented a piece of cinematography which I had not yet witnessed at that age. With carefully calibrated stero sound that filled the room with it's presence and on a sizable and impressive big screen television, he directed our attentions, mid-scene, to a close-up shot of a man performing cunnilingus on a woman.

 

I am still haunted by that vision, by the sucking and slurping sounds. I feel the frightened emotion of the child that I was.

 

I wanted to leave the room, but was encouraged not to by both Larry , my mother and my brother Greg, a wizened 9 year-old by that time. I was taunted and jeered and told how it wasn't a big deal. I wanted to go home. I believe that I did, but I can't really remember. It seems unlikely when I consider the distance between Puxico and DeSoto, but I cannot remember any immediate reconciliation.

 

Yes, for a time, I grew up in DeSoto.

 

My mother stayed with him for a few years and that may or may not have been good for me. I found that the next few summers, I would spend a great deal more time around my mother and my younger brother. Apparently, he liked children (having none of his own) and was a willing babysitter while my mother went to work. I grew to like him. Everything he did was "bad," but we all have a tendency to grow learn to accept what becomes our constant realities. He would smoke marijuana throughout the day, and he would drive us around in his 300zx at frightening speeds which, soon enough, became daring speeds. One day I am begging him to slow down and the next, I'm begging him to "go faster!"

 

He had a large collection of comic books and graphic novels. He had large collection of real literature, as well. I read them both without discernation. Would you believe that, at age ten, I read and understood Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Mallory, "The hoole booke of kyng Arthur & of his noble knyghtes of the rounde table?"

 

He had a large collection of firearms; guns that were not legal nor generally available to the public. Would you believe that at that same age, I would regularly shoot a myriad of fully-automatic machine guns...one of them being an M60? (For those who believe I might be confusing "fully-automatic" with "semi-automatic" or "M16" with "M60," I'm not. I'm not.)

 

We often went to professional wrestling shows and saw screenings of Batman at the theatre a half a dozen times. He would take me to the stylists and I would get the wildest "cut and dye" jobs I had ever seen. For a time, I had the Batman symbol shaved into the side of my head in the style of ancient Greece's black figure pottery and he would painstakingly use a permanent marker each day to color in the bat.

 

He also used to severely punish us for whatever reason he concocted.

 

I believe that he was a disturbed man, but his philosophy on discipline had at least some aspects that I agree with. We knew what we were being punished for, however petty a non-crime it was, and he never acted in the heat of the moment. He would have us sit in a room waiting, as he weighed the crime and would determine the appropriate measure. That last point is what made these episodes borderline-psychotic. I'll see if I can demonstrate, but this may be challenging.

 

Let me cover some intricacies, as I remember. He had a four-tiered rank structure. He was the "Captain" and my mother was the "First Mate." Of the three of us, one of us would be promoted to the rank of "Second Mate." If you were "Second Mate," you had a better breakfast and would ride shotgun. The trade off is that the "Second Mate" was to be held partially responsible for the conduct of the rest of the crew (I don't remember the name he used for that) whenever a punishment is doled out, whoever was "Second Mate" got additional blows from the "green stick."

 

Ah, the "green stick." There was the "Attitude Adjuster," a paddle he bought in a souveneir shop that had to constantly be reinforced because he would break it on our asses, the "red fire," which was the red side of a surprisingly sturdy and painful Japanese tea tray left from his deceased mother (she was Japanese,) the "black death," which was the other side of that same tea tray, painted black...and the "green stick." The "green stick" was a green rod of bamboo. It would leave awful whelps with traces of blood.

 

His sentences were probably very entertaining to him. They were complicated and erratic, though at the time, we three probably thought there was a lot of thought and structure applied to the appropriate course of discipline. When he would return to the room, he might inform us that we would get "4 strikes with the 'attitude adjuster,' 9 strikes with 'red fire' and 5 with the 'green stick," while a different offender got "10 strikes with the 'attitude adjuster,' 6 with 'black death' and 3 with the 'green stick." The "Second Mate would get what he had coming and additional whacks with the "green stick."

 

Our asses were constantly black and blue with unsightly and alarming sores on them. I wonder why nobody ever put a stop to this? Mom? Dad?

 

In this world, stained with more than just shades of grey, but also the entire specter of our magnificent and alluring color wheel, to look at anything is to examine an abstraction of intricacies. My dad was often more viscious and certainly less structured, but when I wrap my mind around it and try to understand THAT mind, it seems that he would be offended or, confusingly, jealous that someone else was beating his children. Who ****ing knows?

 

I will say that there was one time that my mother objected. I might have been 12 or 13 or whatever and my mother had left him, but later came back. They were no longer lovers, but she needed a place to stay. I know they were no longer lovers because Larry (actually, "Lawrence" by this time. For whatever reason, he changed his name to "Lawrence" and insisted that was the name we used or else there was hell to pay) told me. He didn't use the word "lovers," because he had his own colorful way of speaking. Anyway, he felt a sudden sense of urgency to renew his personal instruction in all he knew about Christianity (at one point, a few years earlier, he had us all baptised as Lutheran) and felt that the next step we take was to learn the "Lord's Prayer." He locked us in a room and told us to memorize it, occasionally coming in and testing us and beating our still-tiny asses because we couldn't do it. I still remember my younger brother's frightened, quivering voice, "Our father...who art in heaven..." He never got past that first line. It was the only time that he doled out punishment without the usual contrived methodology of solemn and careful judgement. He beat our asses all day that day.

 

My mother came home to the scene, a scene that Larry (oops, I mean "Lawrence") fervently defended, and she was pissed. Way to go, Mom!

 

 

By the way, I can still say the Lord's Prayer perfectly.

 

During those years, though...in a confusing turn, I really liked the guy. In between these random punishments, he was a very cool cat. He was devilishly handsome and he knew how to have fun. He introduced me to a lot of new things; opened my world up just a little more.

 

The years, well they just race by, don't they? One day, a man like that is in a child's life and one day he's not. There was that one time I tried to find him. I was 17 and I had no place to go. I had left my father's a couple months earlier and my mother had thrown me out. It was a cold, cold January. I tried to retrace the direction of where he lived, which was now in Godfrey, but I could never find the place. In my exhaustive search, which was hours, I ran out of gas in Alton because I couldn't read maps, wasn't familiar with the area and had never before had run out of gas at that age. I might have even held some sort of meek faith that is was possible that they actually never did; that it was all a hoax.

 

I'm glad I didn't find him."

 

71c.gif

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Bro, you forgot, we live in 'Murica.

 

I bought my dog a gun.

 

I live in Brazil. I dare Megasoup to rant over here...

 

traficantes-morro-da-covanca-1.jpg

 

PS: I've hid my face and my brother's to avoid future troubles.

 

This photo was taken moments before Paulo Thiago showed up and started pistol whipping everyone with his BOPE homies.

 

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Bro, you forgot, we live in 'Murica.

 

I bought my dog a gun.

 

I live in Brazil. I dare Megasoup to rant over here...

 

traficantes-morro-da-covanca-1.jpg

 

PS: I've hid my face and my brother's to avoid future troubles.

 

This photo was taken moments before Paulo Thiago showed up and started pistol whipping everyone with his BOPE homies.

 

Did you read that on Fox News? Because that's BS.

 

Paulo Thiago did try to run over, but we got Siyar to run the security.

 

This is a photo moments after he came by:

 

paulo.png

 

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Bro, you forgot, we live in 'Murica.

 

I bought my dog a gun.

 

I live in Brazil. I dare Megasoup to rant over here...

 

traficantes-morro-da-covanca-1.jpg

 

PS: I've hid my face and my brother's to avoid future troubles.

 

You mofo's WOULD need a gun. You'd better find me quick, though, 'cuz if I made my way to Brazil, I imagine all those good-lookin' honeys over their would be leaving their boyfriends and husbands. It would surely piss off the whole nation and there would be a helluva' bounty on my scalp...damn near a hundred pesos, which is about twice the average yearly salary for a family of 15.

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