MVTHASVPERIOR: Occasionally Scott by Nikolai-B

Occasionally Scott by Nikolai B.

Occasionally Scott would fuck a fee-fee before going to bed, something that he learned on the plastic mats on steel beds in Juvenile Hall. Get a latex glove, put some cheap hair grease in it or lotion. Get a towel and fold it back in half. Place the glove on it. Roll the towel around the glove up tight, leaving the part of the glove where you stick your hand in sticking out. Fold that part back over the towel roll. Get a sock and slide it up the back to make sure it’s tight. Then he put his penis in it and fucked it. You could lay on your back, sliding it up and down like someone was riding you. Go on your side and move it back and forth. Get on your knees and imagine doing it doggystyle. Hang it off the side of the bed and stand up and fuck it like you were in between someone’s legs. But usually, Scott would masturbate normally, almost every night though, with lotion or spit and some type of napkin: fast food napkins, paper towels, toilet paper, inside his underwear if those items made too much noise to get.

Immature with magazine pornography that was a few years old, Scott still had VCR pornos, and smart enough to avoid any pornography with a chik and two or more dicks in it. The only time he didn't masturbate was when his cousin came down to stay over and work the two days he didn’t.

Wind blew through his bedroom window and it smelt like cat spray. Scott and his cousin Steve were drinking 40's of King Cobra late at night.

Steve rolls his own cigarettes. "Don't get that shit on my floor," Scott said.

"I'm trying not to."

"You read about that new law they're trying to pass in California? If you get caught smoking in a car with kids, they can pull you over and fine you for a thousand bucks."

"Jesus. What a bunch of bullshit."

"It's like all those truth dot com commercials. We're not even the highest smoking country. It's Asia, Middle Eastern, Somalia. They smoke like 10 times more than Americans. You know why they don't have a high percentage of lung cancer?"

"No." He lit his cigarette.

"It's their diet. Why don’t they talk about how fat Americans are?"

"I see more fat people walking around then smoking."

"Exactly."

"It's just some bunch of rich assholes in some secret society."

"Some rich fat assholes."

He blew out cigarette smoke— "You know, they're on some bullshit where they have enough money for everything. They're all at some church and there's a TV there."

"Exactly."

"I mean, what the fuck? No one knows who they are except them. But they're rich, so they say yes, no on things and it happens. The government is full of them."

Steve was saying that, sitting in Scott's only chair, a big brown leather one. Noticing the dust that was on the computer screen. Noticing the dust that was on everything. Scott was online tanking for a group.

Scott said, "Of course, think about what you have to do to be in government. You need years of college in some expensive ass school. No way a poor person is finishing six years of political science or some lawyer shit in Princeton, becoming some White House official? It's set up like that." Holding agro on a monster that he thought looked like a big piece of crap, pushing macros that read messages like: Banshee, I am going to use your skull as my next helmet. Banshee, I’m going to kill you with my favorite 2hand weapon: my penis. Banshee is trying to do a line of coke off my penis. Provoking Banshee!

Scott's buddy list was full.

Steve said, "All the poor stores got ketchup. Who else eats at McDonald's or Jack in the Box but poor people. They all have Heinz. But no one knows who they are and how much power they have."

"Exactly. It's like that dude who bought Archimedes' book."

"Archimedes."

"How you say his name? They said it in that movie Pi."

"Weight over ratio. Archimedes."

"Archimedes?"

"Archimedes."

Scott swatted a bug dead that was flying around his computer screen.

"Man, you got a lot of bugs in your room."

"Damn it!" Special Agent Barney said, then threw down his headphones. A wino that was lying in the grass smiled

his bad teeth, laughed at the van, then went back to reading the obituaries from whatever light the night gave him, while filling up his urine bag lying on the grass beside him.

"Calm down, Frank," his partner said, special agent Betty Johnson for the C.I.A. They were in a surveillance van monitoring Scott, parked across the street from his house.

"I would be calm, Betty! If you would tell your boyfriend to stop killing our bugs!"

She blushed. "Don’t say that."

"Well it’s true! I see how you look at him! But what I don’t get? After all this time! Is why him!? Why haven’t you warmed up to me yet, Betty!?"

"You have a wife and kids, Frank."

"Damn it!" He kicked the cabinet twice. "Look Betty, I’m sorry. This operation has me stressed out! We’ve been at this guy’s house, for what? Months!? Why can’t he just clean his fucking room!?"

Scott was being monitored by the C.I.A., after they intercepted one of his homework assignments. Scott was also a chronic procrastinator, so the majority of his homework he turned in late. He had to email his assignment to his professor. Which once received triggered Google’s Adspecs for the specific words: 9/11 commercial; September 11^th commercials; September 11th news footage of Iraq; U.S. flag burning in Iraq 9/11; 9/11 live feed of Iraq on 9/11/01. HD definition footage of Iraq 911, 9-11 HD Definition Footage of Iraq. Which in turn alerted the C.I.A.

Scott logged off the game, took a long hit of the 40. He opened up a word document containing a rough draft of his newest project. For him and his cousin to critique.

Dear Congressional Person/ Senator/ To Whom It May Concern:

Recently I did not get a job because of my background check turned out a ten year old felony. "Hmm…" then you could hear the sound of the keyboard clicking. I do not want to justify how why when I was young I happened to fall victim as being associated with a crime like this, "Hmm…" the sound of the keyboard clicking, but I would like to ask that we involve some other criminal acts that well surpass mine in devastation to society. "Hmm…" I suggest that we also include men and women who commit adultery in background checks. "Hmm…" When a man or woman commits adultery 85% of the time it results in a divorce. It is a proven fact that divorce greatly negatively affects the majority of children that come from a divorced home. "Hmmm." Not only do adulterers commit crimes against their partners that in the eyes of God is a cardinal sin that they could go to hell for, but they also commit crimes against children by forcing them to go through emotional stresses at their young age, "Hmm…" and the lack of parental guidance that causes some of them to be damaged. It also forces them in their young teens to take delinquent paths and go with the wrong crowds resulting in criminal activity that could’ve been avoided "Hmm…". It also causes depression and forces some kids to start medications too young in life, sometimes in extreme examples resulting in suicide, "Hmm…" and even worse is that it may lead a child when they become an adult to unconsciously become like their parents and become an adulterer later in life themselves, thus causing a vicious cycle that ruins families, kids, and further deteriorates American life. I would like to point out that all people I have interviewed would rather work with someone who committed a robbery 10 years ago than an adulterer who is responsible for ruining their kids’ lives. Also they said they would rather work with someone who got caught selling crack cocaine than have to worry at work about some promiscuous coworker trying to have sex with everyone in the office. To be fair, "Hmm…" I suggest like all crimes after some time they be forgiven and the adultery crime be expunged from their record. I also suggest that there be an educational program for those who have committed adultery similar to those who commit DUIs. I also suggest that adultery offenders submit their DNA once they are found guilty in case they have fathered or mothered any illegitimate children and have avoided the responsibility of caring for them mentally or financially. I understand that a lot of teachers and people in government would no longer be able to get jobs, but it is only greatly to improve our way of life in America, because we must think about the psychological thinking of people who commit adultery, and should not tolerate them teaching our youth or leading our country in our offices. I’m willing to discuss this law and its effects fully through my email or my phone. I also ask that the law bear part of my name as being one of the founders.

A bug caught a visual of Scott’s face as he turned to his cousin, half illuminated in light by the computer screen, with a gentle smile that showed some of his teeth. Betty could feel her heartbeat inside her moistening vaginal canal. Her face flushed. Sitting in her chair she knew exactly what she was going to do when she got home: lay back on her bed half naked, imagining the fee-fee was her genitalia and Scott’s warm body and weight was on top of her. Mashing on her clit with a flesh colored dildo the size of a hair dryer.

Agent Barney threw down his headphones, "Un-be-lIEVABLE!" Then kicked the cabinet twice.

Steve chuckled. "Man, what do people in your class say when they read that?"

"I don’t know. That I’m crazy?"

Steve was inhaling his cigarette but started laughing. "Dude, Scott. Do you get to sleep with any hot chicks from your class?"

"No not really. But man, some of them are so fine I come home and beat off."

"Dude," he started laughing. "I bet they all got dirty panties on their floor. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, like the kind that make you sneak through a window or a backdoor."

He started laughing again. "No! Dude! Like you know that girl who sang, Well he’s just a skater boy, I said to him later boy? I bet when you walk into her room," and he stood up and opened his arms wide, (with the 40 in one hand and the cigarette in the other) "I bet there’s a whole bunch of dirty panties everywhere on their floor!"

The next day when Steve got back from work, him and Scott went out to get some weed for Scott’s father. Before they left Scott’s dad gave Steve a cement molding of a devil’s face about the size of a small television. They hooked up with Scott’s weed connect, a dude named Rat, at the local city park.

Rat was smoking pot with a group of young cholos and cholas. No one had any pipe or zig-zags, so they were smoking pot out of an aluminum can. They pointed at Scott, who was walking up wearing a red Che Guevara t-shirt, and asked him: "Yo, yo, you got any pipe we could use?" In a park with no trees, just a lot of grass, with murals on the walls of people of all colors drinking 40’s.

Rat went off on a tirade:

"Fucking S.S. Storm Troopers man… They gave me a ticket for selling cigarettes to a Narc! He was over 18 but they busted me for not asking for his ID! USA get off my back!!"

Rat worked at the local 7/11:

"Working at that fucked up corporate job. Corporate America sucks, man… Fuck Suburbia!"

"Orale."

"Fuck man… Now I’m going to have to ask you guys for your ID’s now. Hey— Any of you guys want a line?"

After hooking up with the weed, Scott and Steve went down the boulevard looking for places to grab drinks. They came on a newly opened Cuban restaurant. Steve dumped the devil’s face into some bushes out front. The inside had a bunch of bright blue neon lights, tan hardwood floors, music in Cubano that was overly loud for no customers being there. Framed paintings on the walls of dark-skinned figures, with musical instruments of all kinds in their hands. They walked up to the bar. Yellow fish swam in the tank behind it. A tall bartender greeted them, where she immediately pointed to Scott’s shirt with an open mouth smile and said, "I love that guy’s music!"

Scott said, "Huh?"

Steve said, "Oh no, dude, she must have him mixed-up!"

She said, "No, I love that guy’s music. My parents used to listen to him all the time! Oye Como Va!"

Steve slapped the bar and laughed. "Hilarious! That’s Carlos Santana!"

"Oh," she shrugged her shoulders. And while looking at Scott who’s head was behind the drink menu, she said: "What would you guys like?"

They ordered strong, west coast, minty-leave drinks. While she was making them they were checking out her backside. They got up and decided to sit at the corner of the bar.

She noticed, smiled and said, "You guys want to stare at my tits, huh?" And squeezed them together. And gave them a big seductive feel through her black shirt.

Steve started to mumble, laughed and color rose in his face.

Scott felt the skin on his scrotum minutely stretch.

When she brought them their second round of drinks, she smiled and said, "I bet you guys are into philosophy, huh?"

Steve laughed. He said, "Scott keeps it real."

And (even)though Scott saw what she said as an attempt to insult, he broke out with a happy speech that in the end left him there beaming. Steve thought about what he would do with the bartender alone: lay her on the rooftop, and suck her breasts while fingering her and she tugged him off because they had no condom.

"There’s this disturbing thing going on right now. It’s this thing—I’m not sure if anyone has talked about it—if they have I haven’t heard it—this thing called reality; what is real. But it goes beyond that because it becomes what is real; what happens; what has to happen. But then it goes beyond that; people start to say things like, ‘that’s the way it is,’ that, ‘that’s unchangeable,’ ‘oh it’s like that?’ or ‘has to be.’ But then it goes beyond that when academic people start to talk about things as being what's rational, then as being what is logic. And now even worse, it becomes things unsaid, maybe thought about first—groups of people don’t mention it anymore. But the worst is when it becomes just kept unsaid, not even thought about because that’s ‘reality,’ that, ‘that’s the way it is.’ So things become justifiable and there’s now reasons for them; fake wars or unjust ones, these huge crimes against humanity! Then there’s people who say America’s a superpower, and so this or that huge extremely unjust thing has to happen; it’s reality, so it’s kind of justified. There’s people who support the thinking by any means necessary, or start to say words like by all means necessary. Then now there’s people first say—but then believe—that rich people deserve to be rich, middle—middle, and poor, poor. They think that’s the way it is—or even worse—should be—has to be. When these very fucked up things come into question and get seen as wrong, the people who get questioned about what actions they take say things like, ‘that’s the way it is,’ ‘it’s like that’ ‘the reality of the situation,’ ‘that’s reality,’ ‘I’m following orders,’ ‘this is what happens,’ ‘this has to be done.’ It now becomes unrational to think of what they do as committing crimes, and even worse—unrealistic. They almost laugh when they justify the things they do behind microphones."

She said, "Whoa," like a psychiatrist. Then, "That’s deep," like a college student.

Steve started laughing. "I got to go to the bathroom. Make sure no one puts any Viagra in my drink!"

At their forth round of drinks, Scott said, "No Fidel?"

"It’s not their fault, dude, they want money."

He said to the bartender, "How come no paintings of Fidel Castro, enjoying a cigar?"

She said, "I don’t know, we have two stores on the east coast too."

"White trash wouldn’t like it."

Scott said, "Every country has people who complain about it, look at us. When you compare things and places someone always looks bad."

"Yeah we got a lot of TVs."

"They got the highest literacy rate and mathematics in the world! If United States was Cuba we’d all know Latin and Differential Geometry!"

"Dude, you see that Huell Howser episode when he was in Cuba?"

"That guy’s a herb."

"Yeah," Steve laughed, "but he went to Cuba."

"For what?"

"His show."

"What’d he do?"

"He was cocky. Every shot he said a smartass American comment about Cuba."

"Too bad he didn’t get shot."

Steve laughed. "He went to a farmer’s market and showed that and said something about capitalism. Then a government fruit vendor and said something about capitalism. Then a house across the street that was a parking lot for bikes and capitalism. Then a pizza shop and something about capitalism, and then a fat American on a boat."

"Fuck PBS. Alex said that 85% of people who work there are telemarketers and marketing execs."

"Dude, what do I know? I watch Sesame Street with my morning bowl of cereal."

After their sixth round of drinks, Steve got up he said, "Make sure no one puts any Viagra in my drink!"

While he was gone the bartender dropped two more drinks down. She leaned over the bar, and just to make talk conversation, told Scott, "You’re the one with all the money, huh?"

Scott did a chuckle that moved his shoulders and chest. He took a drink, and with very wide and glossy eyes, said with a smile, "Yeah," while charmed staring deep into her titty cleavage.

She frowned. Taken aback she turned around and went away, with her hand covering up some of her butt, open palm facing out.

When they walked out the front doors, into a warm evening. Scott stretched and said, "Ahh, the great outdoors!" A small amount of traffic drove by with their lights on. Steve got the devil’s face out from the bushes. He handed it to Scott and said: "Hold up, dude! I’m going to get her number!" With a big smile on his face and rosy color.

Scott put the devil’s face in front of his own. Then stepped close to the curb as a car was passing by, startling the male driver that was inside his dark cockpit, making him swerve into another lane.

Two blocks away they tried to grab some more drinks from a bar on a street corner. It claimed to be a sport’s bar—with a red-neoned martini caricature on the front window. One that you could no longer see through now that it was dark enough outside. Steve dumped the devil’s face into some bushes. They walked across the street.

Inside was a college crowd playing pool. Standing around and occupying all the long row of stools at the bar. A young white male, with a tribal tattoo on his bicep, and small, spiky hair gelled, took a gulp from his brown beer while looking side-eyed at Scott and Steve as they walked in. Then, before planting his beer back down on the bar, he said, "Che Guevara’s a faggit."

"So is your father." Immediately replied Scott.

Dark smiles and smirks lit up throughout the bar, along with some tough guy faces, or faces that felt offended.

The dude at the bar’s face went pink. "DUDE I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" His stool crashed to the floor.

Some woman screamed, "Fuck him up Tom!"

Someone else cheered, "Kick his ass, Thomas!"

Some of the pool players held him back. They said, "Calm down, DUDE! Chill!"

Steve frowned.

Scott shrugged his shoulders.

"DUDE! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" He looked like an ugly five year old; just take off his shirt, put a diaper on him and sit him on a floor.

Some bitch screamed, "Kick his ass Thomas!"

Another white boy yelled, "Fuck em up! Thomas!"

Other people were telling Scott and Steve: "Get out GUYS!" "Leave!" "DUDES!" "LEAVE DUDES!"

Scott and Steve walked out.

Across the street while they were retrieving the devil’s face, they saw the front door of the bar burst open, a crowd come out.

"DUDE I’LL FUCKING KILL THAT BEANER!" The dude with the pink face yelled.

One of his peers told him, "Calm down, DUDE! DAMN!"

He turned on his peer. "WHAT!? I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU NIGGER!" Then started punching him in the face.

Across the street, Steve put the devil’s face up to his own. He said, "Scott, check them out, some good citizens right there."

"Fucking white people. Probably watch UFC. Hopefully they get in fatal car accidents before they have children." Then they turned around and walked away. The headlights of the occasional car lighting up their backs.

Eventually the fighting made it out into the middle of the street. One of the cars at the stop light was a black jeep. Inside was a beautiful mixed couple, young and in community college, with enough belief that they could change the world if there was more people like them. The only light in their cockpit was the green from the electric do-dads on the radio. It was warm inside because of their youthful love had not yet extinguished. It was her vehicle but he was driving.

(They had just pulled out from the taco shop drive thru. The hollow smack of a back being thrown up against their passenger door disturbed everything. She was startled. Her smile went away. As she turned to her boyfriend he looked at her in the face. He could imagine that this is what she would look like in a life or death situation. A startled, silent cry for help. Then he saw out the window, and he could only see the face of the guy who was throwing punches against the guy on his car door. What a stupid, ugly fuckin looking face he thought. He slammed on the gas, half hoping someone outside would die as he peeled off. Looking back through the rearview mirror he saw them on the ground in the headlights of a car stuck behind him. He could see shoes on the ground, a hat, a wallet. He turned to his girlfriend and asked: "Are you Ok baby?")

They walked into another bar, one that was between a small car dealership and a hair salon. Steve dumped the devil’s face into a hedge of bushes out front. They stepped inside. There was nothing to do besides stand up and play an older Street Fighter cabinet, dance to someone’s karaoke, eat chips and salsa from a set up on a table. It was dim and cozy, with a lot of red on the seats and dark brown on the walls. It was friendly enough to where old school alcoholics showed up no matter what night brought in who. Scott and Steve both dashed to get the only available bar stool, shouldering each other on the way, wrestling a bit at the seat. Pulling on each other’s shirts with big toothy smiles. Until Scott got his ass up on it and won. Their little contest brought no violent vibes; the bar was full of laughing, someone clapping. One of the old school alcoholics, said to his old school alcoholic wife, "I know those guys."

Scott heard him and looked, and one day would remember that couple, sending a sadness right behind his face.

They ordered drinks and started a tab. Steve rolled a cigarette on the bar. Someone was karaokeing “Two Lovers” by Mary Wells. She had a silver wig on, purple pants that were stretchy, fake eyelashes and a long t-shirt. Interesting Scott thought, then clapped loudly during the conclusion. Steve was as comfortable as ever. His face smiled like he was wearing jammies, about to hop onto bed. Under a light above him, his face gleamed and shadows from his thin cheeks, as he began to talk then nonsensical things:

"Excuse me, Ma’am? Need drink here. Nurse. Nurse? I need a shot! Mmm, smells like pine tree. Just keep em comin! It’s like a revolving door around here. We’re just like state employees! Fire us from the unemployment office, then we jump over the counter! Walk out the door, then stand in line!"

Scott didn’t laugh. Other people did. Especially one middle-aged guy sitting across from him. He was wearing a backwards cap over his long knotty orange hair. With the same kind of orange beard, with a smudge of fingerprints on the lenses of his glasses. People who lead strange lives. He laughed louder then anyone else at the bar, because he was looking at the bewilderment in Scott’s face, while Scott was looking at his cousin.

The trumpets went hard. After a few drinks more, Scott helped Steve do a karaoke of Rodney O and DJ Cooley’s “Everlasting Base.” As soon as they did a few people went to the speakers and began to bust a move. Steve was the main lyricist; Scott repeated all the end words of the rhyme that rhymed.

"The bass that's in your face,

sho' nuff shrugs your face,

Just like you got sprayed by a can of maaace.
You see your speaker is movin!

everybody is groovinn!
My song moves along as it starts improvinnn!
The highs will get no higher!

the bass will go no lowerrr!
Cuz everlasting bass,

Sho' nuff moves a flow-err!
Some people can't take it!

they try to plead the case!
But you can't get enough of Everlastin Baaasssee!"

The trumpets went hard again. Under the few lights they broke a sweat. Scott hopped off the platform. Steve thanked the small crowd. He then did a karaoke of a Steely Dan song. During the lengthy gaps between lyrics he freestyled.

"Yo it’s Steve One and Scott-Too, and you can’t fade us; dodge, parry, mitigate our damage or evade us. We’re on some angle dust, I’m hearing crickets and trains, there’s a painting in my head it’s a wedge in my brain. A coat of arms, in the water under moss, the first time you and your guild killed the boss. A dark room with only a ceiling bulb in it, the outside the color of the walls painted in it.

"Drinking coffee inside the cockpits of a Mech, parked outside the walls up against a city wreck. New videogame releases overseas in Japan, chillin, outside getting faded with the city gang."

Back at the bar Steve quietly laughed and smiled. As he turned around to grab his drink, the smell of a perfume, flower petals being pulled straight from the vine, and the musk of under neck hair weaved into his smell and breath.

A grown woman sat down next to him. She said, "Hi."

So pale and lively (was this woman), that every other attribute on her face seemed to be intensified. Her hair and what she put in it was the same kind of black from train smoke. Her mark on the left cheek looked like a dab of ink. Her brief spray of freckles looked like the material of the gold flakes at the bottom in bottles of alcohol. Deep in her eyes and the small amount of makeup around them, looked like something that had awakened from the cool or cold depths of outer space.

There was an awkward pause, before finally Scott forced out a hi.

"Hi."

From crossed legs and a fidgeting foot, she bumped one of his and said, "Well?" with a smile on her face like she was about to burst out laughing out of sheer joy.

Scott cleared his throat. "What’s up with you?"

She bumped his foot again. "Aren’t you going to buy me a drink!?"

He smiled, on his face and glossy eyes as if she just opened an orifice, that let loose a playful breeze behind it. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Miss. Let me order a drink for her."

"Sure," the bartender said.

He smiled, looked down into his drink then took a sip from it. Both women were staring at him; the one with the smile on her face, and the fidgeting foot that tapped his again. The other with her arms folded behind the bar, under a hanging ceiling lamp bulb above her.

Scott cleared his throat again, "Oh." Everybody close by was listening. There were gums stuck under the bar counter, dust was in the bar counter’s small ledges. Before he could ask she ordered the drink herself. And asked for an ashtray.

At first it was small talk. A joke was smiled and laughed at. The bartender set down the drink, but flopped down in front of her an unclean ashtray, which wobbled making ashes fall out. Agent Betty mad-dogged the bartender as she walked away.

Aretha Franklin’s “Chain of Fools” came on. Scott looked out to see his cousin near the karaoke stage dancing. He was jumping in place. The young lady he was with had her arms in the air.

Scott smiled. He said, "I remember when I was getting transferred from downtown county. The bus was packed. Every seat was full and we all had shackles on. Well on the freeway, this song came on. I thought it was kind of funny. Then to the beat… like that right here—we all started banging our shackles on the ground to it. All at the same time. Everyone was smiling and shit. It was a beautiful display of humanity."

Agent Barney would stop masturbating every time he heard Scott’s voice. But would begin again when he heard Agent Betty’s. She said, "That’s funny. I always thought it was “Train of Fools”. But I remember one year there was an alarming amount of deaths at the train station. I investigated the station to figure out why so many people were getting hit by trains. What my research found, was that at some locations on the track, the train passed by foot traffic closer and faster than at other parts. People weren’t getting hit by trains; what a train does as it passes close to you; at certain speeds it literally sucks you under it. So people were getting sucked under the train, not getting hit head on."

"Wow. For real? One time I remember I almost got hit by the trolley. You know the wooden things that come down to halt traffic? Well there’s only one on each side on the side going with traffic, right? I saw the things come down and heard the trolley buzzer, but I thought it was coming from the other side so I kept walking. While I was looking down the other track, I stopped and turned and the trolley was like an inch away from my nose."

"Aren’t all trolley stops next to stop lights?"

"I think so."

"Well then, that means it must’ve been going slow. Imagine if that was a train!? You’d be—whooped—sucked under. And I’d be sad, because you’re such a beautiful boy."

Scott blushed, "For real?" Then laughed. He asked her, "Hey, wanna go smoke some weed?"

She laughed. "I haven’t even finished my first drink!"
"It’s cool, we can come back in after."

"How bout I just watch."

He laughed again. "Ok," then got up.

"Honey I’ll be right behind you."

He squeezed past some alcohol faced patrons on the way, bumping into one looking back then apologizing for it, before making it out the back door.

She threw back her drink in a gulp. Reached into her purse and pulled out her compact. Looking at her face, when she looked back into her own eyes she thought: You go girl. You look fiiine. With her fingers she messed with her hair. She took out a bottle of perfume and sprayed it on her neck. She took off the mic and threw it to the bottom of her purse. Agent Barney threw off his headphones and began kicking equipment. Betty hopped off the bar stool, grabbing her purse. Her gat fell out on the counter. The bartender snatched up the empty drink, and ashtray and said: "Girlfriend, you gotta leave." Standing back behind the bar, the same ceiling hanging lamp bulb above her.

Scott had been out there for a couple minutes smoking weed. Steve pushed open the door with a big smile on his face.

"Dude. What’s up?" He laughed.

"You see that girl I was talking to at the bar?"

"No. I thought you didn’t smoke weed anymore?"

"I trained myself."

"You what?"

"Yep. Only a pack of matches though. I’d buy the weed and just a pack of matches, so I’d limit how much I smoke when the matches are gone."

"Huh?"

"Look, dude, when the matches are gone I couldn’t smoke anymore. I found out a lot of stuff though. Like look it, you’d take one match out for emergency. When it’s your last match, after you take it to the stove to try and light the rest of the match, there’s just a little part where you can only put your fingers. Look, so what I did—because you’d only have what’s in your fingers so you might get burned, I turned it around so I got an extra match light! I held it by the burnt part."

"Wait, huh!?"

"Yeah, I also found out about this part. So no more matches, right? So you gotta burn the match book up. You can get two by splitting it by the center. But then I thought: if I roll it too tight it might not burn, but if I roll it too general it might not be too tight. But loose burns faster. But as a science project: what if I rolled the end up tight and a cone loose on that other end? Would the smoke get trapped up there and cause it to burn big but slower? So I tried it but it stunk real bad. But I still hit the weed but only once."

"Oh my God. Dude! You are so high!"

"Damn. For real? Let’s bounce out the back."

Scott and Steve squeezed through a gap between fences. Under the moon, with a few stars and street lamps, they walked through a construction site of a torn down supermarket. The details of the devil’s face under Steve’s arm were bright and easy to see. The debris in places looked like giant’s arms and legs. Laying about as they walked by them, with large pink fabric that was frayed, jutting out from the undersides of broken down metal columns like sinew. There were corners of the structure still standing. With the walls and everything else around them destroyed. Piles of loose bricks and cement leading up to them. The perfect place in a future apocalyptic war, where with three of your friends, comrades in trench coats, you could lob explosives over, then come off from a wall to crouch down and turn the corner to fire a semi-automatic pistol.

There was a small plastic, American flag posted up in the dirt. About the size of a boot. Steve kicked it; it flew up in front of him, then over his head, then behind his back in a complete 360°.

"Oh my God!" Steve said, "Scott, dude! You see that!?"

The night light made Scott’s smile bright. "Yeah."

"Dude! That could never happen again! We should’ve videotaped it!" As Steve said that to Scott, who was now walking off to the side ahead of him, the inside toe of Scott’s boot kicked a rock, that ricocheted off the inside of his left heel as he stepped forward.

Scott could only feel it happen, but Steve saw it. "Oh my God! Dude!"

They walked up to a lone trolley stop. Scott stood by while Steve sat at the dark bench where he smoked a cigarette, enjoying it exhaling with the whole of his mouth instead of through his lips. The trolley alerted its oncoming with an electric horn. Scott watched to see it coming down the tracks from a distance. It seemed to be the only sources of light at this time of night. The closer it got, the bigger and brighter its light became. Beautiful Scott thought, like a beacon or a tunnel, something you would want to walk into. As the driver pulled into the stop, the light illuminated the two lone figures. With one hand Scott put a hand to his eyes to shield them. The sight made the driver aware of her place in the dark cockpit.

They said their goodbyes, Steve stepped up into a car. At a window seat he put the devil’s face in front of his own, then against the window. Something that looked very satanic Scott thought, and he could hear some minor damage from off the cement molding happen as he did. Then the trolley took off, with one male passenger sitting at the back of the car, wearing sunglasses looking Steve’s way.

Scott walked towards home on the boulevard. Across the street going with traffic, under big shaggy trees and white stucco apartments. The night dark enough to be blue, as he felt the night air and his crepuscular eyes looked around.

A car full of high school or college students drove by and threw something orange at him. That hit him in his leg then exploded on the ground like a bad tangerine. The culprit was hanging out the window laughing, his mouth a big hole enough to see the roof of his mouth and the outline of his tonsils, from an all black car with its red back lights on.

Scott roared, "WHAT, MOTHERFUCKER!" and scrambled to pick up a rock from off the side of the sidewalk. As the car sped off, he launched it like a baseball pitcher, staying in its final animation as he watched it hit the street by the back tire, bounce off the street and miss.

He roared, "What motherfucker!" And started running down the sidewalk, chasing the car.

About three blocks up the car had to stop for a red light, its red brake lights bright. Scott folded over two blocks back, gasping for air. With his hands on his knees he broke out laughing and gasping for air at the same time. Too bad I didn’t follow the older homies’ advice he thought. Always walk against traffic. So no one can pull up from behind you and jump you, or stab you, even police cars have to make u-turns.

Then he thought, recovering from laughing and gasping for air, too bad this shit isn’t ’94, where if those white boys tried that shit, I could’ve sailed a bullet down the street while they were at the stop light, spinning in its own velocity into their back window, then breaking the windows as it goes through the front. I leave it up to fate if it kills one of them. You should see their faces, when you’re walking down the street by yourself, and someone from a group of five bangs their shoulder into yours as they pass. As they begin to talk shit, pull out a black .45 and slide the slide back: clack-clack. And then start blasting. Everyone who was all smiles and jokes now their faces become petrified. All those who thought they were hard have the widest and biggest eyes and open mouth. Their lives have been changed permanently. What valuable lessons people must learn to stop them from harassing other people. Like behind my middle school when I blasted; I aimed at their heads but at the last second shot into the engine. Or like those 4 dudes running across the street from Milk Land trying to kill me; I aimed at them but at the last second tried to blast between their group to stop them. Like that cop who gunned a U-turn, I aimed where his head was behind the window but then really shot at the car. Thank you God for guiding my bullets all those times, and saving me from completely ruining my life, from those who were trying to completely ruin my young life.

There was a noticeable decline in the neighborhood as Scott walked down the street. The same street, at the same time of night, where a year before him and his girlfriend drove down it. Music on the radio, and her crappy seatbelt uncomfortably lodged into the side of his stomach. While shifting gears after the stoplight she said, "If you can’t find it, grind it." They exchanged warm smiles. He playfully said her name and put his hand on her thigh. He was soulfully happy that she was with him. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever been with he thought. A long dark-haired beauty, with skin the color of people of wet sands. With youthful breasts so large you could squeeze them from any direction, put your mouth on them from almost any position. Upon entry there could be a squirt-squirt. Only to be happfully back minutes later to pound part of the night away, resulting in a tight attachment to her back, too tight sometimes he thought, as they shared each other’s sleep. Like a man she too was fascinated with big dicks. And like Scott from an education and cultural background college tries their hardest to weed out. Too bad they were fated to share the same birth signs, when after two years he was afraid that he was incapable of love, and she in regards to everything in her life felt that she could always get better. A bus flew past them that startled them briefly, made their hearts stop. Huge blue flames were shooting out of its mufflers and rooftop exhaust pipe. Followed by a light gray smoke visible in headlights and streetlamps, rising in the air above the quiet dark street, as if something tragic or enormous had suddenly collapsed. Scott said: "Wow. I can’t even do anything. Imagine me reporting it and them asking my name? Find out I got a 500 dollar arrest warrant? Even if I saw someone getting killed, I couldn’t even report it without worrying about going to jail myself for not being able to pay off my fines. That’s crazy!"

"I could think of a lot worse."

Walking down the streets, went from supermarkets and restaurants, to business fronts then condos. A neighborhood where the yellow glow of streetlamps at first seemed to be mere paces away from each other, all the way until there were virtually none. 7/11s and houses, houses and small apartment complexes that turn into large apartment complexes, where liquor stores or dollar stores begin to act as supermarkets. To dilapidated or abandoned properties behind chain linked fences, where rundown bus stops and weeds grow out of the sidewalk. To eventually where the streets get so bare, that when it starts to rain midday, and large rivers run along curbs, and big rain pelts the empty sidewalks, such a lonely and desolate sight, you begin to feel that magic exists, you start to think that there exists different worlds.

Scott finally made it to the taco shop two blocks away from his home, it was on the corner of the main street with no trees around it and no cars in the bright drive thru. Sometimes through the walkup window Scott caught one of the workers inside asleep on the floor. They changed management every six to seven months. Somehow it had something to do with getting access to the United States. Scott thought about these things as he crossed the dead street.

He used his college Spanish on them. "Buenos noches, compas. Dame un burrito de califas, mas grande, cardnal." And Scott made a length with both of his hands to illustrate what mas grande looked like, a big burrito or maybe a large penis.

The red-eyed, paper-hat-wearing worker, who was as amused by Scott and his Spanish as Scott was. He told his co-worker, "Un burrito de califas, mas grande," and did the mas grande sign too, but a little bigger and more dickish, making his co-worker say, "Ay guey!" A small chuckle for everyone, sheltered or finding shelter in the dark of night.

As usual, police calls and the jargon that includes them, the sound of numerals filled the glowy insides of the dark cockpit, as two cops wearing short-sleeved blue uniformed shirts, drove the police car down the boulevard. They passed by the taco shop and craned their necks, mad-dogging, exactly like how gang members do. They saw Scott on his forearms talking into the window, under its light, bringing his head back outside out of it— laughing, a big, full hearty, cheek-blushing open-mouthed natural kind of laugh. They made a U-turn after the stop light.

"Como se dice: ‘He side-eyed my Hamlet hat’?" He laughed.

"No mames guey," and he smiled his pleasure at this visit.

One cop with his arms folded over his chest, the other with a flashlight in his hand, said from behind Scott: "How are you doing this evening sir."

And even before Scott had turned fully around, he felt it in his being; he knew there were cops behind him and something terrible was about to occur. They had disturbed everything in the night air.

When his face turned around he said, "Fine," but muscles in his face moved involuntary making him look weird. Along with a quick flash in his eyes reassuring the cops that sometime in his life he had done something wrong.

"Can we see your ID sir?"

Scott paled, "For what?"

The cop repeated himself.

"Man… I haven’t done nothing wrong."

The cop extended his hand. "Sir. ID please."

"Man…" Scott reluctantly gave it up.

The other cop with the flashlight watched these actions closely; the abrupt exchange of the ID, and how Scott’s face looked: it looked too child-like, and aware, something he completely felt the urge to punch, like a little fucking baby boy the cop thought. He leaned back a bit to look through the alternate walkup window at (for) the taco shop employees. They looked away once they caught him peeping. The cashier one walked to the back out of sight.

Inside the cop car the Pilipino cop told him, "What do you take? Criminal Justice?" And smiled at his partner.

Then in turn his partner said, "I hope you study peneology," turned around to smile at Scott, then gave his partner a head nod.

Scott had bad breath. He said, "Ok, I see what’s up, you guys tryin to clown me. That’s cool, say what you want. I’m no criminal, and I don’t ruin people’s lives. You ruin people’s lives. Aren’t you worried that while your eating with your family at that Italian restaurant in Lemon Grove, someone normal whose life you’ve ruined sees you come in, leaves, goes home and gets his gat, then comes back blastin on you?"

The two cops’ heads immediately turned to look at each other.

Scott said: "I mean, what kind of women even fuck you in the first place to have kids? The kind with a lot of make up on, huh? The same kind that would fuck gang members probably in the opposite situation."

The white cop banged his flashlight on the steel grate, shouted, "HEY! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The other cop said in a voice that had caring in it, "Hey, Danny, cool it!" The cop Danny turned around red in the face, looked forward and didn’t say a word.

Scott said, "Haha, yeah Danny, cool it bro. We don’t want any cops walking around with anger issues. You might murder someone who pulls out his wallet! Fucking piece of shit cops. My friend told me he got fired from PBS because some stupid bitch married to a Sheriff reported him for when she walked into the conference room sleeping. He was on his fuckin break! It was 4:40 in the morning! You even fuckin up bitches! No normal person would’ve reported that. He is fucking working graveyards! Cleaning their offices! You even fuckin poisoning PBS. They know you know PBS even hates fuckin cops, blasting on young blacks 52 plus times, then some piece of shit captain comes out and says: ‘How do I spell relief? N,O,T,G,U,I,L,T,Y!’ I mean what the fuck? How sick is that shit? And only because she was married to a cop. He’d still have a job! He was paying his way through college with that job! You guys are cysts! A normal person would’ve said: ‘Man, I know that custodian has a hard job.’ I mean what kind of person even becomes a cop? When you know you’re going to have to touch people’s nuts. Put you’re finger up assholes? You guys are closeted fags."

The other cop quickly turned around; fast enough if there was no grate he could’ve started choking Scott out. "SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!" Spit flew out of his mouth, and he banged his flashlight against the grate. His face turned the violent of all reds. Initially this made Scott flinch. But then this type of violence made him smile. His whiter teeth became very visible, back there in the dark back seat, while lights of the city went around them as they drove.

His partner sternly said, "Danny cool it!"

Scott started laughing. "Haha, I bet you would kill me man, ‘teach this boy a lesson.’ See, that’s the difference between me and you; I’m not a killer or a murderer. I never have been nor will I ever. That’s what you guys do. You murder people. I hesitate to even kill bugs. Maybe I’m a Jainist at heart, just currently affected by America. What do you guys even have to take to become cops? You don’t have to go to college, huh? No morals or ethics philosophy; no study of other cultures; no semi circles in classrooms discussing literature and past injustices in our world. No! That might make you think twice! Just give motherfuckers guns; preferably people who’ve been in wars overseas, because they need to stay ‘in the shit’ to be normal. Ladies and gentlemen, we want people who’ve killed poor motherfuckers in other places, to kill poor motherfuckers here in our country; who pull out wallets, steal, run, talk shit about our country, say fuck cops, drive drunk, have weed. We want our people to think when a cops behind them: ‘What have I done wrong?’ Or even worse: ‘What haven't I done right!’ Man, you guys better hope I never get rich. I’ll put 50,000 dollar head shots out on cops who shoot people 52 times, stun gun kids, punch people in handcuffs, beat people’s faces on side roads, then go to court and be found not guilty.

"Haha," Scott laughed then sighed, "I guess we're kind of alike, guys. What is this world coming to? I guess I have to become a cop myself; it's the only solution."

Scott put his face close to the grate behind cop Danny and whispered, "What you think about that? Danny. Would you like to ride with me?"

Danny clanged a can of Mace up to the grate and sprayed it point blank into Scott’s mouth and eyes.

Scott flew back to the seat screaming.

The other cop yelled: "What the fuck, Danny!?"

Between shrieking, Scott started vomiting as much as he could; first on the floor—shooting out of his mouth like a dragon—then through the grate, forcing the cops to pull over. In the dark back there and in the car, the vomit looked like an iridescent form of Albondigas soup, absorbing all the light the street light and night gave.

Scott’s screaming turned into a form of adolescent-like sobbing. Warm tears found their way down his face and stung him. With his hands handcuffed behind his back, he put his chin to his chest. But no sooner his crying changed into a form of laughter, where he raised his head up high, to look around and show his face he said:

"Haha haha! I once was told of a mutant who could twist space around him! And now it seems that I met him!"

Parked on the shoulder of an on-ramp, red lights flashing in the night as an expression of something gone wrong. Two cops in the head lights coughing. Dust in the air from the sudden stop. Making all the passersby rubbernecking, able to see the color of Scott’s head, then his silhouette as they drove by. Thinking, as if this police vehicle was midway on a path to hell.

He woke up because of the cold. With no shoes or socks on, his back against the wall, his knees to his chest, in a suicide cell that was unclean. With someone else’s dried up shit remnants on the floor; a floor that had been painted a dark red many times; next to a grate that covers the hole in the center of the floor that you shit and piss down. The air smelled warm and seemed to be getting trapped in the middle of his throat. Under a piss yellow light that shown through a small plastic square from the ceiling.

He fell back asleep on top of his arms and knees.

There was a knock on the window. "Want lunch?" a deputy asked. Then said, "Nice wife-beater," and smiled something that could’ve been a laugh.

Scott sprung up, put his face to it, the only thing not separating them visually, a small rectangle that only showed the face up close. "Yeah."

The cop put his keys to the lock. "Step away from the door."

"Clean that shit up off my floor."

"Step away from the door or no lunch."

"I’m not stepping near that shit. How bout you have the decency of cleanin the cell before throwin someone in it?"

The cop quickly nodded, an almost middle-aged man with a graying mustache under a distinguishable nose, and the same haircut that used the same hair gel for the past twenty-five years. "How bout no lunch?"

"How about I talk to the ACLU and a grievance?"

He laughed pleasantly, because Scott’s face and the words he used revealed that not only had he’d been an inmate before, but he was the delusional type, ones who don’t know where they’re at, and think they should be treated humanely. "Sure buddy. I’ll bring the grievance down in a few hours right before I go home to my wife and kids." He winked through the window, then began to walk away.

"Yeah, the ones you’re teaching to be racist, play football and hate homosexuals I bet. I hope they didn’t see you hit your wife. I said, you! Are raising children!?"

He questioned what he heard in his head. Then the dep turned around and went back up close to the window. "What was that?"

"Ah. I said you’re probably teaching your kids to play football and hate homosexuals, right? You say racist shit at home in front of them, because your whole life you’ve never been able to have close friends from other races because of how your parents raised you. I hope they never saw you beat your wife during that rough ten years you worked night shift."

He stared through the window at Scott’s warm face and the freckles that aligned it. Without blinking an eye, and with a face that contained the beginning last remnants of youth in it, he said less loudly and almost like a sigh, "Looks like someone’s going to get their ass kicked," then began to walk away. Scott put his ass to the crack of the door and blew a huge fart through it.

The dep stopped dead in his tracks and began to turn around. Someone started banging and screaming behind a cell door near the end of the corridor. The heavy planting of boots and keys jingling could be heard running from all directions.

A group of Mexicans played UNO; close to a corner, close by on a bottom bunk. Scott laid on his bottom bunk studying all the graffiti carved, penciled and penned on the top rack above him. A hype was withdrawing curled up in a ball on a bunk facing the wall. People who had been tweeking four days straight were sleeping for two days straight. Other people were on their bunks staring at walls, or staring at walls talking to someone on bunks above them, below or nearby; low conversations about what they did, who they know, what they’ve done, and what ever happened to him. Slow hands touching their own face.

Everyone was clothed in county blues, where if you were lucky you’d get a pair of underwear without old shit stains in them. Some people were covering their face with a shirt trying to sleep or pretend to under the bay lights.

Scott didn’t see anything funny tagged on the bottom of the rack. No questions like Do you have stairs in your house? No crude rhymes like Beans, beans the magical fruit, the more you eat the more you toot, the more you toot the better it feels… No who fucked who or someone, or who sucks cock at what time. No relaying of philosophy or prophetic visions. No racist remarks like in most college toilet stalls. These things at least not blatantly.

All there was were gang writings and a block lettered pencil drawing of a cross with a family name above it. Most of the gang writing had been carved in and looked like years of it. History of Gang Writing he thought. What a bad ass class that would be. Imagine how fast that would fill? But what would it satisfy, Art History? Nah, what the fuck is that? What would the degree be in? First things first: Why the use of Old English? I mean, how did that become incorporated? Is there any others? Well block letter and cursive variations. But what else is there really? The English language only has Old English and block letters to work with and still be legible. Old English is also threatening looking. But why threatening? Because classic documents are written in Old English also? Nah, that’s stupid. What about the E’s people use? It’s just a variation of the upper case cursive E. I’d have to talk about tagging, too. But when I think of gang writing I think about this shit, cholo and black gang shit. Cholos use more Old English and black gangs blocks, but they both use the variant of the cursive E’s predominantly. Yeah, but there is tagging gangs too. Yeah but I’m thinking about Teen Angel shit. Ahh then it might have to be in a time period then too. The History of Gang Writing; Hispanic and Black Gang Writing 1970’s – Present Time United States. Nah because New York gangs were doing that graffiti shit then too. Maybe Hispanic and Black California. Haha, what a shitty thing titles are. But for a PhD academics would demand if I use the word gang writing then I got to go back to the early 1900’s or some origin shit. They were probably some Irish gangs. Man what a pain in the ass that would be. But man, imagine, the History of Gang Writing class, discussing the art form of lower case Old English in class, how nice that would be. For extra credit everyone dress up like a gang member in class for Halloween. Nah, that’s stupid. Tests would be the ability and attempt of deciphering and mimicking the alphabet. But we would also have to talk about the art as how it is applied to what surfaces. We would also have to talk about how it is used to communicate, what, and to who: ‘Hey, I know you’re alive!’ Man, we would eventually have to go into jail bullshit for numerical codes, tattoos and shit. But the main thing: how does this help academics? It don’t; I just like it. I bet there would be white people who favor cops and trying to get criminal justice degrees in the class. People trying to get forensic degrees in hope to use the study to arrest people. People who wear Converse and purple hats and shit. Hmmm; got to treat them equal for art’s sake! I’d probably get to fuck a lot of white girls with big titties. Damn, man… I’m becoming just like them…

Scott stuck his finger between his teeth to feign some of his own gang writing with a moist smudge. As soon as his finger reached close to the bottom of the rack, an electric buzz came over the bay speakers, and a deputy said: "Head count, gentlemen. Then lights out. Get on your racks."

A side door popped open on the upper tier. Two Caucasian cops, with gelled haircuts slicked-back, with green fee-fee gloves on and shiny black boots with tan uniforms, stepped out into the balcony, and began to count with pointing fingers—on one hand with two together—not looking at anyone’s eyes on the racks, just people on the racks. Then from that far they told bunk mates in the back to wake up bunk mates, people to take off covers or t-shirts from their heads. Inmates started saying Dep this, and Dep that. The other answered questions while the other counted with his green gloved fingers. Answers were answered all the same: Dep, can we get some stamps? When is sick call gonna be? I’ve been here 72 hours, man, and I still haven’t seen tha judge. Dep can I get some sandals that fit? All answered the same way at the same time, a few times: "You’ll have to wait until the morning."

The deps went out the tier through a closed door on the opposite end, that popped open the same way as the first. Once closed the lights dimmed by 40%. Immediately someone blasted a huge fart. People started snickering. A Mexican said, "UNO!" Scott started busting up inside, holding his stomach, beginning to get teary-eyed. Other people started yelling, UNO! from the top to the bottom bays. A dude close to Scott’s bunk said, "Egyptian Lover," just like the robot voice from the chorus of the song. A black dude and an ese on bunks parallel from his started laughing. Someone at the far end of the top tier yelled: "Deps suck dick!" Someone downstairs sing-sanged, "Girl you know it’s true!" People were busting up. Then someone else sing-sang, "Oooh, oooh, ooh, I wanna fuck yooou…" Scott was tearing up pretty good. Someone yelled, "Shut the fuck up!" Then someone said, "Hey, anyone want to suck my dick?" People started yelling, UNO! They were busting up. Scott waited for a couple seconds. Then while laying on his back, he yelled, "Hadoken!" People were busting up—he didn’t look around to see who was laughing by him. Then someone from downstairs started yelling, "Haduken! Haduken!" Someone yelled, "Tiger uppercut! Nigga what!" Someone screamed, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" People started laughing and saying UNO! A dep came over the loud speaker and said, "That’s enough. Quiet down." For a couple seconds it was completely silent. Then someone blew their ass again big time. People started saying UNO! Others were busting up. The guy who blew his ass said, "I think I just shit myself," and it sounded like he said it while laying on his stomach. The guy downstairs said, "Girl you know it’s truue!" Someone yelled, "UNO!" Someone then yelled, "Jesus Christ!" Scott had tears of laughter in his eyes running down warm on his face.

It seemed as if it had only been a second—after he closed his eyes—the door popped open downstairs and so did his eyes. A long breath from the dark black spaces in the back of his mouth escaped. They called his name as well as a few others. He put on his sandals and became aware of his heart and the blood in his veins inside his faint body of nerves. Downstairs they handed them a small zip-lock bag containing a cardboard-sized bar of soap, a thumb-sized deodorant stick, a black comb and a cheap shaving razor. No one could leave for court until all razors were turned in. At an aluminum sink he brushed his teeth next to an ese. The vato told him: "Hey ese, you should shave, homes, the judges like it." Scott looked at the ese’s face and laughed inside at the comment. Then he thought: someone in his late 20’s with in his face the intelligence of a mid-teen. Foaming at the mouth Scott told the vato, "It’s Ok." The vato didn’t even shrug his shoulders or shake his head, he just completely ignored Scott.

After brushing his teeth Scott sat on a metal toilet. Before his ass touched the metal, two violent squirts of burning diarrhea penetrated the still water at the bottom of the bowl. A black dude walked up into the area, looking at Scott over the dividers with a near sweat on his face and red veins in his big-open eyes. Scott looked at him while leaning forward on his elbows and knees, with his hands folded and a wrinkle of concern on his forehead. The dude turned around and walked away. Scott thought: haha, big salamander looking motherfucker, probably had to take a bad shit he’d been holding like me. Then he started surveying all the gang writing written on the walls of the doorless stall.

Rumor has it, that for each inmate moved in the presence of deputies inside San Diego county jail, tax payers pay 156 dollars even if they are only moved one foot.

They packed them inside of an elevator, no controls inside a steel box. In three rows of four they went down six floors. There was a camera in the upper corner. Scott stared at the neck in front of him; the age of the creviced wrinkles on the neck, and a few bumps that looked like ripe spider bites. Behind Scott someone looked at his neck; behind his left ear there were the remains of a butchered sebaceous cyst from a State sponsored doctor medical technique, leaving a bright white skin bulb the size of a fingertip. Behind that guy someone looked at the back of his head; a one clip shaved with a bright white patch of skin spot near the top, as if the clip had fallen off, looking similar to a cobra’s head design, or the twists of a metal fence from childhood. From a dark tower inside a fluorescent bulb lit room, the deputies watched the faces of all the criminals, with some thoughts to security reasons, but also to see who was ugly and who was attractive.

They handcuffed one of Scott’s arms to a blue seat where he sat. His attorney stood in front of him. Looking at his file, he said nothing and leafed through a couple pages.

His first word: "Hmm."

His second, "Interesting."

Standing there bold in stature or important looking, he looked down at Scott a couple times then said: "I don’t know. They are giving you time served for the warrant. But are asking you stay out the week for the possession."

Scott said, almost pleadingly: "I don’t understand. I’m in college now—I’m in the middle of my finals! I can’t be in jail!"

The lawyer replied: "They let you go to college with warrants?" Then his face went from a lawyerly stern face, to a smile, at the quick ridiculousness of even his own comment.

Scott was dumbfounded. Then he wasn’t. His feelings and thoughts were like a Ferris wheel inside his head. He scooted up in the chair, looked around and audibly enough told his lawyer: "Look, dude. I don’t drive around campus with a shotgun. I don’t clothesline kids off bikes, I don’t stun gun skateboarders. I don’t walk around with drug sniffing dogs, nor do I stage take downs in lunch quads in front of foreign students. I don’t get 12% raise increases off top of 200 dollar grand salaries and fire all the temporaries. I don’t teach and fuck my students. I had a 200 dollar arrest warrant for not paying off a fucking DUI. Because I can’t get a job like you motherfuckers. Trying to get rich off ruining the lives of minorities. Because I got a 10 year old felony!?"

The lawyer scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"What did I stutter? Did I speak lawyer fuckin talk you fucking sap?"

Taken aback, and while looking down at Scott who never strayed his gaze. He couldn’t believe in his head what he’d just heard. "Well good luck to you sir, I think you’re going to need a new lawyer."

"Make sure it’s not one with a slicked back haircut like you. I don’t want anyone representing me who when in grad school they made their Hispanic girlfriends get abortions because you thought it would hamper your career."

Scott was left completely alone, sitting in the chair staring down at the floor. Only to be visited from the curious eyes of deputies as they walked by, and inmates inside holding tanks, behind wired glass.

When Scott saw the Judge, he was a blind Judge, with blind blue eyes, thin and pale face, with an Abraham Lincoln haircut. He looked as if he should have a crow on his shoulder. Instead of a crow he had his wife. The public audience was silent. The bailiff had given them a speech; about not having hats on, no infants in the court room, not having cell phones on, no talking, and definitely no sleeping—that was the most disrespectful thing of all. Behind the border that separated the audience from the inmates before they went up in front of the Judge to be judged, Scott saw the bailiff keep bending at the knees while delivering his speech. Ahh, he thought, poor guy; probably only a couple years from retirement and he has to keep working. Tragic. Maybe he’s only held the job for a couple years and had the knee problem before, and is waiting til he feels he can blame it on the job to get surgery and don’t get fired. Maybe he’s just one of those men that can’t stop working because they’re scared they would be seen as useless by their wife’s and family like their fathers. What a sad way to go. White men of retirement age that own handguns and drink have the highest suicide rate in the world.

There were all types of people in the audience. There were G’s, there were Vietnamese, there were Mexicans, some who didn’t know English very well at all. There were young women who recently had children. There was a young black woman who made a loud flat tire sound when the deputy stepped up to her seat and gave her the ultimatum to stay awake or leave the court. There was a fat dude, pancakes under arms fat, who sat at the end of an aisle and sighed every time he had to get up to let someone by. There were people who had some of the driest mouths of their lifetime; some so nervous they would agree that it felt like they had chalk in their veins. People who had voluntarily showed up to take care of their petty warrants. There were those ready to make excuses, even become argumentative. People with jobs, people without jobs. There were those who had forged A.A. or N.A. attendance slips. Yet sometimes they got away with it because of the amazement of the clerks that looked at the ignorance on their face or sheer stupidity that what they did they thought they would get away with. But mostly it was all poor people, who had been involved with the law at least a couple times throughout their life, who had never had enough money to eradicate their legal problems promptly, who had never had privilege.

Agent Betty was there too; she was dressed real nice but in the face it looked like she had a bad hangover even though she didn’t.

There was gang writing written on back of the chairs. The one in front of Agent Betty’s said:

KlLLAHOE

PK all day

WesT COASt

CRlP

ROLLlN 30z CUZZ

Scott was escorted to the podium. He stood there with his back to the public and they quietly and eqizzically made as many assertations as they could in the back of their minds. Agent Betty felt a mask of sadness sitting behind her face.

With big blue eyes behind big glasses, with both hands on her husband’s shoulder, the blind Judge’s wife whispered into the side of his face:

"Young white male; unshaven; long hair no haircut."

Scott bewildered, knowing he was already being judged without hearing her, with his mouth open ajar, he looked at the judge’s middle-aged wife and shook his head twice.

The Judge spoke, looking into Scott’s direction, with a faint smile on his face:

"Well young man, looks like you’ve dug yourself into a problem. Your council feels I’m being too harsh with my intentions, that I should release you time served. Even the prosecutors brought forth a lesser penalty. What do you have to say?"

"Nothing. That I shouldn’t be here. I’m in the middle of finals. I’ve done nothing wrong. I am no criminal."

His thin old lips went into a smirk. He said, "Ahh, looks like this is a case between the crow in the black robe and the black hat."

"I don’t understand."

"The black robe versus the black hat? Well, you will, think about it. I’m giving you two weeks to do so, for your own good." His thin old lips delivered a lip swallowing smile, his eyelids fluttered over his dead blue eyes, staring in Scott’s direction like he could see him.

The crowd was puzzled at this exchange. Agent Betty had many big butterflies in her stomach.

"I’m not a criminal. I’m in the middle of my finals about to graduate. One of the only positive paths I’m forced to take because I can not get a job because of a ten year old background check. I’m not here for rape, for domestic violence. I’m not killing kids in the middle of our streets. I’m not going overseas and killing babies and soiling the land of generations for generations. I am a nice person, a poor person, who deserves to be treated the same way I treat people who act humane towards others."

The audience started looking around at each other. The Judge’s smile showed his old teeth.

"Young man, you are a tad delusional. You committed a crime and you have a record of committing crimes. You have disobeyed the law, and in your attempts seem to have threatened hard working police officers."

"Did they tell you what they did to me? They stopped me for no reason! They made fun of me! They maced me! I’m not delusional! A ten year old burglary felony and a DUI!? Let’s look at your record? How many blacks and minorities have you sent to prison than whites!? In the past ten years how many more years have you handed down to Mexicans and minorities more than whites!? Let’s look at your records! See who’s the criminal! And not just yours, but these defense lawyers, too, who pop pills in the hallways then run for DA!"

The crowd was puzzled. People next to each other looked into the faces of people next to each other. There was a terrible lump inside Betty’s throat as she swallowed. The defense looked at the prosecution. A bubble of sweat was on the brow of the bailiff as he smally bounced on his knees. The black clerk’s mouth was shut tight and she let out a long breath as she typed.

The Judge’s eyes went dim. His wife’s eyebrows went high. He put on a straight face, as if one unpleased. Scott’s body exuded heat.

With the gavel in his hand, the Judge said:

"You’re a sad, mixed-up individual. You need help. No other Judge would have tolerated your remarks. Young man, you’re lucky you live in a country like this."

Scott released a noise a mixture of a sigh and a gargle. "Country like this!? You’re lucky you live in a country like this! Any other one and you’d be assassinated already!"

"Bailiff take him away." He pounded the gavel once.

"Fuck you! None shall pass you piece of shit!"

The crowd was aghast. Agent Betty had her hand over the bottom half of her face.

The bailiff stepped to him; Scott saw him then looked at the Judge: "YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" With his hands cuffed in front of him Scott started bouncing on his knees away from the bailiff like a boxer or fencer, ready with his hands to attempt to counter with a reverse wrist lock. A large, long, blue electric buzz was sounded over the speakers. You could hear heavy feet stomping and keys jingling everywhere. The bailiff shot mace at him. Scott saw the stream of mace go through the air and was mesmerized. It was so perfect, like a dolphin leaving the water, or Aqua Man something:

Scott yelled out.

Doors busted open from the back and the sides of the room and 12 big deputies rushed in. Scott made noises like Umph! and Ughh! and all the other noises you make when you get your ass kicked. Agent Betty shot up and screamed, "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" One of the last deputies from the back stopped in the aisle and put his hand on his gun and yelled, while pointing his finger at her, "SIT DOWN! MA’AM! MA’AM? SIT DOWN!"

Scott was screaming, they started tazing him: Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. A sound that could resemble a rattlesnake or some type of dangerous insect. Yet if any of those did any harm to you, you would be inclined to forgive them as they are God’s creatures and part of Nature. But when men or a man harms you it is unforgivable: Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

"STOP RESISTING!" Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

Scott was screaming. Betty started sobbing in her chair. Other people in the audience felt hallow. Some even felt disgusted, but would, could never do anything to intervene.

Scott was screaming, "OH GOD, JUDGE THEM! JUDGE THEM!"

"STOP RESISTING!" Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. Scott felt air in his shoulder. At the same time it felt as if a sun had burst inside his brain, right behind his eyes.

"AHHAH! GOD JUDGE THEM! JUDGE THEM GOD! PLEASE!"

There was knees deep in and all over his body, and hard against the side of his head. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

He was screaming. Three of them lifted him up like a rolled carpet or a psychiatric patient, and took him out the side door, through a corridor into a bridge between buildings turned into a tunnel with no daylight.

Scott screamed, "GOD, I’VE ADMITTED MY SINS! AHH! THEY NEVER DO! THEY NEVER ADMIT THEIRS! AHHHH! PLEASE STOP THEM GOD! STOP THEM! KILL THEM AND ALL THEIR CHILDREN!"

Scott squirmed and kicked, screaming. The bailiff with the bad knees was one of them, holding onto Scott’s legs he felt disturbed by the youth, a genuine display of concern was in his face. The cop that was holding onto Scott’s head, slapped his hand over Scott’s mouth and said: "Shut the fuck up." Then he looked back at his colleagues with a big toothy smile, while tears poured wild out of Scott’s eyes, looking up at the deputy in terror.

Agent Betty ran out of the courthouse crying. There was a group of reporters outside circling the defendants of another trial. One of the reporters turned around and took a picture of Agent Betty running out the courthouse, even though he didn’t know who she was. Against a wall she broke down and started crying her heart out. She threw up the yoke of eggs. She fell to the ground sobbing, falling into a crumpled heap.his bad teeth, laughed at the van, then went back to reading the obituaries from whatever light the night gave him, while filling up his urine bag lying on the grass beside him.