Blackhumouristpress's Blog

January 26, 2011

Soccer is Life

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:20 am
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            Guillermo or Mo as he was known to all his friends was a simple man.  Mo loved to play the bass guitar, watch Italian soccer and smoke Marijuana.

            Guillermo was born in Rome, Italy and lived there until the age of four when his father was enticed to move to suburban Detroit and buy a shoe repair shop.  Mo’s father cornered the market on shoe repair in northwest Detroit and so Mo and his family lived rather well.

            Mo didn’t want to be fixing shoes, boots, suitcases, hockey gloves and so on.  Mo realized that his dream to return home and play for S.S. Lazio in Rome, was probably just a remote dream and so Mo played men’s league soccer and learned to play the bass guitar.  Mo was a solid bass player that was sought after by many local bands.  They liked that Mo could lay down a groove and sit in the pocket without mistakes or fluxing the rhythm at all.  Mo decided around the time of graduation from high school that he would learn to be a sound technician or a recording engineer.  He accumulated some of the best recording equipment around and recorded local bands to make a living.  Musicians liked that Mo had the technical expertise to understand what each part needed and a song could be pulled apart piece by piece, instrument by instrument and then put back together to make a song and a sound that pleased the ear.  Mo could fix pitch and rhythm and could make the most mediocre musicians sound as if they were good and most who used his services understood he was a magician among sound men.  He also was a great bass player and always had good weed.

            Now Mo would talk anyone’s ear off about Italian soccer and S.S. Lazio in particular.  The team logo looked not unlike the Nazi eagle, holding a blue and white shield.  Most musicians knew and cared little about sports and even less about soccer but the passion that Mo felt about the game drew interest from the most indifferent to have ever sat in his recording studio.

            “The year 1900 is when the team came into being…  You cannot begin to comprehend the pride among those that follow that team to this day.  It was Mussolini’s team.  Il Duce built their stadium.  Everyone knocks Il Duce because he was allied with Hitler.  Most don’t know that he improved jobs and public transportation…  That’s exactly what Obama is trying to do with construction on every goddamn street and freeway in Michigan.  Somebody has got to be working, right?  So picture Obama being totally in love with a team like the Chicago White Sox, right?  He’s from Chicago by way of Hawaii or Indonesia or something.  I don’t give a fuck really cause I was born in Italy myself.  I couldn’t be president and wouldn’t want the fucking mess…  But anyway, picture Obama loving a team so much that he would build a stadium.  Could you imagine Obama telling the White Sox that they had better win or fucking die?  Shit…  Now that’s some motherfucking shit right there man.  Mussolini told the national team that they had to win or die and so they won  the World Cup twice in 1934 and 1938.  The man ruled the land and promoted the greatest sport to have ever been played by a human.  Go anywhere and they play and you can take that shit to the bank…  You wanna hit of this stuff?  It’s some good ass shit.”

            Mo had joked with his soccer mates, band mates and clients that for him, the final frontier was to sleep with a black woman.  Mo claimed to have been with every other race and ethnicity except black women. It could be that because he idolized Robert de Niro loved black woman that Mo considered it in the first place.

 It was at a rib restaurant that a Reggae band had asked him to fill in on bass for a party held by the fifth Missionary Baptist convention.  Everyone in the place was black except Mo.  If Mo was ever going to find a black woman, it was going to be that night.  Trying to sell a black woman on the importance of Italian soccer and weed, might be a hard sale for a woman that was raised among black people who loved basketball and gospel music.

            It did not take long before an attractive young black woman with a pretty face, large breasts and voluptuous backside approached Mo.  Before the night was over, she laid naked in Mo’s bed hearing stories about riding a Vespa through the streets of Rome, drinking red wine in the afternoon and the thrill of watching soccer.  Theresa had never heard of Mussolini but found him to be an interesting man.  Before long Theresa had moved into Mo’s house and brought her Pug/Beagle or Puggle with her to live with Mo and his Great Dane.  Theresa commandeered nearly every closet in the house and owned more shoes than Imelda Marcos.  If Theresa had one flaw it was that she could not stop herself from shopping.  Checks were good as long as she still had checks, irregardless if there was money in the bank to back the checks.  Theresa was maxed out on her cards and usually spent her check the first day she received it.  Initially Mo was so taken in by his ebony queen that he was willing to keep throwing his money in the hole.  Mo reasoned that all women have something that will drive a man crazy and so Theresa’s thing was being irresponsible with money.  It all came to a head one day when Mo went to buy gasoline for his Fiat and his card was rejected.  Not only did Theresa go right up to the limit with her own cards, she had borrowed Mo’s too without discussing it with him.  When Mo walked in to his house to find his girlfriend trying on clothes that she had just purchased on his card, after he had walked five miles when his car ran out of gas, a pretty face, nice breasts and ass could not quell a smoldering fire.

            “I had bout enough of you buying shit you don’t got the money for” said Mo, as he slammed the front door.

            Mo exaggerated his frown and squinted like Robert de Niro as he held up his index finger.  Mo had not smoked any pot in hours.  He was hot and dehydrated and truly wondering where he was going to find money to buy gas.  And Marijuana.

            “Things are going to fucking change starting today…  You are going to learn that if you make one fucking dollar, you don’t try and spend three.  I ain’t got a fucking tree in the backyard to pick dollar bills off of it so you can run around buying fucking shoes.  How many pairs of fucking shoes does one person need?  Huh?  I got four fucking pairs and one of them I only use to play soccer in.  What does that tell you?”

            Theresa put one hand on her round hip and the other hand gestured wildly with the index finger straight up and the thumb out to the side.  Her nostrils were flared and her lips became thin.  Theresa wasn’t backing down.

            “Y’all always cursin and smoking.  Cursin and smokin and kickin a soccer ball in the basement and when you ain’t doin that, you watching games from Italy.  You live in Dee-troit…  Ain’t another damn person in this state who care bout Italian Soccer.  I don’t wanna hear bout Mussolini and wine and Vespas.  And you wanna know something?  I Googled Mussolini and he was not a good man by nobody’s standards.  You say you wanna have kids?  Shoot, you ain’t grown up yet, baby.  How much money you spend on smoke?  Y’all should buy you a farm so you cain grow your own.  You done smoke bout an acre and all my stuff stank like weed…  You wanna point fingers?  Imma point a finger too…”

            It was at that moment that Theresa saw Mo’s Great Dane come into the living room, raise his leg and piss a good solid stream on the boxes of shoes she just bought.  Theresa squealed and slapped the Great Dane with the palm of her hand.  The dog got spooked and took off running as the urine streamed all over the hallway carpeting.  Mo opened the front door and threw the shoe boxes on the front lawn along with the bags of clothes.  Theresa then went to the basement and grabbed a bottle of bleach and poured it into a bag of Mo’s weed.  That ended the tit for tat.  Mo was devastated.  Not only did he have no money for weed or gas, he no longer had a stash.  Smoking bleached weed would not be possible.

            Things deteriorated and Mo and Theresa stopped talking for weeks that turned to months.  After close to eight weeks, Theresa told Mo that she would be moving from his house and going to live with a friend.  Mo was adding spice to a marinara sauce and grating cheese that came from Italy when Theresa told Mo the news.  Mo no longer cared until Theresa stated that she would be selling the television that she gave him for his birthday with a dish so that he could see soccer from all over Italy.  Mo would usually pass out for a few hours during the night and then get up at about five in the morning and put on his Lazio scarf that was light blue and white with a ball cap with the same logo.  He would yell at the television in Italian, smoke a bit and have some red wine.  Theresa decided that if she were going to go, she would have to punish Mo in some way and taking the television was her recourse.

            “The fuck you’re taking my television.  That’s my fucking television.  You gave it to me and so its mine.  You can take everything including that stupid yapping dog and get the hell out of my life but you are not touching the television or that dish…  Do you fucking got me?”

            Mo was frowning and squinting like de Niro again.  Theresa didn’t care.  She had worked it out that she would sell the television to her cousin Reggie for $100.00.  It was a forty inch flat screen that she had purchased for $500.00.  Reggie was on his way up from Detroit to their home in Sterling Heights to pick up the television.  No sooner had Theresa told Mo of her plans when Reggie rang the bell.

            “Dude, my cousin say you gone split an she wanna sell the television.  Shit…  I done seen the picture on dat bitch an I say to myself Imma buy dat.  I’ll tell you what…  I won two hunred bucks at the casino today.  Imma gone give you fitty extra cause I’m havin a good ass day,” said Cousin Reggie.

            Mo went to the basement and got his little league bat that he saved since the fifth grade.  It was a Louisville Slugger that was signed by Al Kaline of the Detroit Tigers.  Mo came up from the basement with the bat on his shoulders.

            “Reg, the picture on this thing ain’t as good as you might imagine.  Let me show you the problem…”

            Mo swung the bat about a dozen times until the television fell from the wall and broke into several pieces.  The Great Dane pissed out of fear on the suede couch and soaked one whole cushion.  Theresa called Mo an animal, ran to their bedroom and locked the door.  Reggie moved his toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right, raised his eye brows and said a few words before departing.

            “Damn…  Ain’t that but a bitch…  That was a good television.  Damn shame.”

            Mo walked down the hall still in a rage with a deranged smile on his face like Jack Nicholson from the movie, The Shining.  Mo checked the door and it was locked.  Theresa yelled at Mo to leave her alone or she would call the police.

            “I ain’t playin wid you no more…  You crazy, you know that?”

            With two kicks, Mo was in what had been their bedroom up until two months ago.  His bed had been the living room couch where the dog had urinated out of fear.  Mo dropped the bat and came towards Theresa as he literally ripped the t-shirt off of himself.  Theresa didn’t know what to do.  She backed up towards the headboard as Mo approached her.

            “I know what our fucking problem is.  We don’t need a therapist or fucking Oprah to tell us what is necessary here.”

            With that he grabbed Theresa by the back of the neck and began to kiss her passionately.  He kissed her neck and licked her chin as he ripped the clothes off of her.  They fucked, had sex or made love for over an hour.  It culminated with Theresa having the strongest orgasm of her life while she was on top.  Theresa screamed like she was being killed as sweat streamed down her face.  She balled up her right fist and punched Mo squarely in the left eye while pumping her hips furiously and then collapsed on top of him, digging her long nails into the side of his face as she banged her teeth against his trying to get her tongue as deep as she could into his mouth.

            Mo and Theresa lay in bed out of breath and sweating.  Mo’s left eye was almost swollen shut.  Each of their dogs sat next to them wondering what had happened and what might happen next.  Theresa had money that her parents had given her to help her move.  It was $500.00.  Theresa took Mo out to the nearest Coney Island restaurant for dinner and then to Wal-Mart to buy a new television.  They went home and made love some more and drank red wine while Louis Primo played on the stereo.  When Theresa fell deeply asleep, Mo hooked up the new television in the living room in time to see Lazio defeat AC Milan.  Mo finished the bottle of red wine straight from the bottle as he pet his dog and Theresa’s.  He thought about what might be necessary to avert disaster in the future and couldn’t come up with a good answer.  At that moment it didn’t matter.  It had been sixty seven days since he had sex with his woman and suddenly he felt better about life and their chances of making it for the moment.  Mo thought as he took a swig straight from the bottle as the Lazio team ran around the field after their win: life could not really get much better than it was.

January 13, 2011

Drunk Driving the Dog

            Horatio Kiss made a pile of money or as the saying goes, hand over fist, getting drunks to beat the drunken driving laws in the state of Michigan.  Horatio was an attractive man with a televangelist’s smile, with perfect hair and good speaking voice.  Business got so good that Horatio began to do commercials on local television in Detroit.  His commercials began with kissing lips and a red imprint of lips across his own forehead that he would wipe off with a handkerchief.

            “Drunk driving is not a laughing matter; you need the professionals at Horatio Kiss and Associates to help you wipe away that DUI.”

            Horatio would then tuck the handkerchief into his breast pocket and point at the camera and exclaim, “Get the facts, get the help you need.  At Horatio Kiss and Associates we have handled every type of DUI charge imaginable.  We can get you that dismissal, we can get you that re-instatement today… Begin to wipe away that DUI now.”

            Peter Francis Geraci had been the most recognized commercial attorney in Michigan with all the bankruptcies and foreclosures. All those broke and evicted people then needed another attorney when they turned to alcohol to ease the pain when they operated vehicles while intoxicated.  Horatio became their man.

            It was no joke; Horatio was very good at getting drunks off the hook.  Many people were nailed dead to rights by the Michigan State Police or in the city of Detroit or surrounding municipalities.  An officer would often come into court and explain why he stopped a potentially drunk vehicle operator and then Horatio would go to work on that officer.

            “Officer Whipple…  Have you ever changed a station on your radio in the car?”


            “Have you ever drank or eaten something while operating a vehicle?”


            “Have you ever spoken on a phone or answered a radio call in your squad car while it was moving, while operating it?”


            “Have you ever swerved while doing this?”

            “I’m not certain.”

            “So you could have swerved but you are unaware of ever doing it while doing everyday things that everyone does without taking a drop of alcohol.  Is that correct, officer?”

            “It is possible I suppose…”

            “Are you a diabetic, Officer Whipple?”

            “No sir…”      

            “Were you aware that the defendant is a diabetic and that he was on the phone with Walgreen’s placing an order for insulin when you stopped him for erratic driving which was nothing more than driving on the lane marker but not crossing it.  This man was about to go into shock and yet you would hear none of it.  Am I correct, officer?”

            “He refused a sobriety test and in my experience this is usually guilt by denial.  We never discussed diabetes.”

            “The defendant was not allowed to discuss diabetes, officer…”

            And so on.  Horatio understood that most obese people needed insulin and since most people were obese, he could use that argument.  Horatio pulled many rabbits out of hats to help clearly drunk motorists beat the rap.  Aside from diabetes, Horatio used insomnia, head injuries, poor vision that had been since corrected, contractions, menstrual cramping, vertigo due to ear wax blockage, recent deaths in the family, divorce, loss of jobs, homes and even once a drop in stocks.  Horatio was good and everyone knew it.  Horatio could stuff an elephant through the eye of a needle and many knew he was capable of explaining why it was necessary and plausible.  Horatio was the Houdini of DUI defense.

            Horatio had a brother by the name of Helmut who was Horatio’s twin brother.  Helmut was not a fraternal twin and unless people were told, they would never guess that Horatio and Helmut were even brothers.  Helmut was tall, obese, loud and drunk most of the time.  He went to strip clubs and never missed a Detroit Red Wings home game.  Helmet had a job dropping off medical supplies between nursing homes in Ann Arbor and Oakland County in the town of Wixom.  People who knew Helmut called him The Pontiac Trailer Trash but not to his face.  Helmet lived in a trailer and drove a 1977 AMC Hornet that had belonged to their grandparents who had willed it to Helmut before they died.  A coat hanger held the muffler to the car and he drove with the windows open because exhaust fumes would enter through the rotten floor boards.  All Helmut could get on radio was AM stations and so Helmet listened to a Detroit sports talk station on AM  radio and even got a five minute call in show which he was not paid for where he would rant or rave about the Red Wings.  The only reason Helmut was given the show was because he was the brother of the famous Horatio Kiss and because Helmut showed up to every Red Wings home game with his English Bulldog who he named, Delvecchio after a former ice hockey hall of fame player by the name of Alex Delvecchio who played for the Red Wings during the days of the Original Six.

  Helmut and Delvecchio would walk around Joe Louis Arena before games and Delvecchio wore a red sweater with the Red Wing logo on it and the name Delvecchio.  Delvecchio the dog also wore a custom fit white CCM helmet with Red Wing logos on both sides.  Helmet would yell like a drunken frat boy and high five anyone and everyone who would acknowledge him and his dog.  Helmet would then valet park his AMC Hornet with the windows cracked and the motor running so that his dog would not die of carbon monoxide or freeze while he went into Joe Louis Arena to watch a game.

            It was on New Year’s Eve that the Detroit Red Wings were taking on the New York Islanders.  For those in the know, the lowly Islanders stood a slim chance of ever stealing a win from the mighty Red Wings especially at home and on the last night of the year.

            Helmut left his home early to parade Delvecchio around downtown Detroit.  They walked by Campus Martius where Detroiters were skating at the outdoor ice rink, he walked up and down the streets in Greektown and then took Delvecchio on the People Mover at the Cadillac Center, past Greektown, The Renaissance Center, the financial district and then on to Joe Louis Arena.  Patrons of the people mover all wanted to pet the panting, slobbering Delvecchio with his cute sweater and helmet on his head.  Japanese tourists usually took family pictures with Helmut and the dog and then tipped him.  Helmut didn’t mind.

            Horatio was more of a basketball fan than a hockey fan and so Horatio rarely made it to The Joe.  It just so happened that a wealthy client who had a son that got arrested with a fictitious license, got into a car accident while intoxicated.  It was a trifecta for the arresting officer: suspended license, fake identification and an accident while intoxicated.  The son of the wealthy real estate speculator racked up fines that exceeded $50,000.00 and a potential felony for falsifying his identity.  The wealthy real estate man was a huge hockey fan and wanted to discuss Horatio’s plan of action between periods at the hockey game.  They were fantastic seats, center ice about ten rows back.

            It was at the end of the game when Horatio fought his way to a men’s bathroom on the way out of the arena that he recognized a distinct voice.  It was the voice of his twin picking a fight with some fans from Long Island in New York.

            “Fuck the Rangers, fuck the Devils, fuck Mike Bossy, fuck Long Island, fuck Long Island Ice Tea, fuck your stupid accents and the fucking Islanders…  This is what I think of your fucking Islanders…”

            Helmut pulled out his penis and began urinating in the sink in full view of every man waiting in line to relieve themselves before they burst.  Other Detroit fans cheered in the bathroom as Helmut clasped his hands over his head as if he had won a prize fight.  Horatio grabbed his brother and escorted him towards his car, lecturing him all the way.  Horatio collected Delvecchio from the overheating AMC and paid to have the car stored overnight. 

            “Bro, you don’t understand cause you’re not a fan.  We got Pavel out, Cleary, Modano and now Stewart and they just got fucking lucky.  I don’t like nobody coming into my home and talking smack.  It’s smack bro, that’s all.  I’m just trying to have a good time and enjoy a game and welcome in the baby new year, that’s all.  Delvecchio and me are gonna stop by a few places to have a nip and then we’ll be on our way,” said a slurring Helmut.

            Delvecchio was panting profusely while he sat on Helmut’s lap.  Drool was getting all over the dashboard of Horatio’s Escalade which had just been detailed.  Horatio lost his cool.

            “I am tired of saving your ass every time you do something stupid.  Bringing the dog to games, getting wasted, pissing in sinks in a public building…  I can’t save you from yourself, Helmy.  When are you going to grow up?”

            The lecture made Helmut sad.  He began to cry.  The immense amount alcohol which was consumed over the course of eight hours brought about an impetuous decision to open the door of the SUV which was moving at seventy five miles an hour on interstate 75.  Horatio slammed on the breaks to keep his brother from falling out of the moving vehicle.  Helmut began to walk alongside the interstate carrying his sixty pound bulldog in a sweater and hockey helmet as snow began to fall.  Horatio pleaded with his brother to get back in the truck but Helmet ignored him.  Helmet began to stick out his thumb in hopes of getting a ride from a passing vehicle.  After about a quarter mile, an Officer Haynes pulled his state issued Crown Victoria over to the side to try and understand what was happening between two men and a dog.  The night grew ugly for the trio.  Officer Haynes had actually been in court with Horatio several times and lost.  It was his good fortune or possibly karma that brought them all together at nearly the strike of midnight on New Year’s Eve.

  On the front page of the Detroit Free Press was a picture taken from the squad car camera of Horatio, Helmut and Delvecchio looking like deer in the headlights.  The headline was as follows:


            Detroit- Horatio Kiss was found walking with his brother, Helmet Kiss and his dog Delvecchio along interstate 75 near exit 55: Holbrook/Caniff Avenue exit after attending a Detroit Red Wings game earlier in the evening.  Mr. Horatio Kiss contends that he was attempting to get his brother Helmut Kiss and his dog into his vehicle when they were spotted by Michigan State Police walking northbound on the shoulder of Interstate 75 at 11:52 pm on December 31st.  Mr. Helmut Kiss struck the officer who was attempting to handcuff him, broke a window to the squad car and ran off of the freeway.  Mr. Horatio Kiss then followed his brother in a white Cadillac Escalade.  The Kiss Brothers and the dog were apprehended without further incident in Hamtramck.  Bond hearing is scheduled Monday January 3, 2011.  Mr. Horatio Kiss will be representing himself and his brother.  No further details are known about the English bulldog named Delvecchio.

January 4, 2011

The American Lawn

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:54 am
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Charles, Chuck, Chucky, Charlie and Chas were all the names that Charles Schmidt responded to by all the patrons of his Proud American Barber Shop which was on Telegraph Road in Detroit. 

            In the barber shop were pennants of the Detroit Tigers, Lions and Red Wings with bowling trophies and a plethora of Vietnam War era photos of Charles Schmidt and his one employee, Eugene Nurgy.

            Nobody called Eugene by his first name.  Most people called him, The Nurg.  The Nurg wore a flattop hair cut with a pencil thin moustache with tattoos up and down his arms and a gold chain of the Marine Corps symbol.  Nurg was a hair above six feet in height, chewed gum while smoking and loved listening to Dean Martin songs on his cassette player while he and Charles told dirty and racist jokes and discussed why the city of Detroit, the United States of America and the world as a whole, was going to implode soon.

            “The way to handle them swamis is the way they would handle you…  String em up by their ball sacks and let them swing in the goddamn wind,” said Charles.

            “Fucking A right…  Tell em, Chas,” said Nurg.

            “So now you got Obama running things and we ain’t got nothing to show for the two years he’s been office.  The economy sucks and we still ain’t found Bin Laden yet.  You got Harvard instead of West Point conducting a war and that’s the problem here.  That was the problem in Nam and that’s the problem now.  If the fucking Russians had to pull out of Afghanistan and they were some ruthless sommabitches, how we supposed to win a CNN war?  You fucking tell me…” declared Charles.

“You goddamn straight, Chas.  Me and Chas spent two fucking years covered in Agent Orange in the jungle.  I think we know a thing or too about running a war,” said Nurg.

            Everybody Loves Somebody Sometimes, played through tinny speakers while two old white men got their hair cut and three more sat in chairs waiting for their turn.  All the patrons of the barber shop were white and above the age of sixty for the most part.  A few grandsons and sons of older patrons patronized the shop.  Almost all were of the same mindset.

Every man has something to occupy their time when they are not making a living or scrounging for enough money to exist.  For Charles and Eugene it was finely manicuring the entire premises that was the lot belonging to Charles in the Brightmoor section of Detroit.  Charles one day decided that if he could not and would not move from a street that was nearly completely deserted; he would make his home look like a palace.  Charles added onto his home and created a beautiful garden in the front yard with a fountain and perfectly maintained lawn that looked as if it was painted green without one weed to be found.  Charles was paid by a fertilizer company to show a picture of his front yard on the cover of all their bags.  Charles was extremely proud of his home and the local gang bangers, prostitutes, pimps, drug addicts and dealers all had respect for the home of someone who was trying to improve the neighborhood by making their own property beautiful.  All but one.     

Charles had won a beautiful home of the year award for the entire state of Michigan and had the award in a frame which hung proudly in the barber shop. 

            Charles like Nurgy lived his entire life in the home of his parents and when Charles mother died a few years back, Charles inherited the only home he had ever lived in that had a value of $32,000.00 or equal to a Cadillac Escalade without any bells and no whistles.  A good used Escalade actually. 

            Charles grew tired of getting hand and blow jobs from the neighborhood sluts that needed a few bucks to get a fix and so he signed up on a website that promised western men a pretty, hardworking, subservient wife from Vietnam or Cambodia.  Charles began to correspond with a girl who used translating software to write to Charles in English.  Charles proposed over the internet to a woman less than five feet in height who liked to cook, watch American movies and listen to music.  Tran loves to listen to Elvis and Madonna and wanted to eat hamburgers with French fries.  Tran accepted the invitation to marriage and a life of bliss in Detroit, Michigan.  After paying several thousand dollars and spending nearly that much to claim his bride, Tran came to live in America.  Everyone wants to live in America.

            Tran’s life consisted of cooking and cleaning.  The house was immaculate and meals were always served on time.  For all her efforts, Charles would take her out to one of several casinos in downtown Detroit or occasionally a baseball game, movies and miniature golf.  All of which were usually with Nurg present.  Date nights almost always included Nurgy.  Tran didn’t mind.  Her prison-like existence was better than a life of prostitution in Cambodia and so she was content living in an attractive sanctuary in an area that looked like Hurricane Katrina had hit it.

            A young African-American male who had done several years in jail for armed robbery, drug dealing and rape was back on the street after serving four years of a twenty year term.  The state had to decide that others more dangerous needed to be rehabilitated more than Travis and so Travis was cast back out into the world once again.  Travis understood that dealing and stealing was going to lead to nothing but jail or death and so he began breeding Pit bulls for fighting.  Travis bought several females that he bred and then he sold the dogs to people all over the country for a good price.  Travis then held dog fights in the backyard of the rundown home across the street from Charles that had not been burned out or razed.  Men came from all over in good weather to bring their dogs to fight.  Travis had a strong male that killed just about every other dog he was pitted against.  Travis was proud of his champion fighter and to ensure that he kept the fighting instinct up, Travis would send out two of his assistants to steal small house pets from nice suburbs so that Travis’s prized fighter could kill for sustenance. 

            Now the dog fighters ignored Charles’s home and Charles and Nurgy kept a wary eye on the goings on across the street, ready to go to war if necessary.  It was late one Sunday afternoon that a young man in metallic green vintage 1972 El Camino, texted on a cell phone while his pit-bull jogged behind the car.  The dog’s tongue hung to one side as it loped behind the classic car that had a sound system that was booming enough bass to make the windows rattle in all the vacant homes on the block.  The dog broke off from following the El Camino, made a left turn and ran up towards the front porch where Charles and Nurgy sat in the shade drinking lemonade.  The dog crept towards both men with gnashing teeth.  Both pulled hand guns from their belt lines and got ready to shoot the dog.  The dog’s master parked the El Camino in the middle of the street and sauntered up towards his dog that was disobeying his command.  The young man wore a Detroit Tigers cap with a straight brim with the D lined with sparking fake diamonds, a long white tank top shirt, a baggy pair of jean shorts and whiter than white tennis shoes.  The dog pissed on the lawn while snarling and then defecated.  Charles and Nurgy were horrified by the display.  The garden club would be sure to disqualify the house from the contest if there were to be a yellow urine stain anywhere on the grass.  Nurgy stood with arm extended, looking through the scope of the gun, ready to off the animal.  The young man who bought the home across the street to breed and fight dogs, was incensed by his dog’s disobedience and the strange white man who was willing to shoot his dog for doing what dogs do when they are outside: shit and piss.

            “Old man…  You shoot my dog an see what happen to yo place.  You won’t need to worry bout yo damn grass cause you won’t have a fucking home no mo,” said Travis defiantly.

            Neither Charles nor Nurgy responded to the brazen words.  They took note of the dozen or more men who were waiting for Travis that were now walking up towards Charles’s home.  Several yelled out threats and one busted a forty ounce bottle of beer on the curb in front of Charles’s home.  Over several weeks, more and more dogs crossed Charles’s lawn while he was home and when he wasn’t.  Before long, the front lawn had yellow spots scattered about.  It would be impossible to repair the damage.  It was at the Assembly  Line Buffet at the Motor City Casino that Nurgy laid out with Charles a plan action.  The three of them ate plates full of food and discussed what needed to be done.  Tran just listened.

            “Chaz…  The damage is done.  It is fucking done, man.   Tran, excuse the langois. You have to ask yourself what Clint would do?  What would John Wayne do?  What would Rumsfeld do? Walking fucking tall, my man…  Tran, forgive my French.  Remember that movie?  He took no shit.  We didn’t go to Nam to protect inconsiderate punks who allow their dogs to destroy.  This is not damage, Chas.  This is destruction of property and you have to respond by any means possible,” said Nurgy.

            “Nurg…  When you’re right, you’re right and that’s all.”  Said Charles.

            Nurgy and Charles worked hard and fast one night late after the dogfighters had concluded their fights for the night.  Nurgy pulled up with a rented John Deere digger, ropes and traps and the two men worked hard through the night and finished just before dawn.  The Charles and Nurgy then rested and returned to the front porch in the early evening to wait for the bait to be taken like two patient fishermen.  Travis eventually came down the street in his pimped out El Camino as his prized dog jogged behind as a warm up for the night’s fights.  Travis glared at the two men and they calmly returned the stares behind aviator sunglasses.  Nothing happened during the night until the wee hours of the morning.  Nurgy could hear yelping at about 4:00am.  He sprung to his feet and called for Charles.  The two men ran out the front door of Charles’s home with guns loaded and cocked and large flashlights.  In the ten foot deep pit that was lined with wooden spikes, smeared with dog excrement was Travis, one of his friends and their two dogs. A ten by ten hole was made and covered with a heavy sheet of plastic and sod on top of that.  To the unaware eye, the front yard appeared to be as it always had instead of a pit. The two men and dogs were injured by the fall and jagged spikes.  Lassos went around the ankles of the men and dogs as they were pulled up out of the hole.  The dogs were put into cages in the basement and Travis and his friend were tied with their hands behind their backs and led to the basement.  Once in the basement, Tran began recording on a small camera on a tripod while Charles and Nurgy placed burlap sacs over the heads of the two young men.   Nurgy did the narrative.

            “Boys…  You probably never heard of a movie with Paul Newman in it called Cool Hand Luke.  There’s a scene where the warden smacks Paul Newman and then says what we have got here is a failure to communicate…  Some men you just can’t reach.  This is the way he wants it.  This is what he gets…”

            The two men were strapped to boards on the floor as if they were going to be quartered.  Tran then walked over with a watering can for the roses out in front and doused the men’s faces as they struggled to breathe.  Tran knew these tactics very well since her father was part of the Khmer Rouge during the days of Pol Pot in Cambodia.  Tran’s father was in charge of torture.  Tran would then go back to the utility tub to fill the can again with water as Nurgy spoke to the choking men in between.

            “We don’t want no trouble with nobody, boys.  We fought in Nam for our country to get rid of communism and help America stay free and proud.  A simple thing like keeping your animals off of the fucking grass ain’t too much to ask, is it boys?”

            Tran came back with the water can and poured the water with a smile and a slight curtsy for the camera as the men gasped and coughed.  This took place three times before the two men were placed in the back of the El Camino still bound and blindfolded with the dogs in the front seat of the truck/car.  Nurgy whispered in the ear of Travis before walking back to Charles’s home with him.

            “I hope we have an understanding now.  Don’t ever go to war with those who went to war.  You may consider taking us out when we least expect it and where would that get you?  Back in the Wayne County slammer?  You want someone making love to your ass for another ten or twenty years?  I say we learn to live together cause I know we can just all get along… Cool?”

            Charles and Nurgy cut the bindings from the wrists of the two men and walked home just as the sun began to rise above the tops of trees in front of abandon homes in the Brightmoor section of Detroit.  To date, Nurgy and Charles have had over two million hits on Youtube.  Most people believe it was a hoax but those that really understand torture knew that it was the real deal.  Travis and company thought about assassinating Nurgy, Charles and Tran but understood that they picked the fight and Charles and Nurgy finished it.  There was an understanding and communication.  Charles again has prize winning grass and the pit bulls know not to cross the street.  All is as good as it can be given the circumstances in Brightmoor.  And they lived happily ever after.

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