Forced Entry

[komrade komura]

Apologies in advance for this story. It was my first one. It came from a very dark place and some very good smoke. Kali Mist if I remember correctly.

4 grow houses. 30 months. 8 million dollars. Under the radar, always a denominator, never a numerator. Obsessive planning, powered by a deadly combination of paranoia and greed. That's the life of a southern grower. Only light sleepers survive. The rest get free room and board at Parchment prison.

A refugee from a high rise corporate plantation was in his 19th month and sailing safely toward the finish line.

The kid was looking for a dry place to stay, away from the cops, away from the shit on the streets.

Jackson, Mississippi is a toxic place. Been that way for a long time.

Yeah I wrote this shit. Blame no one else

 

[komrade komura]

Forced Entry Part 1

Forced Entry Part 1

Oh fuck!

The text message arrived while I was driving home to Florida. Not on my regular phone but on the little clamshell disposable that I hoped would never make a sound. Today it did. I drove a few miles further to the exit, then pulled over into the parking lot of a large, big-box convenience store off of Interstate 10. It was the only thing at that exit; they couldn’’t attract any other civilization around it. Some places just look better through a rear view mirror.

Burgers, pizza, freshly made sandwiches (or so they say), frozen yogurts and fruit smoothies, gasoline, junk food, beer and cigarettes – all presented before us from multiple vendors with large, plastic logo signs everywhere. Hours of effort in expensive meetings where they discuss how to have the best eye-catching and noticeable signage. But finally, it is all provided in such large numbers as to be reduced to visual noise that begs to be ignored like the hum of a florescent light. The only difference between this big multi-acre commercial oasis in the U.S. and a similar one in Europe is the noticeable absence of prostitution here. The flesh trade is apparently less open and probably less safe here. But then, 25% of the population of the nation is bat-shit crazy for Jesus and live concentrated in parts of the country – these parts. So the flesh trade is frowned upon round here. This is a place where the cops are just well armed thugs ... all rules, no justice. Welcome to Mississippi.

I pulled my other phone from my pocket and opened the mobile browser, then went to my special bookmarks and a secure browser session. I usually checked my rooms three or four times per day, then made any adjustments to the environment remotely in the evening, after dinner.

Wireless micro valves connecting to an IP-enabled controller was the last piece of my dream puzzle ... this is cool, technical, geeky shit, folks. It was originally intended for lawn and landscape watering systems. The online description promised, ‘Make your grass grow from any computer in the world.’ Yes please, I’ll have one of those. It took about three days of fucking around with it and in particular an afternoon taking over 50 measurements of the flow rates, before it was ready to go. It had been final tested ten times to ensure that it was accurate, easy to control and any variances in the process eliminated. Eighteen seconds of flow from the ‘‘bloom’ reservoir, 12 seconds from the ‘micro’ reservoir every three days. Finish with 20 seconds of reverse-osmosis filtered water injected with enough force to stir everything up. Then 30 minutes later, a pan and zoom from the camera, onto the tri-level meter showing EC, PH and temperature to ensure everything is fine. I am a Lucas formula grower (Google it, I’ll wait).

No, you are going to have to find this one on your own. It is out there to be found though. Yes, on the internet. You will know when you hit the model because you will be forced to buy one entire system before they will sell you the IP controlled valves as a replacement for a failure. That is the only part you really want.
Wireless technology has presented options which have never been available before. And it is finally affordable to almost everyone. Before, I had to go to all four houses every two days to check the equipment and replenish the reservoirs. Now I only go by them twice a week and cover them all in four days. I drop by each with a bag of garbage for the waste management truck. There are timers on appliances like a television, a stereo and the house lights in non-productive rooms like the living room, the bathroom, kitchen, etc. There is even a recorded dog bark for the night set for different times each night.

Never had an alert before, except while testing the setup of the wireless IP cameras. A sense of panic tightened in my stomach. I am a planner by nature and was for years by profession. This was not planned.

Worst case, it would be the cops. I would get to watch them rip everything apart until they find the last camera in the house, listening to them congratulate themselves and slap each other’s back as they wildly over estimate the street value of the cannabis, numbers thrown about like third graders trying to estimate the size of The Incredible Hulk.

I have considered that having an untraceable conversation with pigs could be entertaining. A taunting conversation at first, enjoying the sight of frustrated cops unable to do what they do best, beating up suspects, arresting those who do not submit to their authority and rules. After a few minutes of teasing and verbal abuse, I would then mention explosives and end the conversation using the line: ‘Now Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.’ Then sit back and watch a room full of cops climbing over each other. They would scramble for the door and the safety of outside, as if they were inside Dunkin Donuts when Al Qaeda attacked it. Charging towards the door they forget civility and pig camaraderie as they shove each other aside in the mistaken belief that their lives will end in the next nanosecond. Save that shit to a memory stick and anonymously post to YouTube – definitely LMFAO.

Best case, it is some sort of repairman standing there with a dumb-fuck look on his face. Better take a look, but be sure to turn off my microphone first.

Whether fortunately or un, it was a teenage kid, about five foot six inches tall, skinny, wearing a dark grey zip-up hooded sweat shirt, baseball cap and blue jeans. His clothes were dirty. Hair was closely cut, all the miss-cuts evident when someone cuts their own hair with regular scissors and has never done it before. No understanding of the geometry of cutting hair. Except at the front where it still hung long, over his forehead and eyes, like the drawbridge of a castle, the final protective barrier. There was evidence of a good solid smack to the left jaw within the last two weeks, new white flesh rows rid of the scabs, lighter skin. His face was one of those that you have seen before, that soft gentle flesh that won’t need a razor until his mid-twenties, if even then. This is the kid in school who is constantly accused of being gay whether he is or not, just because of the gentleness of his features. They are the kind of kids we were fortunate enough not to have been.

A huge sense of relief came over me. No pigs, just some kid who had stumbled into more bad shit than he would be able to handle. It seemed a better outcome … but I was not sure how. Assess circumstances, generate options, assign probabilities of success to them and identify milestone actions during implementation, measure success. The habits from the decades on the corporate plantation kicked in.

There were three cameras in each room; one in each corner, on the top shelf of rack shelving, nestled between boxes. The third camera was located in the middle of a stack of plastic milk crates, looking like hauling containers ready for use in a quick escape. However, in fact, their only purpose is to hide the camera. Nothing leaves the house except in taped and fully sealed cardboard boxes. A crate where you can see the contents inside? Fucking worthless for transporting anything from a grow house, but still good to sit on … and conceal a camera.

The cameras are capable of 320 degree horizontal rotation and 100 degrees vertical tilt rotation. The entire room is viewable. It was the same setup in every room in the house, except for the bathroom. There were two weather-proof, wireless cameras hidden in the front garden shrubs and two in the backyard. They are inexpensive and I figured that this security was a good investment. I bought them in boxes of three.

Here take a look: Cool shit, huh? And not too expensive, really, not when considering what is at stake. I turned on the microphone and adjusted the car seat slightly.

Narrator: We have a problem

The kid on the screen of my mobile phone leapt nearly a foot to the left when he heard my voice. He spun around in anticipation of seeing me standing behind him.

Kid: What the fuck?!

Narrator: Don’t panic ... and don’t touch anything! I can see you and hear you. You will not be able to see me.

It took a second before he connected that I was not really physically present in the room and his whirling dervish routine stopped. He then turned towards the source of my voice and bent forward to see the camera and the small speakers. He closely examined it.


Kid: Fuck me. Cool.

The panic response seemed to quickly leave him. His young mind was racing, trying to understand all the possibilities of the deep, shit hole he had fallen into. It was like playing an entire chess match in his head from opening to checkmate, a staggering assembly of possible moves but only three basic outcomes. Over the next minute, the belligerent attitude he always showed the world returned. This attitude was always betrayed too soon by a keen sense of curiosity about everything.

Narrator: Our conversation cannot continue until you expand your vocabulary a little. Please go have a seat in the chair over at the table so we can have a discussion.

Kid: I ain’t ever seen so much fucking weed in my whole life! Never.

He shuffled over to the chair, stupid gangsta walk style. He sat down in the chair, legs crossed one over the other as if he were being interviewed by MTV about his new album and the stylish essentials of necessary bling. He looked at the square machine which took up a large part of the right side of the stainless steel table. He read the knobs and raised the cover.

Kid: What is this?

Narrator: A vacuum sealing machine. Seals the herb in airtight bags so it doesn’t smell when it leaves here.

Kid: How much weed is here?

Narrator: This room produces between 10 and 12 pounds per harvest, depending on the strain grown. THIS IS NOT A TOUR. We need to focus on the problem we have and how it is going to be resolved. You are not supposed to be here.

Kid: Yeah well ... you are not supposed to be growin’ fuckin’ weed.

Cocky little bastard had returned fully now, arms folded across his chest, chin raised arrogantly, like Mussolini in some old documentary.

Narrator: Valid point. We have to decide what we are going to do about this.

Kid: How about I just take all your weed and tell you to ‘Fuck Off’.

He got up from the chair and began to examine the room. His gait betrayed the Living Large thoughts swimming in his head. He examined the two large plastic reservoirs, noticing the markings ‘Micro’ and ‘Bloom’ on them. He stopped for a moment to think about the purpose of each. He closely examined the valves with the little antennae on them. He traced the lines from them down into the main reservoir.

Narrator: Stealing my herb is not an option for you.

Kid: Why not? You ain’t round to stop me.

His eyes followed the supply lines from the reservoir to the tables. He walked over confidently to one of the plants. He pulled a large bud towards him and took a big whiff.

Kid: Damn…this is some dank shit.

He leaned over to examine the pots.

Narrator: Stealing it would present you with two problems. Firstly, this herb has just started the final flush to get the chemical fertilizers out of it. If you take it right now you will lose 15 to 20% of its value because it will taste like shit and is not cured. And I doubt you would know the right people to be able to get market value for it.

Kid: I know some people, asshole.

Narrator: Your second problem is that you would never make it out of there alive. You would just be the charred remains, your bones found by the fire department. You don’t really want to die running face first into a series of gas line explosions, trying to see if you are faster than the internet. I can assure you that you are not. You will just be another grower who died in a fire, although the youngest in a long time. This will be your fate about half a second from now. Is that your final answer?

His knees weakened and he reached out to steady himself against the grow table. His sense of panic returned. He looked towards the door as if he wanted to run out through it so badly. But his brain screamed to him that it would be certain death to do so. His body tensed, on the verge of running.

Kid: No! NO! That is NOT my final answer! Fuck, fuck, fuck, damn, shit, FUCK!

There were no incendiary devices. It was just the break-in protocol shit I had developed one late stoner night. At the time it seemed that it would either work or it wouldn’t – but worth a try. When starting from the assumption that the entire house is lost, then any activities that may change that outcome should be considered.

Kid: No, no, no please don’t. Just give me a minute to think.

Narrator: Why should I do that?

Kid: Gimme a minute, for fuck’s sake.

Narrator: You broke in here and have just threatened to rip me off of tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of ganja. Seems to me I would be better off to cut my losses and torch it all, including you.

Kid: No!

Narrator: It is a loss for me, but not a big one and less aggravation than trying to figure a way out of this mess that leaves you alive. I walk away, you don’t.

Kid: No, no, no ... fuck. NO WAY! Damn it, why do I always fall into the shit!

Narrator: (Calmly) Perhaps you should sit down.

He returned to the chair, gansta gone, shoulders slumped, death-camp inmate walk.

Kid: I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am. Really, really sorry. I was just looking for a place to sleep. That’s all, honest. Fuck, fuck, fuck, damn, shit, FUCK!

His frustration was caused by his lack of options. He leaned forward and let his head slump forward into his hands like a grief victim trying to come to grips with a tragedy in a hospital waiting room.

Narrator: Why don’t you sleep at home?

Kid: I don’t live there no more.

Narrator: Why?

Kid: They foreclosed. Mom lost her teaching job and can’t pay for it no more.

Narrator: What about your dad?

Kid: That asshole? He ain’t been around for years. He can’t even remember my birthday or Christmas. He is just a worthless motherfuckin’’ piece of shit and I hate him.

His face showed both the anger and the remorse for the father that didn’t care about him.

Narrator: So you needed a place to stay, fair enough.

He looked directly into the camera located near the speakers.

Kid: C’mon, I won’t tell a soul. Promise.

Narrator: What is your name?

Kid: Taylor. (A second after he spoke his name he wished he hadn’t.)

Narrator: Taylor, today will either be the luckiest day of your life or the last. It all depends on you. For the next few minutes, I want you to concentrate carefully. Forget your tough guy attitude for now, that results in an outcome you don’t want. Do you understand me perfectly?

He nodded his understanding.

Narrator: Taylor, you have broken into one of my houses. This is not supposed to happen. But despite all the planning, sometimes things like this happen. In this business there are no outsiders, only us and the cops. We observe simple rules. Rule One is simple: TELL NO ONE. Rule Two: You talk, you die. Rule Three: Only the paranoid survive. Do you understand?

Taylor: I ain’t never snitched on anyone since I was 7 years old and the kid I told on beat the shit outta me afterwards.

Taylor: What rules do the cops follow?

Narrator: None

Narrator: I have invested a considerable amount of time building this. Grow systems, security. This entire house costs money to setup, but the time it took is the investment that I most want to protect. This was my first house ever (a lie) and it means something to me.

Taylor moved around in the seat. His curiosity had regained the upper hand in its battle with his panic response. Behind me another big 18-wheeler pulled into the parking lot of the roadside oasis. I watched it in the rear-view mirror then looked back at my phone. There were more important matters at the moment.

Taylor: Can I smoke a joint of this shit?

Narrator: If you want. Look in the box on the third shelf of the rack to your left. Choose the one marked Satori. You will find some rolling papers in the box.

He got up from the chair, removed the box from the rack, placed it on the floor and opened it.

Taylor: What is Satori?

Narrator: It is a sativa strain that enhances creativity and thought processes but without the sativa paranoia.

Taylor: Fuck me. OK.

He removed a mason jar containing just under a half ounce of buds. It is my personal stash for when I am working in the house and want to get a buzz but still be functional and get my work done.

Satori is the kind of strain that will give the smoker an excellent, strong and thorough buzz, yet with complete functionality retained. This is the herb to smoke before class because you will enjoy it more. It is the herb you smoke before going to the art museum. It the herb you smoke before you try painting or drawing or writing poetry. It has been my daytime smoke of choice for the last year and it is easy to grow. Out and about going through the daily routines, trip to the bank, the big-box hardware stores, interactions with others, not a problem – Satori is your strain. Totally baked and no one ever knows. Even driving, something I never advise others to do while high, is a pleasant and easy task after smoking Satori. There is an Iolite portable vaporizer full of Satori in my coat pocket most days, and right now.

He sniffed the contents of the jar and a smile came to his face. He rolled a fat one, lit it and took several large puffs. Billows of smoke came from his exhale. After about the fourth really big hit he could feel the strong effect starting. He relaxed some, leaning back in the chair. His shoulders began to gradually lower with his tension level. For someone in deep shit he was smiling.

Taylor: (in a fake redneck accent) Damn fine stuff you grow here, Mister. Wow!

He continued to take large hits from the joint.

Narrator: Thank you. I had to grow almost 50 plants of this strain before I found the right one to be the mother plant. You are smoking the best Satori I have ever found.

Taylor: (normal voice) This is definitely some good shit. The best I ever had. HIGH AS FUCK and not paranoid. We don’t get stuff like this around the people I know. Ain’t no fancy names. It’s just weed. If it gets me high, that’s as good as it gets. This stuff is awesome!

Narrator: Back to our problem. How old are you ... and don’t lie to me. I am not some chick you are trying to fuck and you aren’t trying to buy alcohol. Honesty is the only way you will stay alive today, understood?

He hesitated for a moment. His shoulders moved up again.

Taylor: Seventeen ... and the drinking age in Mississippi is 21.

Fuck, a minor. Was hoping for a higher answer, considering one possible outcome.

Narrator: Can you prove that?

Taylor reached into his front pocket, removed his wallet and then held his driver’s license a few inches in front of the camera next to the speakers. I hit the image capture button on the control panel of the software. He had not lied about his name or age.

Narrator: Good, thank you.

Behind me a police cruiser pulled into the oasis and up to the front of the box store. I watched this through the rear-view mirror. All the spaces were full, so rather than park over on the side and walk 50 feet to the store, the police car quickly whipped into a handicapped parking place. Thug life (with badges). Assholes.

To anyone observing, I just looked like a middle aged business suit, sitting in his BMW, having a conversation on his phone, some business negotiation, parked over on the side for quiet. Technically accurate I guess.

Narrator: How long have you been on your own?

Taylor: A couple of months now.

Narrator: How are you doing?

Taylor: It was hard the first two weeks. Not much to eat. The only choices I could find were either rob people, give blow jobs or steal shit and try to sell it.

Narrator: Which did you choose?

Taylor: Steal stuff. But it ain’t always easy to sell.

Narrator: No it isn’t. Successful thieves are rare – except in government and business.

Taylor: I tried robbing some lady in a mall ... grabbed her purse and ran. But she started screaming. Bitch held on to it forever before she let it go and then I dropped her fucking wallet. Mall security almost caught me, but I broke free from that fat ass and then there was no catching me. (Pride smile on his face).

Narrator: Good outcome for you, even if you didn’t get the money. Consider yourself lucky.

Taylor: Can’t bring myself to snatch a purse from some elderly lady. She’d be a lot fuckin’ easier to take it from for sure. But every time I get ready to do it – to snatch it – all I can think about is how she will probably break something if she falls. It stops me every time at the very last second. I am such a fuckin’’ pussy!

Narrator: Were you planning to steal from here?

Taylor: Mostly I was looking for a place to sleep but was gonna take anything worth anything when I left in a couple of days.

Narrator: I appreciate your honesty. Where is your mother?

Taylor: She is living at my aunt’s house with my little sister, Gina. They don’t get along but it was either that or Jesus barracks.

Narrator: Jesus barracks? Do you mean a homeless shelter?

Taylor: Yeah, crazy homeless people, junkies and the down-on-their-luck mixed together, with a lot of Jesus zombies running the place. The zombies are nice to you until they determine that you won’t join their church or follow their rules. Then they look for excuses to throw you back onto the street.

Narrator: That’s not very Christian of them.

Taylor: Yeah, I don’t remember Jesus preaching that either.

He takes a final pull from the joint and sets the second half on the table top.

Taylor: I would have joined her in the barracks, but I ain’t goin’ to that bitch’s house, not while that fucking asshole husband of hers is around. I hate that sumabitch.

Narrator: Why, what’s wrong with him?

Taylor: He gets drunk on Friday nights and starts slapping my aunt around and doing nasty things to her sexually in front of whoever is around. Stuff that is supposed to be done in private, you know ... like masturbating her.

Narrator: In front of other people?

Taylor: Yep, then he makes them sit near the front row of the church on Sundays, all pious and shit, like he is some perfect little fucking Christian. I’ve seen him do that kinky shit before.

Narrator: That is wrong on so many levels.

Taylor: Yup, when I tried to stop him, he hit me and threatened to make me join in too. Said he would make me his mouth slave. Fuck that shit. I’m better off out here on my own. He makes my mom suck him off every morning or else he will throw them out.

Narrator (Bullshit alarm)

Narrator: That is bad. Repressive beliefs always cause weird things to happen.

Taylor: Yeah, just wish my little sister didn’t have to see that shit. Don’t want her to grow up thinking that it is a woman’s place to let her husband smack her around and shit. Don’t like her being exposed to all that phony religious bullshit either. Some lessons are too big to unlearn.

Narrator: How old is your sister?

Taylor: Eleven. She is only my half-sister, but I don’t make no distinction.

Narrator: That’s good.

Taylor: Mom shacked up with a really nice guy for years until he went broke about a year ago, then she threw him out. He’s the daddy.

Narrator: Until he was broke?

Taylor: Yeah, I tried to get mom to not throw him out. He really loved her. But she wouldn’t have any of it. If he couldn’t give her the stuff we needed then he had to leave. She told me she was just doing it in our best interest. But that is just bullshit if you ask me.

Narrator: Why do you think that?

Taylor: Mom just likes stuff. She’s a real consumer. I’m not. Mom’s idea of happiness is a larger Wal-Mart.

Narrator: That’s a shame. Possessions are not as important as people.

Taylor: Yeah, I don’t like that much stuff. The fascination wears off the more you have, like the 12th cookie from the box just ain’t that great.

Narrator: That is called Diminishing Marginal Utility. You said your mom was a teacher before ... where did she teach?

Taylor: Kingston Elementary. After my dad left, when I was little, we lived with my grandfather while my mom went to school to finish her degree and become a teacher.

Narrator: Sounds like a good plan. Education is always the smartest move.

Taylor: That was the best times. Grandpa was a tough old man, lots of rules. But he loved us. And he never spanked me. He fed us and he made mom do her homework. He ain’t with us no more.

Narrator: Sorry to hear that. Sounds like a good man.

Taylor: Yeah, he was. Mom said the state budget cut backs to pay off the banksters hit us and that’s why she lost her job.

Narrator: That is happening all over the country. The wrong people are paying the price as usual.

Taylor: But we already live in a poor state. Budget cuts in Mississippi is like trying to rob a naked corpse.

Narrator: 49th or 50th in most categories.

Taylor: But you know, sometimes when I get high, I think that it shouldn’t be as hard as it is for us. But I can never figure out how to change it. It’s like we are playing cards in a game where everyone else is cheating, ’cept us, so we can’t win.

Narrator: That’s about the size of it.

Taylor: At best we only lose a little, sometimes we lose a lot. Now we ain’t got nuthin left, they got it all. Everything ‘cept what I have right here, right now.

Narrator: Yeah, the system doesn’t work properly for everyone, just for the few at the top these days.

Taylor: You ever seen a pool hustler let someone win a game or two to keep them betting? That is as good as it gets for us, the hollow excitement of a sucker.

Narrator: You don’t go to school?

Taylor: Nope. I stopped when I hit the streets. Wasn’t because it was hard or because I didn’t like it. It was cool learning stuff and I did really good in stuff I was interested in.

Narrator: Then why did you stop?
Taylor: It was just that I’m too embarrassed to be around them now. They make fun of dirty homeless kids who can’t fight.

A text message arrived from my wife:
- Wife: What’s up? Where are you?
- Narrator: Service station off 10. Delayed by visitor at daughter 2′s house (our code for house names, taken from our numbering of daughters as part of their childhood game where we were all robots).
- Wife: Is it one of her frenemies? That bitch always wearing blue like she owns the color?

Fuck sometimes she pushes the security limits, can’t cover up everything simply by using an obvious fucking metaphor!

- Narrator: No some kid i never met before. homeless.
- Wife: Oh dear. Help him out. Be nice. Think like this Jewish mother that loves you.

Narrator: Taylor, today is your lucky day. If you follow instructions you will survive this.

Taylor: Fuck yeah! Long overdue, long overdue ... long fuckin’ overdue!

He jumps up from the chair and does a dance reminiscent of a football player who has just scored the winning touchdown. Except imagine if the player was having a spastic seizure instead. Hilarious in the total lack of coordination. I mute the microphone due to my laughter. He had better sort this out before he gets a serious girlfriend, hip and thrusting rhythm being as important as it is.

Narrator: Step one. Get you outfitted.

Taylor: OK. What do I need to do?

Narrator: On the shelf above the table you will find a box of latex gloves. Put a pair on and keep them on until you leave. Sleep with them on. Then go close the kitchen window you forced open.
He returns after a minute smiling.

Taylor: I was able to re-lock it but I couldn’t get those contact magnet things back in place.

Narrator: Now listen carefully. There is a fake light plug just inside kitchen, up above the counter, near the microwave. Take a flat head screw driver from the tool board over on the other wall. Inside of the box you will find $500 in $20 bills. Put them in your pocket.

Taylor: $500? Cool! Yes sir. And you ain’t wanting nuthin in return?

Narrator: No. Then take a shower and get cleaned up. Keep the gloves on at all times. Wash your hair. Don’t forget to put the fake electrical box back exactly as you found it. If you try to run, you Bar-B-Que, don’t forget that.

Taylor: Yeah, I won’t forget. You can be sure of that shit.

(Narrator’s Note - As a commercial ganja grower the best outcome for me was becoming obvious. I had always known that this day might come, the day when my life would be much better off if someone else lost theirs. That does not mean I was prepared for it, you simply can’t be.)

About 30 minutes later. Taylor was back in front of the cameras.

Taylor: All clean now, check.

I was stunned. I could not believe it. I frantically opened the screen capture of Taylor’s driver’s license and zoomed in. Oh fuck, there it was, clearly and in plain sight right in front of me and I fucking missed it.

Gender: F

 

[komrade komura]

Forced Entry Part 2

Forced Entry Part 2

I was stunned. Shocked. Took me a few seconds to recover.


Taylor: Are you still there?


Her head was still wrapped in a towel and while nearly flat chested, wearing just a t-shirt, now I noticed breasts.


Narrator: How successful have you been passing as a boy on the streets?


Taylor: Very. They all think I am a 15 year old boy named Daniel. Took the name from the actor who played the wizard kid in the Harry Potter movies. Got to see the first one. It was marvelous. Best film I ever seen.


Narrator: You are safer as a boy?


Taylor: Fuck yeah. If they knew I was a girl, I would have already been raped by the pervs who troll down there.


Narrator: Then good thing you can pass for one.


Taylor: There was a black girl I knew last month, Emily. She told everyone she was 18 because she was tall, but she was really only like 14. She went with one of THEM and nobody has seen her since.


Narrator: Did you report her to the police as missing?


Taylor: Wow, you sure don’t live in my world. No, we don’t report anything to the cops. I just hope she don’t end up in the morgue or the end of a dog chain in some perv’s basement.


Narrator: I understand. The police are not trustworthy these days.


Taylor: Much safer as a boy. I have always been good at acting. Pretending to be a boy is easy cuz they are just so stupid most of the time.


Narrator: Yes, regrettably most men don’t mature until they are at least forty years old, if then.


Taylor: Yeah well that is sad and puts the burden for maturity on the woman. Don’t seem fair.


Narrator: Fare is what you pay when you get on the bus.


Narrator: OK. Let’s discuss a plan of action. Tonight you will sleep here. Do not go outside. The television and stereo work and there is a decent selection of channels on cable. There is some food in the refrigerator. Not much, but enough for you to fix a good spaghetti dinner.


Taylor: Thanks, I haven’t eaten today.


She walked over to the closest grow table.


Taylor: Is this like hydroponics?


Narrator: Yes it is.


Taylor: So like, there is no dirt?


Narrator: Correct.


Taylor: Why do you grow this way?


Narrator: It is faster, produces more and saves me from hauling in a lot of dirt. Imagine how much dirt just this one room uses. It is just over 1000 liters. That is a lot of dirt to haul into here every few months and have to dispose of the same amount. Imagine 20 large bags of soil at Home Depot every two months.


Taylor: Cool. So how does this work?


Narrator: The plants receive a constant flow of nutrient enriched water over the root system.


Taylor: And the netting that it grows through is to support it because the roots don’t have the dirt to hold onto?


Narrator: Yes. You catch on quickly.


Taylor: When it is interesting. And this is the most interesting shit I have EVER seen.


She had entirely dropped the bad boy punk routine. Upon discovery, it just didn’t make sense to keep it up. She was like a kid, wide-eyed with wonder in the laboratory of a mad scientist.


Narrator: Remember, you are not to go out tonight, understood?


Taylor: Yes grandpa. (She laughed.)


Taylor: Are you going to be there all night watching me?


Narrator: Yes


Taylor: That is kinda creepy.


Narrator: Yes, it is.


Taylor: You didn’t watch me in the shower did you?


Narrator: No, there aren’t any cameras in the bathroom and I wouldn’t have watched you even if there were.


Taylor: Why? You gay? Like it’s okay if you are. You have been nicer to me than ANYONE in the last couple of years, so I like you, even if you are gay. Just saying.


Narrator: My sexual orientation is not your concern, but no, I am not. Underage naked girls are not my thing, regardless of how attractive. Besides, my children are older than you.


Taylor: Like you’re somebody’s dad? Cool! And do you do DAD kinda things with them?


Narrator: There are no DAD kinda things. And no, I was not a great dad. I was a selfish fuck that spent more effort on my career and traveling around the world than on my family.


Taylor: Sorry to hear that. Family is the most important thing, especially when apart.


Taylor: Where is the best place you have ever been?


Narrator: Paris, the Eiffel Tower with my wife at 10PM when all the lights start flickering and we kiss. Thousands of couples show up every night and do the same thing. At that moment, in that place is something very special.


Taylor: Hmmm ... a romantic, I see. Where is the worst place you have ever been?


Narrator: Las Vegas, Nevada.


Taylor: What? Why Las Vegas? I heard it is pretty out there. All those casinos, flashing lights.


Narrator: Las Vegas is like huge fake breasts. Nothing is real, just plastic. It is all provided with a clean veneer over the grime of its purpose, to swindle. And I don’t gamble (present circumstances excluded).


Taylor: So why aren’t you out there still traveling the globe, sending post cards with funny looking stamps back to the folks at home?


Narrator: Well ... I just didn’t like it anymore. The level of bullshit required to advance my career any further came at too high a price. Was not willing to give up that last little part of my soul that they didn’t already own. Eventually the years of submission show on your face.


Taylor: You don’t seem to be someone who likes having a boss.


Narrator: Besides, there is a new and improved, completely soulless generation coming up who are ready and willing to sell it all to advance, no questions asked. Org chart worshiping greedbots.


Taylor: Greedbots ... cool.


Narrator: I wish them well and pity them.


Taylor: Why?


Narrator: Underneath all the pretty wrapping of corporate paper promises, the box is empty.


Taylor: I understand completely. That’s why I won’t suck dick for money. It has to really mean something when I do it.


Taylor: Greedbots, I like that. Like a robot that can only say more, more, must have more. She raised her arms and walked in a Frankenstein manner and laughed.


It occurred to me that this was just a teenage girl, with all the teenage girl characteristics but also with a level of smarts not found in most teenage girls and most adult men. Considering that her life expectancy might be about 12 hours, it was important for me to remain detached from her as a person. I tried to forget the intelligence and occasional bursts of wisdom from the near dead.


Taylor: So I noticed that this stuff smells different from the weed stuff I smoked. Smells nicer. What are you growing here?


She sat down at the table and lit up the remaining half of the joint, took a long drag and exhaled a huge cloud.


Narrator: On the side closest to you, the short plants are Cinderella 99, the taller plants are Critical Mass.


Taylor: Nice name Cinderella 99, can I smoke some of that?


Narrator: I would prefer you didn’t.


Taylor: Why?


Narrator: It will make you very, very high and paranoid. It is great stuff to grow and sell. Flowers in less than 8 weeks and is too strong for many, but for personal consumption I don’t like it. In the other rooms are Grape Ape and Sweet Tooth #4.


Taylor: Do they all have funny names like Grape Ape or Cinderella 99?


Narrator: Usually they do. Someone even named a strain Alaskan Thunderfuck. Along the far wall are a few special plants I am growing out. They don’t have any fancy name. They are just known as ‘zero.’


Taylor: Zero?


Narrator: Got it from a friend who was growing several hundred seeds and found one mutant that grew huge, flowered fast, produces a huge crop and has an unusual and very strong high.


Taylor: And I guess that makes it good?


Narrator: Yes. It is completely different from the rest in almost every aspect. He knows I like Satori as my daytime smoke so he gave me a cutting. It is supposed to be Satori on steroids.


Taylor: Damn I need some chocolate. My period is about to start. I always crave chocolate right before it starts.


Narrator: Sorry, there isn’t any.


Taylor: Just as well. I don’t have any tampons anyway. Forgot to ‘borrow’ some from the stop and shop over on Reagan Avenue.


Narrator: Perhaps I can pick some up on my way over.


(Narrator’s Note: in a house full of women you just get over it and buy tampons for them. No real need for embarrassment at the check-out as they obviously aren’t for us … except for any men that think sticking cotton on a rip cord up their ass is a good idea. Highly improbable. Regrettably though, in a world of 7 billion people, quite a few of whom seem to be bat-shit crazy (and unfortunately, a smaller subset of those in charge) you just know there must be a few men out there who cherish thoughts of extra absorbency and a new enhanced gentle glide applicator). Your Narrator IS NOT ONE OF THEM! (just high)


Taylor: You’re COMING TO SEE ME? REALLY?!!


Narrator: Yes.


She jumped up from the chair and danced around singing ‘my daddy’s coming home’ over and over, a senseless lyric to a nonsensical, improvised tune without a discernible melody. Yet another reminder that I was dealing with a child.


Narrator: I will be there in the morning.


She continued her dancing and singing, holding out one of the longest lateral buds in a fake tango embrace, her face pressed against the crown bud as if to dance away with it.


Taylor: So what else are you going to bring me daddy?


Narrator: I would prefer if you called me something other than daddy; and yes, I will bring you chocolate too.


Taylor: Yahoo! chocolate and tampons ... my life is complete. (Fake southern belle accent) I’m simply overcome with happiness. It is hot in here?


She held her hand up to her forehead and pretended to faint, a total drama queen move, as she lay on the floor a sad look came over her face.


Taylor: So what should I call you?


Narrator: How about David?


Taylor: And when I make you hold your driver’s license up to the spy camera will I find the name David?


Narrator: No


Taylor: Then until that time (getting off the floor) ... I will just call you ... DADDY! And for the next minute she returned to the dancing and singing of ‘My daddy’s coming home’’ (spastic remix).


What was the point of trying to stop her? It might be the last happy experience in her short life and I decided that it was not for me to ruin it for her. I put my control-freak, precise nature back in the box, save it for some other time.


She danced over to the boom box sitting on one of the tables, pressed the power button then the CD play button. It came on very loud, startlingly loud.


Taylor: What the fuck is this? (She froze in one of her spastic moves).


Narrator: Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.


Taylor: (Turning it down to a more conversational level) I know who he is! Didn’t he like go deaf or something?


Narrator: Yes, the symphony you are listening to is, in my opinion, the greatest musical achievement in human history ... and he never heard it, except in his head because he was deaf when he wrote it.


Taylor: Wow! But I guess people compensate for their handicap the best way they know how. Sometimes that will produce greatness. My grandpa used to tell me about a country singer with the stutter. But when he sang it was the smoothest voice you ever heard.


Narrator: Yes, that’s what happened, greatness out of adversity.


Time to text the wife:


-Narrator: Honey, going to Mississippi tonight. Jackson, Marriott can you get me a room?
-Wife: Yes, of course. Nothing bad I hope.
-Narrator: Just gotta help her get back on her feet.
-Wife: You didn’t say it was a WOMAN.
-Narrator: Didn’t know at the time.
-Wife: How OLD is this woman?
-Narrator: 17
-Wife: Bless her heart, so young to be homeless. You know that it is a special age for her (Narrator’s note: aren’t they all!) She’’s a woman but still a child. Treat her kindly.
-Narrator: OK
-Wife: Don’t be so cold towards her like you can be at times. But you are great with kids, you will know what to do.
-Narrator: Will do (unsent: something)
-Wife: Why don’t you bring her back home? The girls have some clothes she can wear.
-Narrator: Perhaps you could take her shopping!
-Wife: Excellent idea!


(Narrators Note: Fuck I hate texting! It fails at sarcasm every fucking time!)


Big mistake too. My wife is one of those warm-hearted souls who wants to adopt every stray. I once told her that I didn’t want any more pets. She agreed, then turned the outside window flower box over the sink into a drive thru window for all the cats in the neighborhood. She kept full bowls of food and water for them at all times. She would allow them into the house through the window, as if they only came through the window allowed her to get off on a legal technicality.


I would have preferred her middle finger and a ‘fuck you’ or at least an ‘I disagree.’ What I got was bunch of friendly cats all over the house at all hours and a happy wife. Mind you, they were affectionate and well behaved animals; didn’t tear up anything.
Subsequently, I ceased all proclamations and went back to our normal marriage operating model of anarchro-communism with its collective approach to important decisions. Not really good at being a Stalin, more of a Trotsky type anyway. Yeah, where was I? Right, shopping.


-Narrator: Was not serious!
-Wife: But it is a GR8 idea.

(pet store alert, the I-want-a-puppy pleading is about to commence)

-Narrator: Not a good idea.
-Wife: Why not?
-Narrator:……………………(panic)……………………..(panic, shit!)…………….
-Wife: We need to do more stuff for others that will have a lasting impact. It’s our purpose in life.
-Wife: Hotel Confirmation number: MS 52095 9MM

 

[komrade komura]

Forced Entry Part 3

Forced Entry Part 3

I drove towards Jackson, Mississippi. The GPS provided the location of all Lowes and Home Depot stores along the way. Due to the obvious collective purpose, all the items I bought can NEVER be purchased at the same time, at the same store, anywhere this side of Mexico.


Taylor had settled into the kitchen and was fixing her dinner. We spoke occasionally, but mostly she concentrated on the higher priority for the homeless.


Homeless children? How could this happen? Global Warming? War everlasting? Gitmo? Banksters? Has the world gone completely fucking insane? I just hope that space aliens land and save us from ourselves. Sure hope they are fucking vegetarians.


I worked through the process in my head. The 9mm was inside of the house. The opportunity to retrieve it would present itself and take less than five seconds from almost anywhere in the living room. I will start close to shorten the time. That short a period can fit into her walking away with her back to me. Even if she sees me and reacts within the last two seconds, then it's too late; she is not Bruce fucking Lee.


Then would start the biggest test of my lifetime. Although agnostic, tonight I prayed there was no fucking god. Was about to break the big one … smash that commandment like a beer bottle thrown against a wall from a moving car. Never killed anyone before. Last person to ever bring a gun too close to me got beaten … and they weren't even threatening, just high and acting stupid. I don't want to be a numerator in some national average. Denominators are safer.


Fuck! Be real. I don't even hunt. Last time I killed Bambi (over 20 years ago), I was grossed out. I think the joint of Colombian I smoked on the way out might have accentuated it some … but it only heightens what is already there. I puked while skinning my kill and couldn't finish the job.


Fuck! I don't even watch gory movies. Who am I kidding? I am not some middle-aged, ganja gangsta, I am just middle aged! Fuck, fuck, fuck! What was I going to lose if I just turned around and went home?


$20,000 to set up the house + $60,000 almost finished herb is the cost of just walking away forever. Nothing is traceable to me. Everything leads to a person of fiction.


But the sweet spot to the houses is the cash flow for a short period. Six months of harvest will net 400K per house after expenses, minimum. Yeah, once in operation that is 3.2 mill net per year. I was on month 15 of a 30 month program. This was my final house in Jackson. I already had three operating in new towns, closer to home.


A house takes four months to setup before the harvests begin. It used to take three months, but I added another month for setting my cover better. There every night for a week or two, waving at neighbors, using every electrical appliance that I can. Air conditioning on constantly. Sleeping with a blanket in the summer. Then gradually trail off and bring up the lights. No I don’t steal electricity; I manage the fuck out of it. Every electrical outlet has a switch on it like in Europe. No background usage, none; can’t afford it.


Then a promotion at work that requires lots of travel, sounds reasonable. Just another middle-aged, middle manager. Thrown out by the wife after 20 something years of marriage … (fake not remembering the exact number to establish cause).


There is sometimes a 'friendly' neighbor that shouldn't be. Usually farting in front of them works, explaining that I suffer from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. C'mon this is a very short term relationship so pride should not enter into it. Oops, excuse me, there goes another one (stinky little devil that one) I'm so sorry. Amazing how fast a nosy neighbor disappears after you fart and probably shit your pants in front of them. ‘Poor dear’ looks from all the neighbors by the end of the week. Hot, single moms looking for replacement fathers disappear quickly. At the end of the term, a tearful reconciliation with my wife and then I am gone. Damn, almost forgot about the 10K in cash hidden in the fireplace bricks, insurance money … gotta add that to the total.


10K is my best guess at the cash price of a pig shutting the fuck up and letting me walk away empty handed and without any new holes. A lone cop stumbling onto my grow house, wrong address for a 2-11 in progress at Starbucks and finding me at home. Cash in pocket, the next day he can do a re-enactment, bust a house full of weed with nobody at home. Prisons are full of numerators.
She danced to the nearest camera.


Taylor: Why are some of the lights red and blue and some are just really bright and yellow?


Narrator: The colored ones are LED lights. They use much less electricity but might not be as good as the yellow ones.


Taylor: If they are not as good then why do you use them?


Narrator: Because a house that uses several thousand dollars of electricity every month will attract attention. It already looks like a family of 7 or 8 lives here.


Taylor: Why don't you have them moving on those tracks like the yellow lights?


Narrator: Because if the yellow ones are that much better, then I want to make sure that as many square inches as possible get exposed to their light and optimize the exposure. The movers help that.


Taylor: How?


Narrator: Think about how your shadow moves and the feeling of the sun on your face during the day if you stay in the same place. That movement of the sun means that more of a bud site gets direct light at a high intensity. And since it is moving I can keep the lights much closer without risk of burning the top buds. A closer light is a more intense light and cannabis is a light loving plant.


Taylor: Cool. Bet you got good grades in school.


Narrator: Yes. That and I was too busy to set up another light moving system for the LEDs.


Taylor: Where did you learn to do this?


Narrator: Growing, from my mother's rose gardens. I was her gardener.


Taylor: Child labor?


Narrator: Not as much fun as kicking a can at first. Eventually it becomes interesting and then it becomes fun and then I got good at it.


Taylor: But there is more than just tending plants here.


Narrator: Setting up houses, I learned that from the Project Management Institute while I was working as a software project manager. It's just an organized way of planning and doing things and I have used it for years. It’s always the details. So is this.


Taylor: Like what kind of details?


Narrator: For example, I had to learn some electrical wiring skills because many houses have too many appliances on a single circuit drawing too many amps. Then I come along and overload it with all the lights. Can't keep the lights on, can't grow.


Taylor: What is that room with all the long boards at different heights?


Narrator: I was thinking of adding another flowering room but wanted to try a stadium grow because I may be able to produce significantly more that way.


Taylor: Stadium Grow? What’s that?


Narrator: Why just cover the floor with plants if you can cover the floor and walls too. That is the basic idea behind it.


Taylor: You were good at geometry weren't you?


Narrator: I find it interesting. But I changed my mind and am doing that somewhere else now instead and it is working well. I am shutting this house down and just going to run the pipeline dry now.


Taylor: So what happens tomorrow? What's the plan, mister project man? You gotta have a plan.


Narrator: How would you like to go somewhere else? Escape.


Taylor: Sounds nice to me, as long as you are not a Perv.


Narrator: All humans are pervs, it’s just the particular type of depravity and the level of achievement that differs. However, you are not on my menu.


Taylor: Good. But how do I know I can trust you?


Narrator: You can't know for sure.


Taylor: That’s my point. How do I know you ain’t gonna do something bad to me?


Narrator: I have put money in your pocket, given you food and a place to stay. So far my record is pretty good, isn’t it?


Taylor: So far. So where are we going?


Narrator: Not we, just you. I was thinking that you would really like California.


Taylor: Cool … sunshine and surf.


Narrator: A good friend lives out there. We both do the same kind of work.


Taylor: He grows weed too?


Narrator: Yes. My thoughts were that maybe you could go out there and he could put you to work.


Taylor: Why can't I work here, with you?


Narrator: Because I work alone.


Taylor: You are a loner, aren’t you?


Narrator: There are only two people who know what I do. Only one of them knows where I am and who I am today … and she can't be forced to testify against me in court. I prefer to keep it that way.


Taylor: What about your BFF, does he know?


Narrator: No, he thinks I only grow enough for personal smoke, a couple of plants every few months.


Taylor: That's not fair that you know about him but he doesn't know about you.


Narrator: I don't think he would mind too much. When we meet up, it guarantees he will always have better stories.


Taylor: Do you have trust issues?


Narrator: Yes.


The conversation continued on for a few more minutes about the business and she finished her meal and cleaned up. She walked back in front of the camera.


Taylor: You still there?


Narrator: Yep, still here.


Taylor: So I was wondering … is this what you wanted to do with your life, be a ganja grower?


Narrator: No. It was just putting skills I possess to use so we can escape the plantation.


Taylor: Plantation? Thought that was a slave farm thing.


Narrator: It was. These days they have reinvented it and it is called the corporation.


Taylor: But I thought corporate jobs were supposed to be the best kind.


Narrator: No. That’s why I do this, to escape from the corporate fields. What is your goal in life?


Taylor: I don’t really have one.


Narrator: If you could be anything at all, besides a rock star or a movie star, what would it be?


Taylor: I would like to work at NASA.


Narrator: An astronaut?


Taylor: No, although going into space would be really cool. I want to be one of those really smart people who figure out how to make a spacecraft land safely on a planet millions of miles away…and come back safely too.


Narrator: Well that will take many years in school. You will need a PhD to do that sort of work.


Taylor: Yeah, well as soon as I get past this bad patch I will go back to school.


Narrator: Good.


Taylor: And I am good at math.


Narrator: Even better.


Taylor: Yeah. Did you know that in order to escape the gravitational pull of the Earth, an object must travel at a speed of 11.3 kilometres per second?


Narrator: No, I didn’t know that.


Taylor: I want to be one of the people who work on that sort of stuff. And the trajectory required to put a spacecraft into orbit around another planet before landing? That sort of stuff just blows my mind so I definitely want to work on that kind of stuff.


Narrator: Great. I hope one day there will be a Taylor Oswald Jet Propulsion Laboratory.


Taylor: Me too. But I don’t want to do it to be famous. Most famous people are dicks from what I can tell. Soon as they become famous they think they are better than the rest of us and start treating other people like shit.


Narrator: Yeah, seems like that is the case too often.


Taylor: Agreed. I want to be famous for what I do, not how big of a jerk I am.


Narrator: Well I hope you are ready for a lot of learning … and university costs.


Taylor: Yeah well, that is why meeting you might just be the best thing that has ever happened to me.


Narrator: Why is that?


Taylor: Well you are going to send me to ganja growing school. And with those skills I can make enough money to pay for the best education.


Narrator: True, it can be lucrative … if you don’t get caught.


Taylor: I won’t. I am learning from the best.


Narrator: Please don’t use cheap flattery on me; it reduces my level of trust in you.


Taylor: Oh yeah, I forgot who I was talking to, Mr. Trust No One.


Narrator: Exactly.


Eventually Taylor decided that she would watch some television. After about 30 minutes I recognized the mouth fluttering sounds of a slight female snore. Out like a light. Good outcome.


I had decided that there was simply no way I could kill her and that $90,000 wasn't the price of my soul. Obviously there would have to be some sort of resolution. California was the best option. But then there was the wife. This girl was the perfect age for her, needing that motherly help through the final awkward years. Fucking Swans!


Oh well, perhaps she could stay a few days until I get everything set for her to relocate.

Fuck!

 

[komrade komura]

Forced Entry Part 4

Forced Entry Part 4

I was sleeping in my room at the Jackson Marriott, when at 1:17 they kicked in the back door. The sound woke me and ten seconds later I started recording everything, all cameras, all rooms. The bank of terabyte drives back in Florida would get a work out tonight.



At first I thought it was the cops … then I thought it was rippers … then I realized that it was cops in ski masks … two of them. One tall and fat, one about 5'10" and normal shape, but it is hard to tell a normal shape with the big black vests on.


A startled Taylor rose from the sofa.


Short Cop: Freeze, Police! Move and I will blow your fucking brains out!


Fat Cop walked through the house quickly surveying the rooms, leaving Short Cop to deal with the unexpected occupant.


Fat Cop: Hey I thought you said it would all be harvested already, bagged up and ready to go?


Short Cop: It should be, the cycle is right for him to have chopped it already. It should be hanging up drying at the very least.


Fat Cop: Well all I fucking see are rooms full of TREES, READY to be chopped and NOTHING bagged and tagged.


Short Cop: Fuck!


Taylor: When did cops start wearing ski masks?


Short Cop: Shut the fuck up bitch and get down on the floor.


It was chaotic and tense. Ripper cops finding their prize unharvested presented an edgy circumstance. Taylor was now on her knees with her hands behind her head. I watched all of this on my phone, flipping from camera to camera to get the best view of what was happening.


Fat Cop: So what are we gonna fuckin’ do now Tom?


Short Cop: You dumb fuck.


Taylor: Yeah, he's not very smart, is he Don.


Fat Cop: Hey he has plenty of those thick contractor bags in here. Gag and cuff the skank and come in here … we can still take it, it will just take some time.


Short Cop walked over to Taylor and puts his cuff on her.


Short Cop: Hey I know you. You are that girl that got away when I tried to bust you for hooking a month or so ago. Yeah, I remember you. You were sucking off that fat old man between the dumpsters behind Stein Mart.


Taylor: Yeah and I lost my 50 when you showed up, asshole.


Short Cop: Well if you are good, I will let you gimme 50 worth later (and he grabs his crotch).


Taylor: No thanks, pig. My daddy's coming and he will fix you. He will shoot you dead. Just you wait.


Short Cop hit her. Actually he knocked the fuck out of her, really knocked her. Hard right cross to her left cheek … a big impact punch, his body leaning into the punch fully. She went down hard onto the floor, falling with the unmistakable limpness that indicated she was unconscious before she hit the floor. I heard a cracking sound when he landed the blow but could not distinguish if it was the sound of broken teeth or a broken jaw or a broken neck. I dressed quickly in dark clothes.



Fuck … the 9MM is inside the house and I won't get five seconds with these two.


Fat Cop: Quit playing with the skank and come help me. You are the one who fucked this whole thing up, so you’re gonna put in half the effort. Now ain't the time for your kink shit.


Short Cop took off his ski mask and after a few seconds slow Fat Cop had his moment and did the same.


Within 15 minutes I had parked around the corner and began to work my way towards the house moving from hedge to hedge across the street. The car was not a police vehicle but a personal one, a mini-van.


Flipping from camera to camera I watched for 52 minutes as two of Jackson, Mississippi's finest harvested the crop by chopping off the terminal buds and any large lateral buds, of which there were a few. They shoved them into the big thick walled plastic bags I used for stalk and root disposal. No precision, just big bud whacking as if filling a shopping cart in a timed contest. Get the best and fuck the rest. They left a couple of pounds on the stems. It was a sad sight, those once majestic plants reduced to a bald, near dead stalks, like a cancer victim in the final month.


Their conversation consisted of Fat Cop whining to Short Cop about everything from his slow harvesting speed to his improper police methods. But mostly he complained about having to harvest a crop that was supposed to be ready to go already, a ten minute operation tops. Fat Cop kept bitching about the girl complicating a simple rip and go operation. Short Cop basically took whatever was said to him without argument or comment. Fat cop sounded like a nagging wife.


For the entire time Taylor remained an unconscious mess in the floor, blood coming from her nose and mouth. Her body lay in a twisted unnatural pile on the floor.


ShortCop: Bring the van into the garage. I will finish up in here while you load the van.


Fat Cop: Fuck you, you move the van and haul the fucking bags. I will finish up in here. Remember who fucked this thing up.


My security has always been tight. How the fuck did they know about this? The one thing I knew was that they missed the date, so they must have calculated it and made a calendar mistake. Oh fuck! I had kept the electricity bill nice and stable … high, but not too high. Nothing was traceable back to me … Nothing! Fuck me, how did they find out?


As the van backed into the garage I noticed the Mississippi plates on the van, Rankin County … outlying area around Jackson. Cheaper real estate prices generally, except for those rich folks that attempted to recreate antebellum mansions of the past just outside the city. Yeah the arrogant fuckers with the black faced ceramic lawn jockeys, as if their racism just couldn't contain itself. You know them. They are the ones who use terms like ‘heritage’ and ‘history’’ with a smile. Assholes. I captured the image of the license plate. I watched from the cameras as they loaded the van.

Fat Cop collapsed the third row seat and filled the cargo space with bags of buds.


Fat Cop: We gotta get this vehicle back to the impound before your buddy goes off shift or we are fucked.


Short Cop: Don't worry, twenty minutes to the deep freeze, then 15 to the impound … we still have a couple of hours.


Fat Cop: What did ya tell him this time?


Short Cop: He still thinks I am fucking some hot, married bitch. I borrow this and we go fuck in it.


Fat Cop: If it ain’t broke …


Short Cop: That's why I always ask for some sort of van and squirt a little perfume in it.


Fat Cop: Well done bro.


Short Cop: I tell him a few juicy details every now and then, he likes to hear about anything kinky, involving pain. So I tell him I pull her hair and slap her while I fuck her in the ass – that sort of shit.


Fat Cop: Really? No shit.


Short Cop: I can see the boner in his eyes whenever I talk about her crying.


Fat Cop: Damn, never figured Barone for a perv.


Short Cop: Don't they do screening to keep sick fucks like us off the force? Guess not. Hahaha.


Fat Cop: Damn straight.


Short Cop: I picked this van off the street this morning. Got a friend in Parking to drop the ticket and clamp it. After the owner had finished their mini-drama melt down and stormed off, all pissed off, he towed it for me.


Fat Cop: How did you get him to help?


Short Cop: Told him I was helping out a relative with a divorce.


Fat Cop: Cool.


Short Cop: Do you know this one has a Bose sound system and even an iPod connector? It also will play movies in the back seats. Me and my fuck bunny can watch porno together. Hahaha.


Fat Cop: Sure glad Barone likes you.


Short Cop: C'mon it’s just one cop thinking he is helping out another. That's what we do, ain’t it. And it’s about pussy. He'd have to be a queer to say NO.


Fat Cop pushed the last bag into the cargo space and lowered the rear door. Short Cop walked back into the house with Fat Cop in tow, a few steps behind.


Still slumped on the floor, Taylor was now, by my assessment, in need of serious medical treatment. A pool of blood had formed around her head.


Fat Cop: Fuck me, you still got the punch bro ... ain't seen it in a while ... but you still got it though, as good as ever. You fucked up the skank big time. Well done!


Short Cop: I still got it! Protect and Serve muddafuckers!


He held up his hand for the slap. He got it.


Fat Cop: Looks like she is barely breathing.


Short Cop: Guess she won't be questioning my authority no more.

We’ll leave her for Mr. Connolly to deal with.


PP (Papers Please) had given me up! Gave that nerdy fucker 40K for two complete sets of documents for me and two for my wife. Canadian Passports, drivers’ licenses, National Health Insurance cards, residence permits for a European country. May he choke to death on prison cock!


Short Cop grabbed Taylor by her hair, now a blood coated mess and raised her head.


Short Cop: Fuck, there goes the blow job. I had my heart set on drowning her sorrows or at least her vocal chords...hahaha.


He turned loose of her hair and her head thumped hard onto the floor.


Short Cop: Go wait out in the van for a few minutes.


Fat Cop: C'mon you aren't going to start your sick shit now are you?


Short Cop: Go wait in the van!


Fat Cop: No! We got a van full of stolen weed, a badly injured skank and you want to stop to get off? Are you fucking kidding me?


Short Cop: I said, go wait in the van!


Fat Cop: Remember last time? Homicide is talking about a fucking serial killer in the area and it's just your dick gone out of control!


Short Cop exploded in anger: Go wait out in the fucking van ... do it now! Remember who made you a fucking multi-millionaire...and you remember that shit right now! Who got you all those safety deposit boxes full of hundreds? You got over five because of me. And who saved your ass when you killed that old nigger man down in the Damp, year before last? What about the jeweller when you panicked and shot him in the head when he argued? Now go wait in the fucking van!


Short Cop placed his hand on his service revolver...the final appeal to reason from a madman.


Fat Cop dropped his male role instantly as if his mother had walked in on him with his dick in his hand. He shuffled off to the garage like a child, head down, admonished.


From across the street I watched from my phone.


The 20 minutes that followed were the worst of my life. Some events just can't be told well, as language is limited and not purposely designed for the horrible. But rage flowed through me as strong as the sickness powering the animal in that house. With each thrust I hated him more. With every crude and filthy phrase he spoke I only wanted to paint red with his blood. Every fiber of me longed to rush in there and beat this fucker to death or die trying.


Brain Neon Sign Flashing: You move, YOU DIE! I felt the tears of rage in my eyes and my fingernails drew blood buried in my hardened fists.


Fucking Coward! You move, YOU DIE!


Fucking Coward! You move, YOU DIE!


He grunted loud when he made his final thrust into her. After, Animal Cop wiped the sweat from his forehead and yelled out to

Fat Cop: Start the engine...you drive.


Fat Cop ... now SubmissiveFat Cop: OK...just hurry up.


AnimalCop pulled up and fastened his trousers. He walked over to the sofa and threw two of the cushions onto Taylor's limp, naked, semen filled body.


Animal Cop: Well darlin’ ... (he clears his throat and begins to sing):


I'm so glad we had this time together
Just to have a laugh or sing a song
Seems we just get started and before you know it
Comes the time we have to say, 'So long.


He chuckled at the end of each line and with each chuckle I longed for his death, the acid in my heart pumping now even more toxic, 100% pure. Before, I had hesitated and could not go through with it, the killing of a child. I had been proven human. Now I had hatred ... a desire for his blood rushed through me like a fucking freight train. I wanted to cut his fucking animal heart out, throw it on the ground and stomp it into fucking red jelly. Fuck redemption ... I'll gladly go to hell if I can take him with me.


I had never seen an animal in human form before or become one before. In wartime, there are orders and there is a cause, wrong almost every time ... but still there is a belief behind it, fucked up as it always is. This had no beliefs at all. It was primal. The helpless were his supermarket.


Maybe it was my rage, maybe it was the cushions that caused it ... but I never heard the gunshots. I saw it both on the screen and the flash from inside the house. 5 seconds later, the garage door opened and in a few more, the van pulled out into the drive. Animal Cop pressed the door controller and ran under it as it lowered.


He jumped into the van. He held up his hand for a five slap. Submissive Fat Cop did not respond.

 

[komrade komura]

Forced Entry Part 5

Forced Entry Part 5

Taylor Oswald was buried mid-morning out in the countryside near the Barnett Reservoir. Wish it hadn't been named for a racist bastard like Barnett, the Mississippi version of George Wallace. Wish I had thought of something nice to say about her when I covered her body with the freshly dug earth, as the southern sweat soaked my shirt. But I didn't. Wish none of it had ever happened, but it did.


I drove back to the house. On the way back, I kept thinking that the house contained too many blood stains and other evidence that could cause problems. I pulled into the garage. Latex gloves protocol, followed by a bleach bath for everything. The cameras and laptop were removed and put into the trunk of the car. Everything else was left behind. Before leaving I shut off the air conditioning unit and plugged in a faulty 1000 watt magnetic light ballast. It had been shooting sparks and smoking last time I plugged it in. I had saved it to take apart and understand them better. Around it I shoved some gasoline soaked newspaper. As soon as the first puff of orange sparks and smoke appeared I left. It would take a little while for the right spark to hit.


The following day the fire made the Jackson paper, The Clarion Ledger. Fire officials made the lazy assessment I had hope for...bad ballast burns down major grow operation.


The Clarion Ledger is the largest paper in the state and the most widely read. It has a long heritage, a large part of which was as a racist, turd vendor. But now at least they didn't scream it so much and it comes in code words. They deny their own history at every opportunity, like an elderly German. No matter how many awards you now give to the dark-skinned citizens of your state that will not make up for your history. You own it. But Mississippi was never gonna give the 40 acres and a mule ... they don't cotton to admitting they are wrong.


Three weeks later, the Clarion Ledger broke the largest story in the state that year, Jackson’s Killer Cops. As agreed, they did not permit anyone other than the chief news editor and one sub to view or know of the existence of the video file until publication. It was transferred via a secured file site accessed from a Tor session, somewhere in the darknet. The last traceable IP address was in the Ukraine.


By nightfall, all of the state's television stations were carrying the story and with the clips provided by the newspaper, and as agreed, the face shots of the pigs without masks. Submissive Fat Cop was arrested at his home that night around 10 PM. Animal Cop was arrested closer to midnight at a local bar.


It took four months before they finally went to trial. They had been granted bail at $1 million each; the judge thinking that on a cop’s salary and even with family help they would never make it. They both posted within five hours. They hired a team of lawyers from the best criminal firm in Jackson, and the best connected.


Within one week of the start of the trial, the judge disallowed the video as evidence despite opposition from prosecutors and public outcry. No warrant, unknown source, no proof of authenticity, inadmissible. A year later a distant cousin of the judge used the money he received to endow a chair with full professorship at the law school of Ole Miss named after the judge.


'Injustice' was the headline the next day in the Clarion Ledger. The prosecution’s case unraveled. The judge granted them an emergency overnight continuance in order to see if they had anything else to offer as evidence. They didn't. No weapons, no body, only inadmissible video evidence. They walked out of court free men a day later.

Nine months to the day after the death of Taylor Oswald, a high performance Japanese motorcycle was stolen. It was outfitted with stolen plates. The rider dressed in black leather clothes and wore a black visor helmet.


Two hours and 47 minutes later, Submissive Fat Cop was shot twice, once in each knee as he got out of his vehicle to go into Wal-Mart. He didn't know his assailant who demanded his wallet (for good measure) and escaped on the motorcycle.


Twenty-three minutes later Animal Cop was examining the unexplained Japanese motorcycle parked in his drive. He felt the steel of the 9mm as it was shoved hard and painfully between the cheeks of his ass an instant before it fired. He was then shot twice in the back of the head by an unknown assailant.

Every morning at 2:52 AM I wake up in a sweat, struggling to breathe.


So don't look for us. We don't live there anymore ... or there either.... we exist somewhere else as some other people.

 

[Midwest Toker]

Nice Story Telling

 

[damobb]

This should be a mini movie.

 

[komrade komura]

My wife was scared of me for about a day after she read it. I finally had to explain to her how I came up with the worst part: someone in the story needed to die to give it drama, and they needed to die in the worst way I could think of. That's all honey, I swear I am not a psycho...hahaha.

And it is one of my fun things to do....plan out a commercial grow operation. What it will take in equipment, seeds, security, cover story, banking, etc. It is one hell of an entertaining way to waste time. I've got spreadsheets and microsoft project plans for all of it.

Just not sure that one person can handle 4 grow houses on their own. Seems like a hella lotta work. That is when I started researching the technology of the webcams and wireless IP controlled valves.

I've helped a few people set up small one room ops in england...just always wondered what it would take to do it large and do it alone. And being from missississississississippi I could write about there better than england and those fucking polite english cops.

 

[marrdogg]

Kinda wrapped me up in that story for a min. Fuck growing, story telling is your calling, well written! Let's hear more

 

[a.k.a_Herb]

another good one, really enjoyed it.

 

[CosmicGiggle]

Let's hear more

yes, YES!

 

[komrade komura]

I tried to write a sequel but was smoking a lot of really good Haze and the story went to Spain with a nuclear detonation on Gibraltar resulting in some weed that cures all kinds of cancer with only the slightest amount....yikes, this ain't a f'ing science fiction story!!!

Sometimes the wrong kind of weed makes a big difference...hahaha.

Will get back to it soon. In the mean time there are some others I will put up here. There is a 75% true story about 4-way hits of LSD taken in error...a weird adventure in a space ship (of the mind).

 

[BubsNugs]

Howdy! just wanted to thank you for the read it was well done and interesting really had me reading with intent! I have thought for years that the grow biz would be an intresting background for a hell of a good novel/series. Seriously great read thanks for sharing and I echo the calls for more!

Peace

 

[cravin morehead]

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