Whitechapel - Storytime with GovSpy

Whitechapel - Storytime with GovSpy Tue, 21 May 2013 23:25:04 -0700 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/ Lussumo Vanilla 1.1.4 & Feed Publisher Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312651#Comment_312651 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312651#Comment_312651 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 00:24:52 -0700 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312653#Comment_312653 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312653#Comment_312653 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 00:27:25 -0700 government spy
When I was 18, I started dating the girl who would one day become the mother of my child. We met in high school, but didn’t start dating until her senior year, after I had already graduated. So I used to walk over to her place in the middle of the night; her mother left for work at 5am. Since it took me an hour to get to her place, I would leave my apartment around 330am, and walk through the ghetto. Pimps and hookers stopped bothering me after the first month, realizing I didn’t have any money. I used to light the ladies’ cigarettes and this pimp would appear and I would be like, “Number one, I’m on my way to my girlfriend’s house to get laid; number two, if I had any money would I be walking in this neighborhood at this hour?” And the guy was like, “that actually makes sense,” and then they were always very nice to me as I passed by. The weirdest part was when I passed a window to one of those “lingerie model” storefronts, and I stopped too look at the underwear the window manikin was wearing, when she moved and I realized there was a woman in her underwear in the window.

So one time, I stayed over on a school night, and when we got up, she begged me to come to school with her. I really didn’t want to, but she finally convinced me, just for her theatre tech class. I show up, and man was it cold out. When I got to her class, my lips were chapped. Apparently, I must have licked my lips or something, because some kid I didn’t know thought I was flirting or something. He wanted to fight me outside at lunch. When I walked out, this kid came at me swinging. A friend intervened and tried to calm this kid, Levi, down.

It was no good. We end up outside, a big circle of kids, and a lot of shit talking. Pushing started, then, all of a sudden, dude hit me in the head like 7 or 8 times. I threw a wild swing, and caught him square in the nose. My next punch hit him right by his ear. He went down. As he groggily tried to get back up, a friend ran up and said cops were coming. Levi charged at me, but I was busy talking, so I put out my left hand and caught him on the forehead, and because I was much taller and had reach, he was kept at arm’s length and couldn’t hit me. When I finally understood that the cops were coming, I pushed Levi back and he fell on his ass and I ran off to lick my wounds.

I had been wearing braces for the past 6 or 7 or more years. It was supposed to be 4 years, but then my folks couldn’t afford payments or something and I kept missing appointments. When I got kicked out, I never saw the orthodontist again. So this kid hits me in the mouth several times, and my lips got shredded by my braces. He didn’t kick my ass as much as the braces did.

The next day, I got a bottle of whisky. I got myself fairly toasty, and got out a bottle opener, and a pair of needle nose pliers. I pulled the wire on the braces out first; it was already loose. Several of the brackets themselves were already loose, so I just popped them out with the bottle opener using a little leverage. I was spitting the brackets into the sink. Each time I saw blood in my spit, I took a swig of whisky. Finally, there were a few that were really stuck. I used the pliers to loosen them up, and then popped the rest out. One, in the front, I don’t know what the real name is, but it’s like a lower jaw canine on the left side, the bracket broke off, and the metal part that wraps around the tooth wouldn’t budge. Today, at least 13 years later, it’s still there.

That night, my girlfriend told me cops were looking for me, and I should hide out at some punk house. So I stay at this guy Brandon’s house, it’s this beat the fuck up house in the ghetto, and I crash there for the night. While I was hanging out, everybody’s smoking a pipe, and I hit it too; assuming it’s weed. It was, mostly. Later, I found out it was laced with heroin.

First, I was just happy to sit with everyone, but then I got really sleepy. I kind of folded up into a ball on the couch and hid my head. To me, it felt like I was on the inside of an old television; when the channel “flips” and you see it rolling over and over, and each time I closed my eyes, the momentum would increase; but each time I opened them I would come to a crashing halt that was terrifying. I could overhear people around me talking; like I was a lightweight, and that I was passed out. Truthfully, I didn’t sleep all night; I was even awake when someone took my wallet and someone else drew on me; I just couldn’t move. Later I found out the cops were not looking for me and that whole night was a total waste of time.

A couple of weeks later, I’m back crashing at my Dad’s and the cops called the house. I spoke to a detective who just wanted to ask me some questions downtown. Naively, I went down to our appointment, and waited in a little room. When they let me in they asked me if I wanted water or a soda or anything and I said no thanks. Then I waited alone in that little room for over an hour. So finally a detective comes in telling me that this kid’s folks are pressing charges against me for assault because I’m 18 and he was 17. They say that I hit him first, and because I never called the police, it makes me look guilty.

I explained to the cops that I didn’t call the cops because only pussies call the cops after a schoolyard brawl, and it really wasn’t much of a fight to begin with. Well, apparently I had broken the kids nose and fucked him up a bit, just with two punches. I explained, did it make more sense, that I hit him hard enough to break his nose, and then he hit me and we parted ways, or he hits me a bunch and I hit him with a couple really good swings, and the fight is over? Well, I must have made sense because they let me go. The detective says he’ll call me tomorrow; he’s going to talk with the parents, and then he’ll decide if he wants a warrant for my arrest or not.

So I go home and tell my dad what the deal is, then I proceed to get drunk with my friends. Early in the morning, I get woken up by a phone call from the detective. I’m drunk still, but he tells me that I’m not going to jail, the parents don’t believe their kid’s story anymore and they dropped charges. I pass back out. Around noon, my dad kicks open my door, and I’ll never forget this, he says “Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be in jail??” and I freak out because I can’t remember the earlier phone call. So I call the detective back and ask him if there’s a warrant out, and I can hear it in his voice he’s thinking “this kid is a fucking idiot” but all he says is “No, I called you earlier, kid, charges were dropped.” Then, all of a sudden I remember he did call me, and I pass back out, relieved. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312655#Comment_312655 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312655#Comment_312655 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 00:36:25 -0700 D.J. Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312661#Comment_312661 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312661#Comment_312661 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 01:25:04 -0700 government spy
When I was 17, I was a senior in high school and sometimes I caught rides with friends back and forth to school, but because I had a short class schedule, I got out around 1pm. If I skipped my last class, I could be out just after noon. It was about a half-hour walk home, and in decent weather, it was a fairly nice walk. So one time, I’m walking home, I had recently been listening to Bad Religion, and really wanted a “Beware of God” t-shirt. I was passing by some house, and I saw a Beware of Dog sign on their fence. At the time, I was also somewhat of a kleptomaniac, especially about signs. I collected quite a few. Well, I was determined to steal this sign, and alter it later. I gripped the sign with hands on both sides, it was attached to a chain link fence with just some wires. I leaned back and pulled, and all but one of the wires broke, and my hands slipped, and the sign spun really fast in a circle.

I felt a sharp pinch in my left wrist, and held out my arm to look at it. The sign had sliced through my wrist, and I could see (what I was later informed was my tendon) something sticking out of my wrist. Then blood shot out of my wrist. Calmly, I clamped my right hand over my wound, and started walking home; hoping to find help along the way.

I spotted a mailman, and since they carry radios, I figured he could call for help. I walk up to him and say something like, “I’ve hurt myself; can you help me?” and he told me to go home and call 911. I told him thanks, what would I do without him? I kept walking. I walked past three of my friends’ houses, but because I had skipped out of class, it was still so early nobody was home.

Finally, I made it home. I’m not exactly sure how I got inside the house, but I think it involved holding keys in my mouth. I walked to the basement, because our computer was down there, and it had a speaker phone that dialed with a mouse, and I had just enough feeling in my wounded hand I could manipulate the mouse while keeping pressure on the wound with my good hand.

I called 911 and told them I had fallen and cut my wrist open and was losing a lot of blood. It had been at least a half hour at this point, and there was blood all over my arm and shirt; I looked pale, but was still very wide awake. They asked where my parents were, and I told them they were at work. They recommended that I let one of them know what happened after I get off of 911.

So, then I call my mom. Brilliant first sentence. “Mom, don’t worry, I’m okay; the ambulance is already on its way.” Well, she freaked. I lie just a little bit to make it seem like this wasn’t my fault. Then I say, “Okay Mom, I gotta go; I can hear the ambulance.”

So I sit on the front steps, waiting for my ride and bleeding everywhere. A kind neighbor gave me a rag to wrap around my wrist while I waited. When the ambulance arrived, they had trouble getting the tourniquet to work, so they just put a blood pressure cuff on my arm and pumped it until it stopped the bleeding.

I get to the emergency room, and they put me in an x-ray room. That confuses the hell out of me, but they explain it to me and I just really don’t care. The nurse puts a lead vest on my chest and starts to walk behind the x-ray shield. All of a sudden, my mom rushes in the room, grabs the lead vest, and pulls it down over my crotch. She looks at the nurse and says “I would like to have grandchildren one day, thankyouverymuch.” No, I’m not kidding, that actually happened. And it was a pretty nurse. If I wasn’t so low on blood, I would have blushed.

So, long story short (I kid) they try to stitch me up, but have to call in a specialist. They drug me up fairly well, and Dr. Bane comes in. He ends up tearing my wrist wound open even more, so he can get at my tendon. I had severed 90% of it. He stitches the tendon up, and then my wrist. I’m given drugs and sent home.

I begged my mother to let me go to my job, the local grocery store, to tell them I can’t work there for a while. I had actually just put in my two weeks, but I wouldn’t be able to make it in any longer. What my mom didn’t know that I had set it up to meet a guy in the produce section to by a 20 sack. So I run in, tell the boss, and then buy my weed, hide it in my sling under my cast, and have my mom drive me home.

I had also had plans to go to a concert that night to see a band at the local punk rock show. No way was my mom going to let me go. I whined and begged and pleaded, and after I told her my friend John was taking me (John was about 19 at the time, over 6 ½ feet tall, 220lbs+, spitting image of Krist Novaselic, and a great guy to have your back) she finally relented, saying “and don’t forget to bring your painkillers!”

Don’t worry, Mom, I didn’t.

So I get to the show, the Blue Meanies are playing, also filming a video and I got to be in that, as the kid who almost died but came to the show anyway. Later, I got pushed into a mosh pit, and some guy I don’t know with no shirt on and long caveman hair jumped in and pushed me out of the way and then got his ass beat in the pit. He later managed one of my shitty punk bands I sang for.

Funny addendum, a year or so later, I date this girl, girl who made us all wear dresses at her party, and she ended up giving me my first blowjob (in public no less). When my Mom met her, she asked me, what her last name was, and I said “Bane,” and she asked me what her father did for a living, and I said he was a doctor, and we realized that her dad was the guy who operated on my wrist. So thank you, Dr. Bane, for fixing my wrist. Also, I put my penis in your daughter’s mouth. Thank you. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312663#Comment_312663 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312663#Comment_312663 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 03:36:56 -0700 government spy
While I was working for the Feds, I got to take a couple weeks off. My plan was to stay as drunk as possible, and see as many shows as I could. A local Irish Punk band called the Tossers had been playing in the area, and were friends of friends, and I kept missing them. Turns out they were playing a festival back home, so I made plans to go see them.

Well, the night before the Tossers show, I go to the Labor Day weekend festival in my hometown, and am horribly disappointed to find out they’ve eliminated the Rock Stage, pretty much they only decent stage at the event. The Tossers get to play at the Ethnic Stage, because they’re Irish. Well, I throw a fit, at a large group of kids, that the fact that there is nothing left to do in this town anymore is all these kids fault. It was actually kind of funny, and I wasn’t even drunk. Well, it was funny until about thirty kids wanted to kick my ass. And when I say kids, I mean young adults, between ages of 16 and 25. A really good friend of mine managed to shut me up and drag me out.

So the next night, I go to see the Tossers. I guess I should state how I looked. I was 25 at the time, just about 6ft tall, maybe 240lbs. I had a bright green double mohawk (also called a bihawk), I was wearing a black denim vest, painted and covered in band patches and spikes and shit. I have an anti-swastika tattoo (NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF!) on my right upper arm. Not altogether uncommon for back home, especially at a Tossers show, but it will help explain some of the reactions I got later.

The same good friend from the night before warns me not to mosh, or I’ll be arrested. Well, I’m all tough and badass because I live in Chicago so I pay him no heed. I’m standing in the crowd and a mosh pit literally forms around me. I actually decide I don’t feel like moshing, and I start to exit the pit, when somebody pushes me.
That’s it, I say to myself, and I start jumping in and moshing with all the kids like I was a teenager again. Well, it doesn’t take long for some cop to grab me by the back of the neck and yank me out of the pit. He points an admonishing finger and sternly says “No moshing.” I say yes sir, and head away from the pit.

A second (fatter) cop shoulder-checks me as I pass by. I’m like, “What the fuck?” He says, “We told you, No Moshing.” I’m like yeah, that’s why I stopped. The other guy just told me. He says something to the effect of “Yeah, well, I saw you moshing.” I say whatever and keep walking, but over hear the cop say something mildly offensive under his breath.

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“What, are you deaf, retard?” the fat cop says back.

“Oh, I heard you this time, asshole.” Now, I’m getting pissed.

He looks me up and down. “Is this what you like to do? Run around and bash into your friends and shove your friends around?”

“Yeah, whenever you aren’t around; that’s all we do.” I quip back. “What do you do? Stand around, drinking coffee and eating donuts?” (This is funny, because as a law enforcement officer, that is exactly what I like to do) ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312664#Comment_312664 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312664#Comment_312664 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 03:37:14 -0700 government spy
I think it was six cops, all yelling at me to do different things, like freeze or lie down or put my hands above my head or behind my head; all while other cops are hitting me. Well, I gave as good as I got. I know I hit a few with some good shots before they smartened up and just each grabbed a limb and started drag/carrying me away. I was screaming and yelling things too, like “Is that all you got?” and “Fuck you PIGS!” Well, the punks in the crowd see and hear all this and start yelling at the cops to let me go. They’re spitting and throwing things at the cops, and I hear one cop say something like “”Get him out of here before they start a riot,” and as much as I was in pain at that moment, I had to smile.

Then they carried me out past the event fence, and threw me into an alley, where the six of them proceeded to beat me. At some point, the lead singer of the Tossers walks up and gets them to stop. He asks if they can let me go, and I’ll just stay on the stage with the band and they won’t let me into the crowd. They tell him no, and someone escorts him away. I managed to back up a few feet from the other cops. “Wait, wait, wait a minute” I stammered. They all looked at me. I said something like “I don’t want this to go any farther…” I see the first cop who originally stopped me, and who knew I had been compliant. I point at him. “You know this is fucked up. I did what you asked me to do, and that guy,” I point at fat cop. “That guy put his hands on me for no reason, and I defended myself. If you want to take me downtown, I can’t stop you. But I think you don’t want this to go on paper any more than I do. And if you think I’m just some punk kid, who can’t get a lawyer on this, then you’re way wrong.”

The cops talk amongst themselves, and the first cop says something like “Fine, but you’re not going back out there. You’re banned from the festival.”

Awesome. I could care less about the festival. They ask me for my ID, and I pull out my wallet, careful they don’t see my Federal work badge (if they found out I was a Fed, not only would I have been arrested, but, innocent or not, I would have lost my job) and give them my ID. They radio my name and description to the entrance gates so I can’t get back in. They escort me away, and all of a sudden, I’m outside the festival. I walk for a few minutes, and end up on the other side of the fence from the Tossers’ stage.

Some guy comes up to me and asks me if I’m the guy who just got dragged out by the cops. I look at him, I’m all bloody, and I ask him if he had seen anyone else get their asses beat by the cops this evening. He laughs and apologizes; telling me he is the manager of the event and that it was his decision to hire local police to work security. He asks me if he can get me anything. I ask him for a beer. He says he’ll be right back and let the band know I’m alright.

A few minutes later, I hear the band stop playing and the lead singer says “Hey everybody, that kid’s alright!” and the whole crowd cheers. Then the whole band turns around to face me and they all raise a beer to me. The lead singer says, “Normally we dedicate this song to the Northern Irish Police Department, but tonight you can dedicate it to any police department of your choice!” Then they play what is basically the Tosser’s Irish version of “Fuck the Police.”

After another song or two, the band takes a break. All of them come down to the fence and hand me beers. Someone takes a picture of all of us; me behind the fence all beat up and bloody. I’m invited to a party with them after the show. I hang out with the guys for most of the night. It was a lot of fun; and to this date, every time I see them play, they play that song for me. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312735#Comment_312735 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312735#Comment_312735 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 22:39:20 -0700 Rootfireember Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312742#Comment_312742 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=312742#Comment_312742 Mon, 17 Oct 2011 23:34:53 -0700 government spy
This story directly follows the one about my wrist accident in my own personal timeline. Repercussions of my actions, coming-of-age, squaring off with the old man.

If I would have known how much trouble I would have caused by my wrist accident, I never would have tried to steal that sign. The following winter, we moved from average lower-middle class land, to an affluent subdivision in a “better” part of town. After the move, I found out that my mom and my stepdad (aka “Pop”) each had insurance on me, and both companies were arguing back and forth who was to be the primary insurer. Needless to say, the added stress worked its way down to my folks.

Once a month, my mom would go out with friends to play “Bunco,” this dice game that old ladies like to play in-between drinking copious amounts of alcohol. During these monthly outings, my Pop took this as free license to go out and get shit-bombed as well. It seemed to be a contest which one would come home later or more drunk than the other. The worst was when they both arrived home close to the same time; you could guarantee a loud argument.

One night, late at night, on a school night, they both come home at relatively the same time. I woke up in my bed hearing yelling. I keep hearing Pop yelling my name; he’s yelling at her about me. This continues about 5 minutes longer than I can stand. I put on some shorts and go downstairs.

I get in-between them, and confront my Pop. I tell him something to the effect of, “If you’re going to yell at her about me, why don’t you cut the bull and just yell at me?”

This seems acceptable to him, and he starts yelling drunkenly at me. I ask him, “do you want to talk about this?” and he agrees. Then I tell him, “Then get the fuck out of the house, sober the fuck up, and then you can come back home and we can talk.” I don’t know where that maturity came from, but all three of us stared at each other in silence for a moment, because that was the only time the whole night that anybody talked any sense.

Then drunken anger reared its head again and we started yelling. I called him a drunk; he called me a druggie. He came at me, pushing, and I pushed him back. My mom started yelling at us to stop; we both turned and yelled at her to stay out of it. He tried to put me in a headlock, and I elbowed him in the chest and face until he released me, then he fell down. I got behind him and put him in a full nelson, and held him down on one knee.

He said, “Let me go!”

I said, “Are you going to chill out?”

“NO!”

“Then I’m not letting you go.”

A short minute later, “Let me go!”

Again, “Are you going to chill out?”

Pause for a couple seconds; “…Okay.” So I let him up.

After that, it seemed adrenaline had worked most of the alcohol out of everyone’s system, and then we had a nice rational discussion. We all made up that night and went to bed.

Let me say this: I was terrified of the old man that night. He’s a Vietnam veteran. He was a LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol), and if you don’t know what that is, look it up. Nobody really does anymore, what these guys did, not to that degree anyway, not with the low level of gear they had back then. Pop’s told me some hard core stories of the war, reluctantly, and only really recently have I learned what a badass he was (and in a lot of ways still is). C'mon, his squad was the Double-Deuce Death Dealers.

He was just barely 52 at the time we wrestled (can’t really call it a fight; nobody threw a punch), and he was not that out of shape. He had a good 3 or 4 inches of height on me, and a lot more muscle. The only reason I had a chance is because the old Irishman was about 3 extra sheets to the wind. And the only reason I had the balls to go toe to toe with him was that I thought he might hurt my mom. I should have known better than to think that about the old man; Pop's been my stepdad since I was 3. For all intents and purposes; he is my father. Dad was a guy who passed down some pretty crappy genes. Pop taught me how to be a man.

So a couple of weeks later, we passed each other in the hall and I must have made some smart-assed remark about our tussle. He stops me, and looks me in the eye and says “If you ever want to go at me while I’m sober, the backyard is right out there, and we can clear that right up.” I say no Sir.

He sits me down for a moment. “Look, Billy, I need to tell you this. I’m really very proud of you for coming down to face me while your mom and I were arguing. We love each other very much, but sometimes we argue. No matter how much we argue; I have never laid a hand on your mother, and I never will. You coming downstairs that night was the best outcome that could have happened, though. You didn’t see it, but your mother was punching me, throwing things at me, clawing at me, and biting me. I did not know how to stop her without hurting her. Then you came down and gave me something I could fight at, and took focus off of me and your mother. So, I’m really glad you came down that night. But if you really want to do that again, we can go out there any time you want.”

I nodded, and thanked him, and told him that would not be necessary. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313065#Comment_313065 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313065#Comment_313065 Thu, 20 Oct 2011 13:31:09 -0700 sellmeyoursoul Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313266#Comment_313266 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313266#Comment_313266 Sat, 22 Oct 2011 23:05:17 -0700 government spy Warning: I use an offensive racial slur in this story; it serves a purpose and I'm quoting someone. Deal with it.

This tale is about dressing to impress, hanging out with the Sons of Anarchy, and doing things for your girlfriend you know you shouldn't do.

So I’m living with this blonde chick I had started fucking to get a better promotion at my job, and we ended up working at different locations, but we still car pooled. As I’m on my way to drop her off at work, we pass by this bar. She tells me that she wants to find a new bar for us to hang out at that’s close to both our jobs, and she wants me to check this place out. I tell her I’ll check it out before I pick her up tonight.

Well, the thing about this girl was, she was kinda dating me because I looked like a rebel or something. I had a mohawk when we first met, and she liked my tattoo and I was really into punk rock at the time, and she dug that. She was not into punk rock or anything; I think she just liked fucking guys like me. So anyway, I’m on my way to the bar, and this is what I looked like: I had very bleach blonde (short) liberty spikes, I was wearing my sleeveless denim vest, covered in band patches and pins and spikes and studs, some band shirt, no sleeves, showing off my Anti-Swastika tattoo.

I pull up at this bar, driving my girlfriend’s KIA, and then I realize that there are no cars in this parking lot; It’s all motorcycles. I walk in, order a Lone Star, and then walk outside to smoke. The smoking ban in Austin had recently passed and you can’t smoke indoors anymore.

I see that there’s about thirty bikers and their chicks hanging out in the front of the bar, and they’re all kinda looking at me. When I walked out, one biker looks at me and says “What’s up Billy Idol?” and I responded with “How’d you know my name?” and he motions for me to come over to him. I ask what’s up and he tells me his name is Jimmy. I tell him my name is Billy and he laughs, realizing what I had meant earlier.

He says, “Hey I see you got one o’ them swastikkers on your arm. I got me one too, but it’s just cuz I hate niggers. What you got one for?” He looks at me, kinda daring me, it felt like. There’s a thick air of tension outside the bar, and I can tell everyone is listening to our conversation.

I stand up straight and proud and look Jimmy in the eye. I tell him I grew up in northern Illinois, and we used to have neo-Nazi skinheads come into town and cause problems, and I would always get into fights with them. Some people I knew had gotten hurt pretty bad by neo-Nazis, and I couldn’t stand them.

“Oh,” he says, “you hate neo-Nazis! I can’t stand those assholes either,” and then he offers to buys me a beer. Everyone visibly relaxes and we just kinda chill. At that point, I realize my right leg has stopped shaking. The whole time I was standing in front of Jimmy, my right knee just would not stop shaking. I think I kept Jimmy or anyone else from noticing it, but I was pretty scared. I have a couple beers, then I mention I’m picking up my girlfriend from work. He tells me to bring her on by. I tell him I will and then I never come back.

When I pick up the girl from work, I tell her I checked out the bar. She asks how it was, and I tell her it was a nice place and we should go there. Then I tell her what had happened earlier. I say, “No, Jimmy invited us both to come back; he says we’re welcome now, come on, let’s go.” She refuses, and she never asks me to check out a new bar again ever. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313398#Comment_313398 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313398#Comment_313398 Mon, 24 Oct 2011 10:30:46 -0700 RenThing Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313592#Comment_313592 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313592#Comment_313592 Wed, 26 Oct 2011 01:38:05 -0700 government spy
My favorite, however, scared the shit out of me when they played it on me. Normally, when assigned to work a housing wing, two officers would be assigned the floor as “Rovers” and one officer would be assigned the Picket, or a mini-control center that controlled all the cell-block doors and had a phone and a radio. When a rookie got assigned to a wing as OJT (On the Job Trainee), it was a free-for-all.

Normally, in case of the usage of tear gas, an officer would attach a small canister to the front of his gas mask and that would filter out the tear gas. The small canister would say in very small letters “use in case of” and in huge print it says “TEAR GAS”. Well the Picket officer would put on his gas mask, and roll the small canister out the picket window right in front of the rookie. The other two Rover officers had already put on their SCUBA tanks and masks used for fighting fires, and they’d act like there was an emergency. The rookie would see the canister saying TEAR GAS and everyone wearing masks, and they would usually just freak the fuck out; some just ran off, others crawled into a fetal position, some screamed or cried; just wholesome family fun. Sometimes even the inmates (on the other side of the cell-block windows) would join in on pretending like there was an emergency, like trying to warn the rookie or running away and hiding. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313603#Comment_313603 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313603#Comment_313603 Wed, 26 Oct 2011 07:18:27 -0700 lampcommander
It involves the community of Whitechapel coming together, helping with editing, cover design, layout, calling in contacts, and whatever else it takes to make this a book. Written by government spy, produced by Whitechapel.

Initial proposal: Organize only loosely in chronological terms, grouped more by theme or life lessons. Just a thought.

Imagine, you can be like James Frey, except not a lying shithead.

Who's with me on this? I'm an editor at a publishing company (not a New York one, mind). That's me throwing my hat in the ring.

Also HOLY SHIT BLUE MEANIES ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313685#Comment_313685 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313685#Comment_313685 Wed, 26 Oct 2011 21:15:38 -0700 government spy
This next story is about how I've gone out on too many dates with women that I've worked with. Seriously, I never learned my lesson.

Sometime after my “baby-momma” and I had split up, we had a new girl transfer in from San Antonio. I was in the Lt.’s office when someone had her paperwork and all I saw was a picture ID of the new officer. Well, from that moment on I had a crush. Forgetting my favorite LT.’s advice, “Never get your honey where you make your money,” I decided I was going to ask this officer out.

After a few weeks of getting to know her (I’ll call her M), I finally managed to ask her out. I had learned she was somewhat Gothy and I used to hang out at the Atomic Café (now completely uncool and called “Elysium”) in downtown Austin (off of 6th street). I also decided a stop off at the Congress Street Bridge for the bat show at sunset would be cool. Well, because I’m an idiot I had her pick me up from work, and she drove us there. I kinda knew my way around Austin, and had us park like a mile from downtown for some ungodly reason. We got to see the bats, and had dinner and headed to the club. On our way, she casually mentions that if she gets drunk she won’t drive back to town, and we would have to get a hotel. Silently, I decide I must get this girl drunk (hey, I was 21 and recently thrown out of my house by my ex, don’t judge me).

So we hang out at this gothy place and I’ve always loved Goth, but it was just not right for me. I tried dancing but I just don’t have any rhythm. I had to spellcheck because I don’t even know how to spell the word. Well, my goal was to get her drunk, but I’ve always been a lightweight. So it doesn’t take long before I’m drunkenly trying to convince her that she is drunk, so we have to get a hotel. I can only assume how transparent I am being, because she doesn’t fall for it. Finally, I say I have one way she can prove she’s sober; she just has to close her eyes (I’m sure you can see where this is going). She agrees, closing her eyes, and I lean in and kiss her. She pushes me back, and I tell her I agree that she is sober. Using drunken logic, I figured if she was drunk (and only if she was drunk) she would kiss me back. She didn’t, therefore she’s cold sober.

So we drive back to the prison parking lot. It’s now 3am. Luckily, I have the next day off. She gives me a polite friend-kiss on the cheek and hugs me, telling me she had a great time, and she leaves. I smoke a cigarette watching her car drive off, and I go to start my car. Which doesn’t start. The engine is dead. I start yelling and screaming, and kicking my car, and then the patrol van drives up to me. An officer I know fairly well gets out and asks what’s up, and I ask him for a jumpstart. He says the patrol van doesn’t have one. I start yelling and screaming about how worthless he is for not having one. He calls the LT.

Luckily for me, the LT. and SGT that show up are somewhat good ol’ boys and, although they give me a hard time, they fix me up. At one point, I think I remember someone asking me how my date with M went, and I threatened to take the Patrol officer’s sidearm and “kill us all.”

Well, I get the jumpstart, and by this time I’ve yelled myself sober, and I drive home. A couple days later, I report back for my shift, and a co-worker I’ll call D approaches me. It’s the daughter of the LT. from the other night. D walks right up and slaps me in the face, saying “What the Hell did you do to M the other night?” I act all confused and D claims that M had said I tried to rape her on our date. I stand there, looking shocked. I have no idea what D’s talking about. Then, I think for a second, could I have been so drunk that I don’t remember? I start to get scared. I first ask D, did she mean about when I had tried to kiss M? D slaps me again, asking, “You tried to kiss her too?” Now I’m really confused. If D didn’t know I had tried to kiss M, then what the Hell was she talking about? I talked to her for a minute, and we both calmed down, and agreed that there must be some sort of misunderstanding. Thinking to myself, I thought the misunderstanding was that I knew that D was a lesbian, and had a crush on M the same as I did, and this was some jealously playing a part as well.

I spoke to some of my buddies, and we agree that I should just stay away from M. She worked opposite days so that wouldn’t be a problem. Later on, I schedule myself to take a vacation to Chicago, and my last working day was my birthday. I go to work, and one of my friends tells me that M is working overtime that day and I should watch out. I go to head out on a lunch break, and to exit the prison I have to exit through a sally-port, which is a small room of locking doors, where one door has to be secured before the next can open. I close one door, and the other one opens, and M walk in. I look up at the control center window like “WTF?” and the guy shrugs like “there was nothing I could do!” I freeze like a deer in headlights; here’s this attractive young female officer I had a crush on, and she’s telling people that I tried to rape her? How do I get myself out of this? (Funny how I never ask myself how I get myself into these situations?)

I look at M and she looks at me and then she runs at me, yelling my name and saying “You never called me back! How come we haven’t gone out again?” Really? No, really? Well, I bail on trying to ask her anything about the rape situation, and she finds out it’s my birthday and organizes me and some work buddies out for a night of drinking that night. We all actually had a good time, she flashed us some boobies, and I ended up not coming back from my vacation to Chicago. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313690#Comment_313690 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313690#Comment_313690 Wed, 26 Oct 2011 21:56:50 -0700 government spy
You mention that my stories seemed to portray life lessons.

Why can't I learn those lessons in some sort of safe, sane way? ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313692#Comment_313692 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313692#Comment_313692 Wed, 26 Oct 2011 23:06:30 -0700 lampcommander
Seriously though, I know it sometimes seems like it sucks to be you, but I can tell you from personal experience with a few friends of my own, the fact that you are a) alive b) employed and sheltered and c) not addicted to meth means you are still ending your days on the good side of all right.

Edit to add: I can ONLY say that based on witnessing/being accessory to the experiences of others though. I definitely can't claim to talk that kind of talk myself. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313809#Comment_313809 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=313809#Comment_313809 Thu, 27 Oct 2011 23:40:10 -0700 government spy
I was still working at the high rise luxury apartment complex in Chicago, and I was a shift supervisor. My really cute lesbian roommate and best friend E was working on Christmas day with me, and we were pretty bored. Christmas day is usually a pretty slow day for us. So the two of us and another guard are hanging out down in the lobby in the smoking area of the restaurant’s bar. The restaurant was closed, but it had an open floor plan so we could hang out and smoke, and still be able to see the lobby and front entrance if anything happened, that way we could smoke on the job, not be outside in Chicago in late December, and still technically be doing our jobs.

All of a sudden, I hear sirens. We put out our smokes, and walk to the front entrance, which is mostly a glass front, to see if we can spot where the sirens are coming from. I spot a fire engine coming down the street. If it turns left in front of us that means it’s responding to a call from our building. We start chanting “please don’t turn, please don’t turn, please don’t turn,” and sure enough it turns our way.

The three of us split up; all knowing what to do in an emergency. I head towards the loading dock doors, to open the doors for the fire dept. before they break them open, E heads to the security desk to man the phones and maintain radio contact for all of us, and the other officer heads to get the emergency keys so when we find out where the fire dept. are headed, he can get the keys and meet us at the correct room.

So I get to the loading dock doors and let the firemen in, and they have a stretcher and a body bag with them. One of the firemen jovially announces, “We’ve got one to bag today!” I get the apartment number from the firemen and notify E at the security desk and she passes it on to the other guard.

By the way, if you ever live in a high rise or apartment complex with security, and you require emergency services, after dialing 911, please notify your building security. It’s not because we’re self-important wannabe rent-a-cops, it’s because it’ll make everyone’s jobs much easier if we know where the emergency services people need to go, and we can have access opened for them as soon as possible. I know, in an emergency that’s probably the last thing you’re going to think about, but if you have an extra minute, please take that into consideration.

Anyway, we arrive at the apartment door, and my co-worker opens the apartment door and the firemen and I walk inside. There’s a late 30s white guy pacing back and forth in the apartment mumbling something like “she won’t wake up, she won’t wake up,” over and over. The firemen ask the guy where the woman is and he points to the bathroom door saying that she locked herself in and passed out. They proceed to break down the door and find a mid-thirties woman on the floor looking somewhat blue.

While the firemen start performing CPR on the woman, a couple Chicago Police Officers saunter in. These guys must have been veteran cops, because they walked in, looked at the guy, looked at the girl and then said, “Alright, where are the drugs?”
The guy kinda stammers and denies any drugs but the cops persist, and in less than five minutes admit that there are drugs in the apartment, walk them into his bedroom, lift up his mattress and reveal a glass pipe and some crack.

They start handcuffing the guy and reading him his rights while the firemen successfully resuscitate the woman in the bathroom. As the firemen start an IV and get the woman on a stretcher, the story comes out that the man is a 37 year old finance attorney and the woman is a prostitute that sometimes sells him crack.

(For some reason, to this day, that still bothers me. They guy was obviously a successful attorney. It costs at least $1,000 a month to live in that building, and I think his apartment was more in the $1500 range. And you're smoking crack? Really, Crack? My Dad, the unemployed factory worker smokes crack. You make like more in one year than my Dad has probably earned in his entire life. And you're smoking crack. Jesus H. Christ. If you're a successful attorney living downtown in one of the 3 biggest cities in the country, you should have some self-respect and at the very least just snort blow like every other lawyer. I could even respect a little Heroin. But crack? That's just embarrassing. And the hooker? I'm sorry, she was pretty trashy. Don't you know we had like two very prestigious high class prostitution rings operating inside this building? You could do so much better. Well, you know what they say; you get what you pay for.)

As the police escort the attorney in handcuffs and the firemen wheel out the crack-whore, the jovial fireman from earlier announces, “Merry Christmas! We got one for Cook County Hospital and one for Cook County Jail! Merry Christmas everybody!” ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314066#Comment_314066 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314066#Comment_314066 Mon, 31 Oct 2011 10:19:39 -0700 government spy
I have no idea what the fight was actually about. We fought a lot. I was 21; I wanna say she was 20 at the time, and we were living together in her mom’s double-wide and with our baby daughter. The prison job was taking its toll on me, and normally, she wasn’t working, and when I came home she was playing MMORPGS on the internet and neglecting the kid. When I was home, she considered it her time off from the kid, whereas I considered it my time off from prison. Neither one of us had a clue what being a parent was about. So we drove ourselves insane.

She told me to leave. I told her to pack my bags if she wanted me to leave. She did, and loaded them in the car. At this point, I was ashamed that she wanted me gone so badly, I agreed to go. She drove me out of town to San Marcos, and dumped me in the town square. I was off the next couple days, so I had time to find an apartment.

I stopped at a local coffee shop, and asked around for people I kinda knew. One guy mentioned that he had a double wide and an empty room for rent, for cheap. I took him up on the offer. I crashed for the night at some friend of a friend’s mom’s house, and in the morning, I remembered I had left some sort of refund check or something at my old house. I borrowed the kid’s bicycle and rode it nearly 15 miles, in the mid-day heat, in the summer, all the way back to the old house.

I found the check (for like two grand), and rode to the bank, and opened an account. Then I bought a used Chevrolet Beretta, put the bike in the backseat and drove back to San Marcos. I dropped off the bike, and met up with the friend who was going to rent me a room. Within less than twenty-four hours, I had gone from homeless with no way to get to work, to completely self-sufficient. I think it really pissed her off. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314197#Comment_314197 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314197#Comment_314197 Tue, 01 Nov 2011 14:21:39 -0700 RenThing Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314255#Comment_314255 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314255#Comment_314255 Wed, 02 Nov 2011 06:08:42 -0700 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314268#Comment_314268 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314268#Comment_314268 Wed, 02 Nov 2011 08:47:00 -0700 government spy
I met some girl at a Halloween party back in 2007 full of nerds. The party was actually several weeks before Halloween, but, whatever. At the party, I dressed as my normal self, with Mohawk spiked up and sleeveless studded vest covered in patches, bondage pants and combat boots. Ended up making out with some girl that night, and got her number. We never really dated; only like met up a few times for sex. Then I get invited to another party, and her and her cute female friend and her little gay buddy come with.

The party is at some warehouse where I know a couple guys that live there; I think it was called Francisco’s or something. Anyway, I dress like a pirate and we go to the party. While there we drank a bit and had some magic brownies. I got a little fucked up. Some kid that looked like a short version of Justin Timberlake started talking shit to me, and I talked shit back.
Unbeknownst to me, the gay friend was hanging out with some other dudes he just met, and went to their car to “look at a stereo” or something, and they whooped his ass and mugged him. He came in, crying, and wanted to leave.

What’s funny was that I was outside smoking a cigarette and he walked past me to run tell his friend he had been mugged. He walked past me as the muggers went the other way, without pointing them out to me and my friends and telling us to stop them. I never understand people like that.

So we go to leave, and on the way out, we bump into wannabe JT. There’s arguing, and the next thing I know this big black dude knocks the little gay dude out, in one punch, and he hits the pavement and is out cold. As I turn to react, another guy, up from behind me, turns and punches me right square in the back of my head.

I turn to look at the guy as he holds his hand like something must be broken, and I swear to God I must have channeled Samuel L. Jackson, because I turned and cocked my head and said “Did you just fucking hit me from behind motherfucker?” and he straight up just turned and ran.

As I stepped forward, lil JT ran up to me on my left and I put my left hand out and caught him by the throat. To this day, I can still picture his face because of how close we got, then I literally threw him backwards by his throat.

Another guy ran up to me on my right, and I had just enough time to grab him around the head and put his face through a parked car driver side window. As I was putting the head through the window, the big black guy came up and just started punching me in the side of the head. As I backed off of the car, another guy (possibly one of the ones I had already dealt with, I’m unsure) hit me from the other side.

Everything had up until now been happening in very slow motion; now everything was happening too fast and I was having my ass handed to me. My friends seemed to take forever to show up, but now that they arrived they were still too afraid to get involved. One guy I barely knew chucked a glass bottle at one of the guys hitting me, and they ended up running off.
I was fine, other than a broken nose and some pride being hurt. Gay kid that got knocked out woke up, but I was afraid he had a concussion. I was outvoted for taking him to the hospital.

After that, the girl and I only hooked up once, and then she wouldn’t return my phone calls. I had to MySpace email her. Seriously. Then she responded back saying she “couldn’t date a guy who got into fights like that.” Well, fuck you lady. Like it was my fault I got drunk and high and talked shit with total strangers and got your friend knocked out. Oh, wait. It totally was. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314617#Comment_314617 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=314617#Comment_314617 Sat, 05 Nov 2011 10:09:57 -0700 government spy
I didn’t get to go home for Christmas during 2004, but I had spoken to my family. My grandparents rented a house in Florida every year for the winter, and my folks were going to spend a couple weeks with them. They were taking with another couple that they were really close with and would be staying at the house as well. After they would come back home, we were planning on meeting up and exchanging gifts, etc.

Sometime in early January, I’m leaving work and had just bought a 5th of Jack Daniels, and was on my way to catch an El train home, when my cell phone rings. It’s one of my aunts; the one that lives in a Chicago suburb. She tells me that she’d just gotten off of the phone with my mom; that there had been an accident in Florida. She said my mother couldn’t tell her much other than it “was bad, it was very bad,” and that my mother had been thrown from their vehicle and was on the side of the road, injured, fearing that she had a head-wound. A helpful bystander had helped her to the shoulder of the highway and lent my mother a cell-phone. My mother didn't stay on the phone long, but begged my aunt to call me because my mother was afraid she'd lose consciousness before being able to talk to me.

My aunt and I made plans to get as much information as we could regarding the accident, and then we would fly to Florida with whatever family wanted to join us. I made it home, where normally my house was full of boisterous people, only to find it empty. I took my bottle of Jack and started to hurt myself with it. I took a leave of absence from work, not knowing when I’d be back.

I was able to contact the highway patrol office that had responded to the accident, to find out what had happened and where my family was hospitalized. I was told that my grandparents were driving my parents and the other couple from Ft. Meyers to Ft. Lauderdale so my folks and the other couple could fly home. About halfway there, on “Alligator Alley” they were hit head-on by another driver who had crossed over from the oncoming lane. He did not survive the accident.

I discovered that my mother, grandmother, and my parents’ friends were medevac’d by helicopter to a hospital in Ft. Meyers, while my stepfather was taken via ambulance to Ft. Lauderdale, three hours away. I couldn’t get anyone to verify the location of my grandfather. A bystander had reported seeing someone matching his description walking away from the wreck, but no one would confirm where he was. The officer on the phone kept repeating that he couldn’t give out any more information at this time.

Normally, I refuse to use my badge or position for any sort of personal gain, but this time was different. I explained that I was also a law enforcement officer and tried to get some sympathy. I heard the officer put the phone down and ask his supervisor if he could tell me more information, saying “C’mon, the guy is one of us,” but the supervisor said no. He lowered his voice and said to me, “Look, all I can tell you right now is that all of the bodies have been removed from the scene.” That was the officer's way of telling me that my grandfather was dead. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315022#Comment_315022 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315022#Comment_315022 Wed, 09 Nov 2011 09:37:10 -0800 government spy
When I walked into my mother’s hospital room, I got very angry. She had been in the back of the van, and for the one time in her life was not wearing a seat belt. Even in the back seat, she always wore one. When the accident occurred, she was thrown around the van and went out the middle window, and bounced onto the highway, breaking a wrist and damaging her other hand and getting sever road rash. When I saw her face it looked like someone had beaten her with a baseball bat. I had this severe flash of anger at whomever had done this to her, but there was no one. It was just an accident, and there was no one for me to vent my anger at. Instead, there was just my mother in a hospital bed. She was tired, but woke up enough that she could tell I was there. The nurses on staff (who just took the best care of my family and were priceless to us) let me know that my mom would recover one hundred percent. Each day that I visited my mother, I watched as the road rash on her face simply disappeared. She claimed that the nurses kept putting some sort of cream on her face, and the road rash healed miraculously. To this day, my mother has a very small scar on her lip that if you didn’t know was there, you wouldn’t be able to see it.

The second cousin had grown up close to my mom. He referred to her as a saint, but not in a religious way. She was "the good kid," who never really got into trouble. She never did any drugs or anything bad, ever, at least in the eyes of my family. So this second cousin pulls me aside later, and told me that just before I arrived, they had taken my mother off of morphine. She had a strong reaction to it, and asked to be taken off of it because of the morphine dreams that she had experienced. He told me something to the effect of, "Billy, you wouldn't have believed how high your mother was. She's never done any drugs, she was always the saint of the family. I can't even describe how high she was, it was so out there." Odd how funny that seemed then, I guess we were all looking for anything to lighten the mood.

Then I got to see my grandmother. She was on a respirator. She was sitting next to my mother in the back of the van, but had kept her seat belt on. It had broken several of her ribs, some of which had pierced her lungs. She also suffered from cracked vertebrae. She was able to squeeze our hands and write notes to us. She later said that after the accident happened, she remained conscious. She told us that she could see my grandfather in the front passenger seat, and that he had survived the accident, but was having a heart attack. He knew he was not going to survive it. He called out to her, saying her name. He said, “Kathy, I love you; I’ve always loved you. Tell all the kids I love them.” And then he died. Then she said that she watched his spirit leave his body. She made a wavy hand motion going up. My aunts and I just looked at each other, speechless. We are not a religious family. We didn’t even go to church on Christmas or Easter on a regular basis. We didn’t discuss God or Jesus in my family. To hear mention of a soul was fairly odd. To hear my grandmother say this was earth-shaking. I don’t doubt what she said one bit.

While we visited my family every day, we were able to stay in the house that they had rented for the winter. It was odd, to sit at the bar, drinking my grandfather’s whiskey, after he had passed away. Because my Pop was all the way in Ft. Lauderdale, I wasn’t able to visit him right away. After some effort, I was able to call him in his hospital room. He sounded rough. This hard assed Vietnam veteran broke down on me at one point. He tried to explain to me that in ‘Nam, sometimes he was “team leader,” and that each time he was team leader, he never lost a man; he brought them back every time. He felt that because he was driving the van, that he was team leader, and that he had lost a man this time, my grandfather; his father-in-law.

My Pop had been married to my mother for over twenty years at this point, and my grandfather was as much a father to him as he was to me. He was hurting, more than just physically. Though he told me; he was hurt very bad physically as well. He had almost lost a foot in the accident, and didn’t know when he would be able to walk again. I asked him for some information about visiting him, and he asked the nurse to talk to me. In fact, when he put the phone down, I heard him say, “Nurse, my son wants to talk to you.” It was the first time in my entire life that the man had ever referred to me as his son. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried, right then and there.

Later that evening, we drank Papa’s whiskey and shared stories about him. My aunt told a story about when she was a kid, after all the kids went to bed; she woke up in the middle of the night after hearing a noise, and crept to the stairs and looked into the living room. The radio was playing some slow music, and my grandparents were slow dancing in the living room. My cousin made us all drink Hoopensachers, which I don’t know if it’s German or Dutch, but basically was just whichever liquor my Papa had handy (but for him was usually Canadian Club), in a glass with some ice.

I remembered that when I was a teenager, after my parents bought themselves a new bed, and gave me their king-size waterbed. One holiday family get-together, I walked past my bedroom and spotted my grandfather in my bedroom. My cat Snickers was napping on the bed and Papa was petting him. He kept saying, “Good ol’ cat-cat,” while scratching the cat behind the ears. Then, he looked around real quickly and started pushing down on the waterbed, causing big waves, and sending the cat tumbling across the bed, startled from its relaxing nap. Papa just stood there chuckling like a little kid. It was one of my funniest memories, and nobody else had ever heard that story before. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315023#Comment_315023 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315023#Comment_315023 Wed, 09 Nov 2011 09:39:23 -0800 government spy
He told me that when he was brought in, they had cut off all of his clothes, and he had no wallet or anything. Because of the stomach surgery, he wasn’t allowed to eat anything, and the nurses gave him some change in a Dixie cup so he could get cans of Sprite. At one point, a representative from the business office visited him, asking him if he had any plans on how to pay for his hospital bills. My Pop held out the Dixie cup full of quarters and asked the man if he wanted those. After that, there were no more visits from the business office.

Eventually, I’m able to get my mom out of the hospital. My mom’s friends were already out, and staying with us at the rental home. The family who actually lives in the house is coming home soon, and we have to get hotels. We make the decision that I return home, and begin having my folks’ house made handicapped accessible for their return home. One of my aunts and I return on a flight together. At some point we watched a sappy movie that had ballroom dancing in it, which made us think of the earlier story about my grandparents slow-dancing in the living room. I warned my aunt she was never allowed to speak of us crying at such a terrible movie.

As a side note, when we originally flew to Florida, we flew with a short return date, but were recommended to cancel the return flight due to family emergency and the airline would reschedule us at a later date for no charge. So when my aunt and I rescheduled, I later found out that sends a red flag to Homeland Security. I used to fly a lot more often, mainly back and forth from Chicago to Austin to see my daughter. One of my favorite things was to dress as punk rock as possible to make the flight interesting. I had streamlined my clothing to get through security, and then would put on things like bracers and chains and my vest once I got in. This time, due to being with family during an emergency, I did not want to be a distraction, so I had a clean-cut appearance, and I was wearing a suit. For the first time ever, I was pulled out of line, wanded with a metal detector and received a pat-down search by an officer. It seems that the more I try to look “normal”, the more out of place I must look, and airport security acts accordingly.

When I got home, I called a family friend to help build a wheelchair ramp in the garage to help my Pop get in and out. I called my mom to let her know it was all set up. She asked me to move their bedroom from the upstairs into the downstairs living room, to save them some trouble. I said I’d get a friend to help. Before I hung up, my mom reminded me that my Christmas presents were still upstairs in their bedroom closet. She asked me to open them up that night so I could enjoy them.

I called one of my old high-school buddies to help me move the furniture, but I also asked him to stick around while I opened up Christmas presents. It was mid-February, and my family was in the hospital. I definitely didn’t need to be alone with the liquor cabinet that night. It was kind of funny, there were five packages, and I pointed at them and said, “Socks, underwear, jeans, a sweater, and some kind of cool gadget Pop picked out for me.” When I opened them, I had each one right, including a combo digital camera/camcorder/mp3 player/recorder.

My folks chartered a private medical flight out of Florida to Rockford. My whole family maxed out all their credit cards to afford it, plus the medical equipment and the two nurses. It just became too expensive to keep my grandmother and my stepdad in hospitals in Florida, plus keep the rest of the family staying in hotels. When I got my folks actually home, we tried to get them a nurse to help them at home, but the insurance company denied them. My Pop did not have the use of his legs, and my mom did not have the use of their hands, but the insurance company said that together, they still qualified as a whole person, that Pop could be my mom’s hands while she could be his legs, that “together their love would shine through,” but my mom told them they could go fuck themselves.

Because my grandmother was still in the hospital, we couldn’t have a memorial service for my grandfather, but he still needed to be buried. A very small group of us met out at the family plot and my uncle, my second cousin that had been in Florida, my three younger male cousins and I all were pall bearers, and carried my grandfather’s coffin to his grave. It was a very short service, and we still had to wait several months before we could hold the actual memorial for him.

Instead, I continued my leave of absence from work, and other family members and I took turns helping my folks until my mom’s hands healed enough that she could assist my Pop to the point where they didn’t need anyone else to help them anymore. I visited my grandmother in the hospital, and she grabbed me by the collar and told me that I needed to get off my butt and get back to Texas and get back in my daughter’s life. It took me a few months, but that’s exactly what I did.

Months after the accident, we held a memorial service for my grandfather. Several hundred people attended the service. Before the service began, I greeted people as they entered. An elderly man walked up, and as I reached out to shake his hand, I spotted a tattoo on his arm. It was an old Navy tattoo of an eagle carrying an anchor; the exact same tattoo that Papa had on his arm; the very first tattoo I had ever seen. They had gotten the tattoos together in the Navy and they served in the Korean War together. It was an honor to meet the man.

My second cousin read a eulogy. At one point, he asked us to look around us for someone we didn’t recognize, and ask them how they knew my Papa. It was really amazing. He then asked us how many knew what a Hoopensacher is, and to share one later that night with someone who didn’t know. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315334#Comment_315334 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315334#Comment_315334 Sat, 12 Nov 2011 06:53:21 -0800 government spy
Well, one night, I head up to the Fireside Bowl to see some shitty band play, and dominatrix girl lived within walking distance. I had somewhat matured since we broke up, and we hung out occasionally. So after I was good and properly drunk, I headed over to her place. As I got closer, I could see that they were throwing a party. I happily decided to crash.

So this guy Kurt was in town, visiting or something, and we get along great. Dominatrix girl made me show him my badge, and he got a kick out of it. He said, one day I’m going to need that badge, and I’m going to call you up and ask to borrow you. Sure, fine, I agreed, like that would ever actually happen.

About a month later, I get that call. I’m on my way out to Punk Rock night at this bar called Exit, and Kurt calls me on the phone. Straight up and to the point: “I need you and your badge.”

Alright, and I ask him what for. Dominatrix girl was moving from her third floor apartment to a basement apartment in the building next door. When she went to start moving her stuff in, she found a squatter. That was over a week ago. The landlord had hired this guy to work on the apartment and now he won’t leave. She called Kurt to help, and he called me. I was willing to help; I just needed a ride.

So Kurt picks me up and I’m in full Federal Officer tactical gear. I get to dominatrix girl’s place and I ask them how they want to handle this and they have no idea. So my idea is that I’m taking a box of hers over to the new place, I just happen to be in uniform, and I bump into this squatter. I get over there, and I see this guy hanging out in her apartment. I act all innocent and introduce myself; he says his name, he has an Eastern European accent. I ask about his accent, and where he’s from. He says Europe. Really, Europe, huh? I tell him I heard Europe is a nice place. Now that I know he’s fucking with me, I ask him if he has a passport, and he says he has a work Visa. I ask him if he has a job, and he starts telling me some bullshit about how he was working, but then something happened and then some other bullshit happened and now he’s looking nervous.

I ask him if he’s friends with the domme girl and he says no. I tell him I am friends with her, and she’s paying rent for this apartment. She can’t move in because he’s in the apartment. So in a way, he’s stealing from her. I tell him I don’t like that, and I ask her when she wants to move in exactly. She says in a week, on Monday. I tell him he has until Monday, because on Monday, I’m coming over to help her move, and I’m bringing some of my buddies from ICE (Immigration & Customs Enforcement- I’ve never had a friend in ICE- they’re dicks) to help her move, and if he’ not here, there won’t be any problems. I ask him if he understands, and he says yes, as he’s crying. I ask him if he’ll be gone by Monday, and he says yes. I ask domme girl if she’s satisfied, and she says yes so we leave.

Normally, I’m not so heartless. And I don’t have a problem with illegal immigrants, as long as they play by the rules for the most part. Squatting in my friend’s apartment and not leaving when asked nicely counts as not playing by the rules. So I felt less guilt than I normally would. OK, to be honest, I felt no guilt whatsoever. I wasn’t calling ICE on this guy, but he needs to be afraid of fucking with people and that calling ICE might be something people do as retaliation. If you’re going to stay in this country illegally, try not to be a dick to others.

So as we leave, we start laughing and I say to domme girl, “Do you know what my favorite part was?” and she says no, “My favorite part was when you could see his heart breaking, and then I just kept going.”
She laughs, “That’s why I love my job too!”

Epilogue: Sometime later, Domme girl told me she went out to throw out the trash at the new apartment, and Foreign Guy was behind her garage, pissing in the bushes. The landlady who had been ineffective at kicking him out of the apartment had given him permission to crash in the garage for a little while. Domme girl said he stayed for a couple of weeks and moved on sometime after that, but he never caused her anymore problems. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315533#Comment_315533 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315533#Comment_315533 Mon, 14 Nov 2011 14:12:42 -0800 sellmeyoursoul Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315539#Comment_315539 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315539#Comment_315539 Mon, 14 Nov 2011 14:56:41 -0800 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315541#Comment_315541 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315541#Comment_315541 Mon, 14 Nov 2011 15:24:29 -0800 lampcommander Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315614#Comment_315614 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315614#Comment_315614 Tue, 15 Nov 2011 06:53:15 -0800 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315977#Comment_315977 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=315977#Comment_315977 Fri, 18 Nov 2011 11:31:43 -0800 government spy
When we got home, really fucking drunk, we were having trouble getting the key in the front door. My girlfriend said she wasn't feeling well, that she felt like she might puke.

So of course, I said "Then I guess a blow job is out of the question."

And she vomited all over the front door. I did not get any that night. That was one of several blow-job & vomiting incidents which has plagued my life. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=316137#Comment_316137 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=316137#Comment_316137 Sat, 19 Nov 2011 21:39:27 -0800 government spy
I was 17 or 18, crashing at my Dad's, and my girlfriend and one of my friends wanted to go drinking at my friend's sister's place. We were all underage, and she would let us drink there. So my girlfriend drove us over there and we got high and watched anime, like Wicked City or something, and then all of a sudden my girlfriend had to go home. So she left. Right after she left, my buddy was all weird about how we had to take the anime tapes to another friend's house, across town, oddly enough, in my girlfriend's neighborhood. But she had the car. So we walked.

We walked several miles. In the middle of the night. By the time we got to our other friend's house, his parent's house actually, everyone was asleep; it was like 3am. So we decided to walk to Denny's.

We got about a block or two away, when we heard noises. Like the beating of drums. You know, like in the Lord of the Rings movie, when Gandalf is all like "...drums in the deep..." and shit? It kinda sounded like that. So, all things considered, we thought it would be a good idea to just follow the sound of the drums.

We get a couple blocks away, and I look up and see the upstairs of this duplex or apartment building or something, and there's a big picture window, and there's like a drum circle or something, and I can see people hitting bongos and bongs right through the window. As we stand there looking up at the bongo party, some guy carrying a load of firewood walks past us.

He says, "You guys wanna go to a party?"

I'm like, "Fuck yeah!"

He looks closer at us and says "You guys aren't cops are you?"

I look at my buddy Rob. Long blonde hair, like middle of his back long, and wearing a long black trenchcoat. I've got kinda long stringy dark brownish almost black hair, a chin goatee no mustache, and a big biker jacket and a pair of wing tips. I said "Do we look like cops?" But I guess I said it ion some way that sounded argumentative, so he backed down and was like okay, we're cool.

On the way upstairs, desperate to make small-talk, I commented on how nice his firewood was. Rob asked him if it was palm trees. We both just stopped on the stairs and just looked at Rob, shaking our heads. We got upstairs.

It was a big apartment. Like TV sitcom unrealistically big apartment. There was a DJ playing records somewhere in the back, this huge drum circle, and lots of booze and drugs. I was about to hook up with some girl, but she threw up on my wing tips.

About 5am, we heard police were breaking up the party. We bolted.

Several blocks away, Rob mentions he has a dimebag in his sock. I ask him why it's in his sock, and he shrugs.

As we walk down the sidewalk away from the party and towards Denny's, we get pulled over by a squad car. I tell Rob to shut up and let me do all the talking, as I can see he's already freaking out. The officer rolls down the window and I wish him a good morning. He asks if we know anything about a party, and I play ignorant. I mention how it's a nice morning for a walk, and we're going to Denny's for breakfast. He drives off thinking we're a couple of morons.

We get to Denny's and I recognize a guy and a couple of girls that are part of the late night diner crowd. It's somewhere around dawn and we get breakfast. As we eat, I'm facing a big window, and I can see down a hill. Towards another friend's neighborhood. There's a big plume of smoke coming from a rooftop. I wonder outloud if it's my friend Joey's house. The random guy we're having breakfast with suggests we all pile into his car and he'll drive us to the fire.

We get to the fire, and it's not Joey's house. I see the fire and run up to the house and scream, "Oh my god, my house my beautiful house!!"

At this point, I might mention that my buddy Rob had lied to his mom about his plans for the evening; he was supposed to be at some other friend's house all night. So when I start yelling about my house being on fire, Rob is standing right behind me in an empty front yard. There is a photographer from the local newspaper at the scene taking pictures of the fire and the fireman. She turns to photograph me, and I can see Rob out of the corner of my eye. He spins, flapping his trenchoat in a fancy flourishing motion, I assume to disguise his face from the photo, but then he disapears into thin air.

I can tell you without a doubt, that he was standing right behind me, and he spun, and flapped his trenchcoat, and then he was gone. There were no trees in the yard. Nothing to hind behind. I can tell you for sure that that's exactly what I saw.

I was also drunk and stoned all night and through the morning.

The photographer realized I was full of shit, and she ignored me. Rob reappeared shortly thereafter. The other people that we came with left. So we decided to take a shortcut to Joey's house and walk through the woods about maybe one city block's distance. That was around 6am. Sometime around 7 or 8, we made it to Joey's house. We tried to be sneaky just get Joey to let us in, and woke everybody in the house up. They put us in the basement and we slept on couches until Rob's cousin picked us up and took us home. That was a really crazy night. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319070#Comment_319070 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319070#Comment_319070 Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:26:53 -0800 government spy
So when M and I started dating, we spent a lot of time at our local coffee shop, it was one of the few places in town that had all-ages live music. I was about 18, and M was 17, and I’m guessing Mr. Black was around 25, possibly older. He was around a lot, and always cautiously watching us. He also watched out for domme-girl, the girl I'd eventually date in Chicago.

Well, domme-girl left town and moved to Chicago, to go to art school. M and domme-girl were best friends at the time, and M started missing her immediately. One day, Mr. Black offered to chaperone M to visit domme-girl in Chicago. M told me she wanted to go visit, but I had to work. I stressed that I was concerned about her driving the hour-and-a-half-plus trip alone, and that's when she told me Black was coming along. I immediately felt that much safer, and stopped worrying about it. I was way off.

That night, sometime around 3am, I got home from being out with friends. There was a note by the phone saying that domme-girl had called from the coffee shop. This was not good news. The coffee shop closed at 2 am, and what was domme-girl doing in town anyway? I called back and nobody would tell me anything. They just said get to the shop right away. But I didn't have a car. Domme-girl said she'd come pick me up. I asked where Black was, but nobody would tell me.

Very shortly thereafter, domme-girl showed up. Slowly, I got pieces of information. Apparently they were "giving each other massages" and they tied domme-girl up to do this. Afterwards, it was M's time. At some point, domme-girl said she left the room. When she came back, M was crying, and tied up face down on the bed. I asked if Black had raped her, and all I was ever told was "just about everything but." I kept asking where Black was, and eventually someone told me that they left him in Chicago; I heard he had to walk through Caprini-Green, a notoriously dangerous project neighborhood in Chicago (it was the ghetto featured in Candyman).

For now, though, I had a hurt girlfriend. There's never mention of the police, and domme-girl has school in the morning. We end up driving her back to Chicago, and then drove all the way back home. I really, really wanted to track Black down and hurt him, but it never happened. I really didn’t see much of him after that, and it took a long time for M to piece herself back together. Not only had she been sexually assaulted; but it was done to her by a very good friend. I was still intimidated heavily by him, so when I did have opportunities to fight him, I chickened out. He told me that he deserved us to hate him and hurt him, and that made it harder to do anything about him. I fight best when angry, and he refused to argue or debate or discuss the situation, and only seemed willing to stand there while I hit him, and that's a hard thing to do, even if you hate someone.

Years later, after moving to Texas, M and I splitting up, and moving back to Chicago, I moved in with domme-girl, and her roommate E. I had learned that they had been friends with Black for years after that event (E never really knowing anything about it, having not been friends with him at the time). Sometime before I moved up, they found out he was involved with gangs and drugs, and they didn't want to associate with him anymore. Coupled with the fact that I was living there, he didn't come around anymore.

Flash-forward a couple more years, when E and I are living together. We went to see a concert together, and I got drunk and more. When I arrived at the show, I found out Black was also there. I guess I grew pretty violent immediately, and shoved E and walked away. I have little to no memory of this. I had a small moment of clarity and went to the bathroom, realizing that sooner or later he would need to use the bathroom too.

I remember seeing him, and tapping him on the shoulder. I remember saying, "This is for (M) and (E), and (domme-girl)," and swinging on him.

Security (who had been watching for this guy since domme-girl was friends with the head of security) says I walked up behind the guy, tapped him on the shoulder, and decked him across the face. I was wearing a spiked bracer, and it caught across his face and he had three bloody scrapes across his face to prove it.

Security immediately grabbed me, and I threw my hands over my head and innocently yelled, “I didn’t touch him, I swear!” They dragged me out the front door and threw me outside. I yelled "He raped my girlfriend!" and the security guys looked at each other and shrugged, and threw him outside as well. They said something to the effect of, "good luck, buddy" and left us outside.

I looked at him and he looked at me, and I said, "Start walking. Let's find a place to do this." We couldn’t rightly fist-fight right out in front of the Metro, and we both knew a fight was inevitable, so we started walking. Two former friends, walking down the street, knowing they are about to beat the shit out of each other. So we started catching up. I asked how he’d been, what he was up to; he asked me how M was, how our kid was, etc. It was nice.

Finally, we found a somewhat private alleyway. "Okay," I said, "this seems far enough." We threw our coats on a fence and faced off, and started punching each other. In the middle of this epic ass-kicking, someone’s garage light came on. We froze, and stopped fighting. A garage door opened, and someone started backing out of their garage. We lighted up cigarettes and stopped for a smoke break to wait for them to leave. As they went down the alley, we waved goodbye. We looked at each other again, and said, "Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's do this." And then we fought some more.

I left him, the last time I saw him, lying on the ground in the alley. I spit on him, and told him the only reason I didn't kill him was because I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in jail for him, and never know my daughter. He wasn't worth it. I’m not sure if I made the right decision or not. I still believe this world would be a better place without him in it. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319145#Comment_319145 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319145#Comment_319145 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 07:32:34 -0800 Fauxhammer
I find your stories enormously compelling. What a fucking life. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319153#Comment_319153 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319153#Comment_319153 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 08:17:27 -0800 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319154#Comment_319154 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319154#Comment_319154 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 08:24:30 -0800 Fauxhammer Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319166#Comment_319166 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319166#Comment_319166 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:00:03 -0800 chiaslut Looking forward to more and thanks for sharing. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319168#Comment_319168 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319168#Comment_319168 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:13:37 -0800 government spy
This it totally new to me. Before WC, I used to just tell (or be asked to tell) stories.

Introduced to someone for the first time, "This is that guy I told you about, that did that crazy thing that one time..."

"Oh, you're the guy that she used to tie up and set on fire at parties..."

"Dude, you have to tell so and so about the time you evicted the squatter from her apartment..."

Writing them down is fairly new to me, writing them where others (I guess I can't call you guys strangers anymore) can read them and get feedback from, that's totally new. Friends of mine always loved my stories, but I never received the encouragement to DO anything with them until coming here.

And I have no clue where to go, and what to do with it, so I just keep writing. Took about a month off. *shudder* Holidays.

Now, I'm back, and I'm trying to dredge up the shit I usually don't tell people, just the insane memories I usually kept to myself.

Oh, and if I haven't said it enough, thank you for the kind compliments. It makes my day. (especially as I sit here with 104 convicts) ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319279#Comment_319279 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319279#Comment_319279 Tue, 20 Dec 2011 09:12:28 -0800 lampcommander
If you want to do a book, get it edited and send it out. If the New York publishers don't want it, get it designed and put it on ebook for a couple bucks. It's the dawn of a new era. When stuff is GOOD and CHEAP, and you network and ask for word-of-mouth spread, stranger things have happened than someone making some money and a small amount of notoriety off of ebooks. I say go for the gusto.

I would also consider using full names, even fake ones, in the actual manuscript, and including some of your writing from other threads on WC (that shit about your name was funny!). Consider yourself encouraged! ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319380#Comment_319380 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=319380#Comment_319380 Wed, 21 Dec 2011 05:41:58 -0800 Fauxhammer Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321424#Comment_321424 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321424#Comment_321424 Sat, 14 Jan 2012 07:08:57 -0800 government spy
I was working as a guard at my first prison in 2001, and I was still living with my daughter, her mother, and grandma, in Kyle, TX, pop. 5,000. Back when I was hired, an inmate orderly, what they used to call a trustee, helped train me. His name was Villa, and he was also the same guy I pointed my gun at.

One of my favorite posts to work at was the recreation yard. The yard included a full gymnasium with basketball court, a small weightlifting area, and a craft shop. Outdoors was another weightlifting area, two basketball courts, two handball courts, a full track, and a sand volleyball court.

My office was inside the gym, and I also had a bootblack; a guy who shined shoes. Villa worked in the rec yard, and was always there late. Sometimes, he was the only one in rec, as he worked with leather goods in the craft shop. Sometimes, when it was just the two of us, we shot the shit, and told stories, etc. It's how I found out how he was in prison (killing his girlfriend and her husband when he walked in on them having sex).

There was supposed to be a coach in charge of the rec yard, but at the time of my hiring, there hadn't been a coach in some time. So inmate Villa was the default guy, because he had worked in the rec yard the longest. Any questions we had, we asked him. That's not the way it's supposed to be done, but that's the way we did it. In some ways, I feel that I learned how to do my job from this inmate. I was 20, and pretty naive when I started there, and this guy seemed fairly rehabilitate; and I'd like to think that sort of thing is still possible.

Well, after I'd been there for some time, they hired a coach. I didn't know the guy very well, and I don't know how well he knew his job, and it appeared to me that inmate Villa trained the new coach too. One of the jobs in the rec yard, was to monitor the craft shop. Staff could contract an inmate to make things, and the staff would write up a contract, get it approved by the captain, and then the officer would pay the front office the contracted amount, and the inmate would receive funds for the work they did. It's how I got my girlfriend's leather jacket airbrushed with the Changeling the dreaming symbol for $20 when it was probably a $300 job. Because there was no coach, Villa did the legwork and helped me get the contract made.

Later, when the Coach got hired, Villa taught him how to do contracts. Several months later, some officers transferred in from another institution. They were extremely impressed by Villa's leatherwork. They got him and the coach to sign off on taking examples of his work to their former institution and show it off to their buddies at the old job.

Normally this would have been fine, but we had recently hired a new Assistant Warden, Major D.C. Cole. Cole came from Connally Unit, the prison famous for the Texas 7 escapes. Cole was West Texas born, total cowboy, and fairly short, with what seemed to me to be a Napoleon Syndrome, which I've found to be fairly common among prison guards and the like.

So these officers are coming back from their old institution with a bunch or ranger belts and shit, and they bump into Major Cole and he throws a shitfit. He doesn't care that these things have been inspected and approved by other staff, and that this sort of thing is done all the time (and actually legitimately, not in the "well, we do it all the time" way that is totally full of shit). He just sees something he doesn't like, flips out, and because Texans like this guy don't believe in backing down or admitting they make mistakes, he has to take this all the way.

He verbally reprimands the officers, writes up the coach for something stupid, and then gives the orderly a shot (a written report of violation of the unit rules). Normally not a big deal, but this inmate is like a trustee, and basically a therapist or counselor to other inmates that are part of the drug-treatment in this facility. He's allowed to do this work as long as he stays out of trouble. There are different levels to shots, and this particular shot is of a level that basically kicks him out of the program he's been working with for the past ten years. That also means he's being sent to another unit.

When I arrived to work after my days off, I found out what happened. My first assignment for the day was to take Villa into the storage area, and have him pack up the past decade's worth of possessions that he has accumulated, and box it up for shipping to his new institution. It was a slow, painful process. Like watching a dog that someone had beaten lick its wounds.

It took hours. He had so much property, it hurt to watch. I'm not sure how long it had been, when I noticed he was crying. This murderer was crying because he had no idea how his life was about to change. He had one thing he could count on, every day being the same, year after year, and now the rug was being pulled out from underneath him.

I decided to go to the vending machine and bought myself a snack. I asked Villa if he wanted anything. That's extremely illegal.

I said I was buying myself a coke and a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Would he like one. He looked up at me and said yes. I bought him one. We sat there, quietly, and ate our snacks. He thanked me. I said I was sorry that I couldn't do anything else. He nodded, and went back to packing up his property.

Later than night, I went home. My girlfriend at the time, aka baby mama, never understood my job. She never seemed to realize that it was pretty dangerous. She never quite got that I got paid shit for putting myself at risk, so we could pay her mom's rent and feed the kid. She was never really sympathetic to me when I said I had a hard day. That night was different.

I went home, and asked her to hold me. I cried. It hurt so much do do that job that day. I told her, and I'll never forget it. I said, "We are not the good guys." ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321428#Comment_321428 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321428#Comment_321428 Sat, 14 Jan 2012 08:04:16 -0800 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321591#Comment_321591 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321591#Comment_321591 Sun, 15 Jan 2012 19:03:26 -0800 Jamie Coville
I'm sure you got some funny ones. I've got a friend who worked in the kitchen at maximum security prison. A couple of times he told this funny story. Among his duties was to deliver meals to guys who had misbehaved and weren't allowed to go to the cafeteria. With him was a guard. They go to the one inmates cell and open the slot. The inmate throws some piss out. Most of it missed my friend but some got on the guard. "Ha ha, you got piss on you!" he yells.

So, no meal for him. They take it away. The guard then asks my friend if he has any apple juice. He does and gives it to the Guard. He pours it in a squirt bottle. Guard goes back down to the cell. The cell has two doors, a thick steel one and inside that another steel doors with bars on it. He opens up the first door and through the bars squirts the inmates cell full of Apple Juice. My friend is perplexed. The guard tells him to come back in a few hours to see why.

So towards the end of his shift he goes down to the inmates cell. He see's the inmate screaming because it's full of fruit flies. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321647#Comment_321647 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=321647#Comment_321647 Mon, 16 Jan 2012 06:05:58 -0800 government spy
Most of the things that happened to me did not occur because I was skilled, or due to planning, or anything within my control. Most of the time, I was simply at the right place at the right time. On a few rare occasions, I have been at exactly the right time and place in which I was able to aid in saving a person's life. It's only happened a couple of times, nothing compared to what EMT's and other first-responders do, but it has had a very large impact on me each time.

Once, while working as a security guard/supervisor in a high rise luxury apartment complex in downtown Chicago sometime around 2002, I responded to a resident who called and said they needed an ambulance. 911 was called, and I got keys to gain access to the apartment for the EMT's. When I got to the apartment, the young woman inside was screaming for help. I entered the apartment and saw a woman, curled up on the floor, vomiting. She had been doing that for some time, apparently, because her vomit had that bile-like yellowish-liquid looking color. She was doubled-up, and in extreme pain. I called 911 again, for advice.

I had approached the woman to let her know help was coming, and asked her for all of her systems. (As this was 10 years ago or so, I don't remember them very well) I told the 911 operator the systems they warned me to keep her conscious no matter what. I told the girl that she had to stay awake, so I had her sit up, and helped her hold the bucket she was getting sick in. She was crying, and in a lot of pain, and yet, I could see her getting drowsy. I had to keep her awake. A few times she asked me to leave; to leave her alone, but I couldn't. I yelled at her, and a couple of times I shook her, just enough to keep her conscious. It wasn't easy, and I could see what bit of her was conscious was getting mad at me.

Time goes so slowly in an emergency. I'm sure the 911 responders were fast, but it felt like forever. Eventually they showed up, and got her on a stretcher. I told them everything that the girl had told me, and what the 911 had said. The EMT's told me that if I had let her fall unconscious that she probably would have died. I still don't know what was wrong with her.

Just as they were taking her out, she asked me to call her fiance. Then they were gone.

It took me a little while, but I found an address book. Because not a lot of people list their boyfriends or fiancees down as such, I couldn't find him. But I did find her parents and I called them long distance to Germany on my cell phone to tell them their daughter was in the hospital. They explained her fiancee was out of town but that they could reach him. They thanked me, and I cleaned up the girl's vomit and I left.

About a month later, I was at the security desk, and this girl walks up. I didn't really recognize her, but she handed me a card, and a box of candies. She didn't stay long, but she thanked me and walked off. I never really saw her after that. I shared the candies with my co-workers. It felt kind of odd. I don't quite know how to explain it. I was eating chocolate that someone gave me for helping to save their life. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=322583#Comment_322583 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=322583#Comment_322583 Thu, 26 Jan 2012 08:20:16 -0800 Cameron C. Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=322918#Comment_322918 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=322918#Comment_322918 Mon, 30 Jan 2012 12:33:32 -0800 government spy
Back in Chicago, I knew a paramedic. I told him I was about to get hired at the Federal Prison downtown. He told me that he had to respond to a 911 call there once.

The call was an inmate having a heart attack in the visitation room. He was escorted up the elevator to the visitation room, where he saw a 50-ish white man on the floor clutching his chest. Kneeling next to him was an obvious over-the-top mafia wife stereotype, holding him in her arms, crying.

She was screaming, "King! Don't die on me King!! Oh, God, don't die on me..."

The inmate looks up at the lady, and in an Al Pacino-type accent screamed back at her, "Shut Up You Fucking Bitch!! I'm Fuckin Dyin' Here! You Gave Me A Goddamn Heart Attack!"

He said it was hard to try and work, because he had to try so hard to keep from laughing. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323007#Comment_323007 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323007#Comment_323007 Tue, 31 Jan 2012 08:54:22 -0800 flecky Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323288#Comment_323288 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323288#Comment_323288 Fri, 03 Feb 2012 12:45:58 -0800 sellmeyoursoul
If at some point you do decide to do something formal with them, I'd be happy to read through with my red pen and give notes. I'm all good with words and stuff. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323346#Comment_323346 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323346#Comment_323346 Sat, 04 Feb 2012 11:50:10 -0800 government spy
Rockford, Illinois, 1999. I'm 19, and it's shortly after my pregnant girlfriend left for Texas. I'm living in my Dad's crackhouse, and Live Action Role Playing Vampire: The Masquerade downtown on Tuesday evenings. I'm off and on unemployed. One of the gamers, a mid-thirtiesh guy (now I can't remember his name, I'll call him David) invites me to read my tarot. Sure, whatever. What I don't know is the guy is drunk and basically he just throws tarot cards at me, and rambles about what each one means. I have no idea if anything was remotely close to accurate, but he impresses my 19-year-old brain when he tells me that he's a druid and he wants to train me.

A week later, it's some famous huge meteor shower, and he invites me to do some ritual. The more I write this, the more homosexual it sounds. Not being a total idiot, I invite a friend to watch my back, but I'm too interested to NOT go. David also brings a friend. We drive somewhere way out in the woods, and then hike on a railroad track farther into the woods. At some point it is mentioned that we are in some farmer's property, and that farmer shoots trespassers. We keep hiking. The other friend plays the harmonica as we hike.

We get to a railroad bridge over a small river or large creek. My buddy and the other guy sit down and David and I climb down under the bridge. David asks me to find some plant, and I gather a little over a half-dozen of it. We build a small fire, and David chants something, and asks me to repeat it three times, as I toss a piece of the plant in with each repetition. I stumble over part of the first part, and I keep going, pretending not to notice. It was supposed to be a three-part protection from earth, air and water.

David tells me there's a path through the woods he's looking for, but he can't find it. He tells me to go in the woods, and find something that I'm looking for. He says since there isn't a path, to just go in anyways. He hands me a dagger, to help look at the brush and thorny bramble, cover my face, and jump into the brush. I come out on the other side, unscathed, not a mark on me. I walk around for a few minutes, completely confused as to what I'm doing. "Find something I'm looking for?" It's ridiculously yoda-like, yet makes far less sense. Exasperated, I look up at the sky. I can see the moon perfectly, with the end of some small branch hanging directly in my view of the moon. It looks to be in a Y-shape. I muse that it reminds me of a dowsing rod. I think for just a second, and decide that must be what I'm looking for.

I climb the big tree without missing a beat, and when I get to the top, I see that my dowsing rod is actually a dead branch hanging right on the edge of another branch. I edge out on the branch and grab it. Then, I realize, I'm at the top of this tree, with some long dagger in one and and a dowsing rod in the other. I'm a good fifteen feet up in the air, and I can't climb down.

I put the dagger in my teeth and the rod in my belt loop, grabbed the branch and dropped down. When I spun over the side, I could feel the bark scraping my arm. When I landed, it felt like my whole arm was scraped up, but it was only a very small part. I pulled out the dowsing rod, held it in front of me, closed my eyes and started walking. I looked up a minute later, and I was walking through a path i hand't seen before; it led to the creek. I followed the creek back up to David and the campfire. I told him what had just happened.

I led David back up the trail, and he showed me where a tree had fallen, and the branches had grown into the ground. There was just enough room for a person to crawl under and sit down. David explained that I should sit under the tree and wait. I asked him what I should wait for, and he told me that I'd know it when I saw it.

As I sat there, waiting, I closed my eyes and my body felt like it was tingling all over. When I opened my eyes, I could see something ahead of me. It defies description, what I saw. There was a tree a few yards ahead of me, but the trunk had hollowed out, and then reformed above it, creating a small gap inside the tree. Inside was a roughly oval-shaped shining light of color, made up of all colors and none, made up of colors I had never seen before. It was luminous, and yet calm and peaceful.

It was at that moment, while I sat watching what I can only guess was a spirit of nature, I then realized I was covered in insects. Centipedes, spiders, crickets, beetles, you name it. Instead of freaking out, I sat there calm. I don't know how long I sat there, but I heard a noise, and turned to see David coming towards me. I glanced back, and the light was gone.

David motions for me to follow him, and to be quiet. He quickly explains that he thinks the farmer who owns the land is nearby. We head up to the tracks where the rest of the group are waiting. While we hiked to the car, I notice the three guys are itching. I ask what's the matter, and they say they got eaten up by mosquitoes. The ask if I had been eaten up. I hadn't. Not one bite.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention I was also really high during most of that. So take any parts of this story with a grain of salt, you know? ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323413#Comment_323413 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323413#Comment_323413 Sun, 05 Feb 2012 11:11:40 -0800 government spy
I was a senior in high school in 1996-97, and I hated most of my classmates. I had many more friends that were juniors though. During that year, it was announced that our school was to given mandatory uniform standards. Not for my class, but after my class graduated, they would begin the uniform rules. My friends were really pissed, and so was I. My graduating class could care less. I've always been the guy that roots for the underdog, so I decided to start some kind of protest. The idea was to wear the suggested uniforms, but I had made laminated bar-code name tags, with our names replaced with numbers, and instead of the school name as East High School, I wittily changed it to East High Security Prison (looking back on this from where I am today, that's hysterical).

On the day of our protest, no one dressed up except me. A few people wore the bar-code name tags, but for the most part, I stood out as a kid in a black suit. Actually, a few girls were suddenly interested in me that normally didn't give me the time of day. But that wasn't the point! I was trying to make a statement!

Later, at lunch, I realized I was broke. Someone suggested that I strip in my uniform to make lunch money. I laughed it off. Then some girl offered me $5. Then another girl offered money. Then there was $20 on the table. I started dancing.

I climbed on top of the lunch table, in the middle of the cafeteria, in front of a couple hundred students, and danced wildly. I took off my tie, unbuttoned my collar button, and danced lewdly with the tie in a strategic move.

From across the cafeteria, I see the Assistant Principal motion for me to get off the table and come talk to him. He asked me what I was doing, and I told him, honestly. He told me to come to the office. I explained I still had one class left for the day. He suggested that after class I report to the office. I agreed, and went to class.

Upon arriving in class, the teacher received a phone call for me to report to the principal's office. After I explained to the teacher what happened, she made arrangements for me to go after class again. So I show up after class, and the Assistant Principal isn't there. Instead it's two different (and female) assistant principals. They ask me what happened; I explained, honestly. They told me I should dance on their table. We laughed. I told them I didn't dance for free, if they wanted me to dance, I would need cash up front. We laughed. They told me I could go.

When I got home, my parents were waiting for me. They were pissed! They wanted to know what I had done at school that day that got me suspended for a day. I looked shocked, and had no idea what they were talking about. They called me a liar, and wanted the truth. After a few minutes, I explained the only thing I had done that day, about how it was funny and everyone had laughed and it was no big deal. It took about an hour of explaining, that seriously, that was all I did that day that I could have gotten in trouble for. My mother set up an appointment with the assistant principals the next day to clarify things.

At school the next day, we sat in a meeting with one of the assistant principals who had tried to make me dance for her. She was all serious today, with charges of (not kidding) indecent exposure, reckless behavior, and extortion.

1. Indecent Exposure??? I was wearing a suit & tie, and I had taken off my jacket, my tie, and undid the button at my collar. I was still more dressed than most of my classmates. Unless I had the world's sexiest neck, how the fuck is that indecent exposure???

2. Reckless Behavior: I was on a table, dancing. I could have injured myself or others. I couldn't really argue that. Schools typically don't want their students gyrating on top of cafeteria tables.

3. Extortion?? Really? I guess they assumed I was so hideous, that I threatened to strip my clothes off unless people paid me their lunch money. My pale skin that had never seen the sun's rays would blind onlookers as if they had gazed into an eclipse, or seen Conan O'Brien naked.

At the end of the meeting, they left me with reckless behavior, and I just got a minor slap on the wrist and a free day off of school. I met my buddies for lunch, and my parents actually apologized for thinking I had done something seriously wrong, when the principals had obviously over-reacted. They still thought I was high off of my ass though. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323458#Comment_323458 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323458#Comment_323458 Mon, 06 Feb 2012 01:57:50 -0800 D.J.
And pretty much everything everyone else said about the stories being good and publishable and junk. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323667#Comment_323667 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=323667#Comment_323667 Wed, 08 Feb 2012 08:13:55 -0800 lampcommander Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=324131#Comment_324131 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=324131#Comment_324131 Mon, 13 Feb 2012 10:34:34 -0800 government spy
One weeknight, I'm doing rounds and I'm headed towards the lobby of Tower 3, and through the glare of the lobby entrance way, I see movement. It's dark, and hard to see, but I think I see a woman waving at me. She was 30-ish, African-American, and waving at me. Behind her, I see an African-American male grab her from behind and drag her backwards towards the elevator bay.

I stop in my tracks and do a double-take, because I don't believe what I'm seeing. I step closer and look carefully, and the man sees me and lets the woman go. She dashes out of the lobby, arms flailing over her head, screaming in something that sounded like a Jamaican accent, "HE'S TRYING TO RAPE ME!!!" and she runs towards Tower 4, which is a dead-end.

So then the man comes out of the lobby door, and he also talks in a Caribbean-type accent, "Hey! Why you interrupt me? I was bein ro-man-tic with my wo-man!"

I kind of cock an eyebrow at the guy, and say in my best Chicago accent ever, "Look buddy, I don't know where you're from, but that ain't romantic where I come from." We start arguing, and then slowly, I can can hear the woman screaming, growing louder as she approaches from down by the dead-end.

"..........aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

"HOW DO I GET OUT OF HERE???" as she runs past, arms still over her head, flailing as she runs. The man turns and follows her, running and yelling for her to come back. I turn and run, and we begin approaching the security station. My supervisor, a former Sargent from a prison in Puerto Rico is calmly leaning on the desk, his chin propped in his hand as he watches the odd pair run past and down the escalator.

I try to explain what is happening and that we should call the police. He tells me no, and explains the woman is a hooker, and the same guy pays her to come up to his apartment almost every week. And every week, after he gives her money, she balks at getting on the elevator, they argue and she leaves. Sometimes he chases her. I still suggest calling the police, and he points to the big picture window on the other side of the hallway. Looking out over Jackson Street, we can see the couple chasing each other up and down the block. He said we used to call the cops on them, but nobody spends more than a night in jail, and then he still offers her money for sex every week, she still takes his money every week, and she still balks at going upstairs every week, and on and on. So we just stay out of it.

@Lamp I'm at 43,232 word count, so roughly doing the math you gave me earlier, I'm just under 150 pages. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=324500#Comment_324500 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=324500#Comment_324500 Fri, 17 Feb 2012 07:15:54 -0800 government spy
I'm just barely 20, just moved into Austin. My baby mama was still pregnant with my daughter, and I had just gotten off a bus from Chicago. Baby mama and her mom were staying with her mom's cousin, and the cousin's son Jeff let me stay on his couch for $50 a month. Before I got a job, I could catch a bus to the plasma center and sell off liters of plasma twice a week for $20 a pop, and a little extra if you got tetanus shots added to it. They hook you up to a machine which drains your blood, sucks the plasma from it, and pumps the ice cold blood back into your body. Then they give you a cookie.

Later on, I walked around the neighborhood and found a job at a Texaco. I made crap for pay, but I could pay my rent without feeling woozy all of the time.

So we're broke, and the kid's born, and I'm useless. One night, I'm working at the store, and I'm cleaning up. Down next to the safe, I found a safe drop envelope. I kept cleaning, and bent down to sweep dust into the dustpan and slipped the envelope into my pocket. I went in the back to empty the dustpan and took the envelope into the bathroom. I counted the money. $2000. We were dirt broke with a baby girl. I counted it again. I called my girlfriend, but got no answer. I decided that was a sign, and quickly walked over to the safe and dropped the envelope inside, removing the source of temptation.

Later, the boss called, and I mentioned finding the money. He just kind of shrugged it off, saying something to the effect of "Oh yeah, I was wondering where that went," and didn't even thank me. A month later, the manager offered to let me go home early and close my register for me. My register turned up short about $80 and I got fired. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=324638#Comment_324638 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=324638#Comment_324638 Sun, 19 Feb 2012 06:03:29 -0800 government spy
I'm at home, and she calls me and tells me she's on her way. I wait a half-hour, then an hour. Whenever she stopped snorting for any amount of time, her reaction time slows down and she forgets things. Makes her a bad driver. I started worrying.

So I'm in the living room, watching TV, and just outside, I hear tires screech and then a loud BAM!!! Right outside the door. I just know it's her, it has to be her, shit why did I make her quit speed oh shit she's fucking dead, and then I'm flying out the door, barefoot, to see a minivan has plowed right through the side of a sedan. Ok, it isn't her, but now I'm standing at the driver's side, my feet in broken glass, and I can see the driver. His head kind of rolls back, and he looks at me and weakly says "help." I look inside the ruined sedan, and there's a lot of blood. Too much. I tell him I'll call 911 and that I'll be back.

I run back to the house, call 911 and they already know about the accident. I slip on my boots and as I'm going out the front door again, another car drives up right onto the front lawn. I see two punk kids, older than me, two guys from the local rival faction of punks in town. We hate each other, and always get into fights whenever we see each other. One looks at me, and says "What happened?" and I tell him the driver's dying; I just called 911. They ask if they can do anything and I say I doubt it and there's like this weird moment where we just kinda nod at each other and they take off.

I get back to the driver and now there's a crowd. A few minutes later an ambulance pulls up. I kind of fade farther back, and eventually I watch them take the driver out on a stretcher with a sheet over him. They put him in an ambulance and drive off. A couple wreckers show up and tow away the vehicles. An hour maybe after the wreck, and there's just broken glass and bits of metal on the street in front of my house. (in case you're wondering, I have no idea what happened to the other driver. They weren't in the van when I looked, I never saw them, and don't know what happened with them. *shrug*)

I'm kind of shell-shocked, and I wait inside. The TV's on, but I'm not really watching it. The girl calls and says she's at the hospital. There's been some kind of small accident, and her friend is in the ER getting stitches. She's vague about details but says she'll come pick me up.

A half hour goes by and I start walking towards the hospital. It's a bit of a walk, maybe 45 minutes later, I walk up to the hospital, and she's walking out with two friends. One of them has his hand bandaged. I know the kid, he's an idiot. I ask what happened. Apparently, she had borrowed a fighting knife from a friend. The idiot kid wanted to see it. She said no. He put his hand on the blade to grab it (I told you he was an idiot) and she pulled back and cut his hand open.

I ask to see the knife. I take it from her. I start walking away. She's yelling at me. I set the knife on the curb, and I step on it, breaking the knife. I calmly tell her she doesn't get to have knives anymore (this is not the first stupid incident with her and knives). This became part of the reason for the NO SHARP THINGS Rule. I go home. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327539#Comment_327539 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327539#Comment_327539 Sat, 24 Mar 2012 05:33:07 -0700 government spy
Almost 6 months since the fiancee quit drinking, about almost 4 weeks since I proposed marriage.

Am I slowing down? Maturing? Not getting into ridiculous incidents because I'm actually trying to live a somewhat respectable normal life? Somehow that seems a little depressing. Like I'm not as exciting as I used to be. Not as interesting.

Now, this doesn't mean I want to go running outside setting things on fire, getting kicked out of clubs or bars and getting into fights in the streets with drunks and cops or anything...

It just makes me look at the way things are and wonder what has changed. Is it me? Have I changed so much? Has my environment changed, or the friends around me? I think it's a mix of everything, and of just plain getting older. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327646#Comment_327646 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327646#Comment_327646 Sun, 25 Mar 2012 13:25:27 -0700 icelandbob
Holy shit...... ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327813#Comment_327813 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327813#Comment_327813 Tue, 27 Mar 2012 08:21:56 -0700 lampcommander
I love your stories and how you seem to be a genuinely warm, normal and nice person in spite of everything that's happened, but some of those stories sound like people I know who either change, or end up dead or in jail. It shouldn't be a bad thing that you don't do the stuff you did when you were younger. I no longer drink two forties a night while eating fried chicken and playing NES like I did in college, but I can't say that that's not a very good thing. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327966#Comment_327966 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=327966#Comment_327966 Wed, 28 Mar 2012 09:54:12 -0700 government spy
At the moment I'm half-remembering being at a warehouse/loft party, and later smuggling a bunch of beer into some bar to see some girl I half knew play punk rock DJ, and getting me and at least another girl kicked out, also somewhere that night involves practice kendo swords. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=328983#Comment_328983 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=328983#Comment_328983 Sun, 08 Apr 2012 11:41:48 -0700 government spy
So they grab a bunch of Mickey's 40s, and I buy myself some hard cider malt liquor. Yeah, I know.

So we get back to my place and THE DRINKING COMMENCES. A couple hours in, the oldest of the group, by his own description, a very hard drinker, finishes at least one 40, and wants to try one of my ciders. I'm always a good host, and I give him one. They guy is drunk, fast. After pretty much hitting on my girlfriend all night (which she thought was "cute", but ultimately harmless) all of a sudden he comes out of the closet and wants to suck his bandmates dicks. As he was supposed to be crashing on the futon with one of them, now none of the guys will sit anywhere near him. He ends up stumbling up the back stairs and puking in the yard, and eventually passing out on my futon. The other guys slept, huddled on the other side of the room (for mutual protection, I assume) in sleeping bags.

The following morning was extremely funny for me as Mr. Drunky didn't remember much but his bandmates wouldn't look him in the eye or talk to him. Funny for me, really akward for them. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=328986#Comment_328986 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=328986#Comment_328986 Sun, 08 Apr 2012 12:08:22 -0700 government spy
The phone rang.

My mom answered it and talked for a minute. Her jaw dropped and she looked very surprised. I asked her what happened.

She said, "That was your Dad. He said that Miami dug a hole under grandma and grandpa's house and had a bunch of puppies!" When I got older, she explained, not only did my dad say what happened, but he had used the exact same words as I did, the exact same way. It was pretty much a given that one of those puppies was to be mine.

So we go see the puppies. Miami was a pure golden color, that light yellow gold. Every single puppy in that litter was a fluffy black and white. Except for one. The smallest one, the runt. He was tan, with black ears and snout, somewhat german shephard markings. Mine. I named him Shep.

I read a lot of books as I grew up with Shep, and I learned to raise him as if I were his pack alpha. Some tough love, but he responded very well to it.

One day, a neighborhood kid was throwing rocks & firecrackers at Shep. He had run to the edge of his chain, at the end of the driveway, and was inches from this kid, who kept throwing stuff at the dog. He was just getting more and more furious. I was coming home from school, and could see this from down the street, but couldn't get there in time. The chain broke free of its base, and Shep mauled the kid. He got bit a few times, nothing life threatening, but I'm sure it hurt like Hell. We were threatened with having him put down, but eventually we just had to lock him up for 10 days. Kids tended to stay away from him for a while.

In the middle of the night, one night, I woke up hearing barking. Same kid, with a group of other kids, running down the street carrying a pitbull in their arms. My parents had Shep by the chain, and were hosing him off under the driveway light. There was blood all over the side of the house, almost up to the second story. Shep was covered in blood. His tan/blonde hair looked a deep red. I heard them saying things like "Where's it coming from? Where is he hurt?" and they couldn't find where he was bit. I pointed at his ear, which was partially torn off, and just hung by little more than a thread. They found one bite on him, the pitbull only got his ear.

We figured out the rest later. Pitbulls go for the throat. Shep had this giant almost lion's mane around his neck, that must have made it impossible for the pit to bite his neck. We found big tufts of hair missing from his mane. As Shep massacred this pitbull, it couldn't find anywhere to attack, and eventually out of desperation went for the ear. We later learned that pitbull didn't make it through the night. It's sad when owners use their animal for something like that, and then want to blame their animal's injuries on someone else. Shep was chained to the garage, and they sicked their loose pitbull on him. I feel bad for the animal, but not the owner. My problem was I was starting to worry about Shep being so violent.

Problem was solved when we moved, and got Shep a big backyard. He could run around to his heart's content, without fear of other dogs or kids teasing him. It was great, except he was a barker, and a howler.

One year, our favorite neighbor couple moves out, and this jackass moves in. He hates our dog. Yeah, he barks and howls a lot. But he stops people from breaking into the garages in the alley. More than once, neighbors and ourselves were alerted to people trying to rob our garages because of Shep's barking. But this other neighbor, he won't stop complaining.

I come home from school one day, there's about a foot of snow on the ground. Normally Shep meets me at the gate, but I can see him running circles around the backyard, over by the pine tree. I can see blood. Fresh. I get closer, and there is a heart laying in the snow. Shep, famous for eating anything, and I mean anything, from his own fur to cat poop, won't touch this heart. He's running around it, and barking at it.

I call the police, and they get rid of it but don't care if there's poison.

A few weeks later, I find more meat in the yard, but this time I catch Shep eating it.

Shortly after that, he has a stroke, and can't move. We have to put him down. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=329037#Comment_329037 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=329037#Comment_329037 Mon, 09 Apr 2012 08:40:23 -0700 lampcommander
I love dogs and have two myself. I've heard stories like this before and there are few things that make me want to harm my fellow humans worse. I would have had to talk myself down from going over to that guy's place with a baseball bat and forcing a confession out of him. And of course it makes me glad now that I'm an adult and I can keep my dogs inside when I'm gone.

RE: the punk band story, a buddy of mine who was in the Houston punk scene in the early 90s claimed that most skinheads were gay--there was a group of queer skinheads that fought the real skinheads, sure, but he said a lot of the real skinheads were closeted gays as well. Can you support that? ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=329606#Comment_329606 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=329606#Comment_329606 Sun, 15 Apr 2012 06:05:57 -0700 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=331986#Comment_331986 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=331986#Comment_331986 Thu, 17 May 2012 10:53:26 -0700 government spy
My father was in and out of work, quite a bit, and couldn't seem to hold down a job. I was 10 or 11, that early pre-teen age. Anyways, about every other weekend, I would sleep over at his apartment or his house, wherever he was staying at the time.

At one point, he got a job cleaning up a country and western bar called the Circle K. So Saturday morning, after I woke up, he would take me to this shitty little redneck bar while it was closed, and he'd take out the trash full of bottles & cans and ashtrays and sweep & mop the floors while I sat & read comic books or played the claw machine (in which case I eventually learned to beat this one, and won every stuffed animal, cheap plastic beer mug, and every craptastic wristwatch that they had).

Upon remembering and discussing this period of my life with my fiance, she remarked that it was very depressing. *Shrug* maybe it was.

Today, knowing what I know about my father, his drug and alcohol addiction, and his personality, I think back on that time, and I think my dad was brave.

How ashamed I would be to have my only son watch me as I cleaned up bar trash. How easy it would have been for my father to bail on that job. That guy quit just about everything he ever started. But he tuffed that out, for as long as it lasted, and he took me to work with him every weekend that I stayed with him. Yeah, on one hand, it could sound quite depressing. But I choose to look at it another way, that somehow, my Dad got up off of his ass and went to work, even if it meant he felt ashamed or embarassed, even if it was degrading work. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=333246#Comment_333246 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=333246#Comment_333246 Sun, 03 Jun 2012 11:07:23 -0700 government spy
The whole time I lived with my folks, it felt like they didn’t trust me. I was a good student, and until about my junior year, I was pretty trustworthy. Personally, I feel like their lack of trust in me, and their over-reactions to honest mistakes made me feel like if I was going to be treated like a bad kid, I might as well start acting like it. That way I would actually deserve whatever punishments they threw at me, instead of always feeling like I was so oppressed all of the time.

Anyway, so while I was a sophomore in high school, I met this guy Penticoff, probably one of the first real punk rockers I ever met. They guy gave me a hard time a lot, and fucked with me a lot, but deep down you could tell he was a really good person. I guess that’s why we got a long; I’m very similar. I like having a tough-guy exterior, but deep down my values are very honor-bound and chivalrous. So Penticoff kinda took me under his wing. He would pick me up in his piece of shit car and we’d drive around and check out record stores and t-shirt stores and shit, and generally fuck around town.

But since my parents didn’t trust me for shit, they didn’t let me have access to my own bank account. To withdraw any cash from the account, I needed a parent’s signature on my withdrawal slip. So I usually just forged my mom’s name on my slip and never had any problems. Because I was such a terrible fledgling criminal, I assumed the bank tellers gave a shit who kept signing my slips. So this last time, I decided to forge my Pop’s name, but I wasn’t as good at it as I was with my mom’s. Well, the bank people figured it out, and called my Pop at work, and I got all scared and thought I was going to be arrested, so we burned off.

When I got home, my mother was already there. She had went looking for my checkbook to see how many times I had made these withdrawals and decided to search my room. My weed was out on the table (the whole fucking bag; I hadn’t smoked one bit of it yet); along with two aspirin and a picture of a girl in a swimsuit I had downloaded off the internet.

I got interrogated. When my Pop called my mom about my attempted withdrawal from the bank, she searched my room. I had kept the weed in a fanny pack hidden in a nightstand inside the drawer that spins out sideways instead of opening like a normal drawer. Great hiding space. Unless your mom is the one who gave it to you. Anyway, she also found two strange pills on the floor next to my bed, and a printed girly picture.

The weed was fairly self-explanatory. What my mom really wanted to know was what the pills were. I calmly explained that I had no idea what they were, I assumed they were aspirin I had attempted to take while I had a headache and must have dropped on the floor. If they thought I was a major druggie, I wouldn’t have let good pills go to waste just because they were on my floor. That didn’t help things.

Then came the picture. My mom wanted to know who the girl was. I told her I couldn’t remember; I thought she was pretty and just printed out her photo. Mom wanted to know how long I had been talking to her online. I must have looked pretty confused. I told my mom she didn’t know how the web worked, because I never talked to the girl, I just liked her picture. Thankfully, Pop somewhat stepped in and asked my mom to move on from that one.

They made me flush my weed. They made me flush my weed! I remember hearing Pop say in the other room “that was some really good shit!” and sounded somewhat remorseful. So was I. I regretted not smoking it before they caught me.

Needless to say, I was grounded. My parents had caught the world’s dumbest teenage criminal. They found my weed I didn’t smoke, and stopped me from stealing my own money from my bank account. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=333253#Comment_333253 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=333253#Comment_333253 Sun, 03 Jun 2012 12:36:03 -0700 government spy STP in Chicago

After I had healed from my wrist injury, but before my folks had found my weed, I got a job at a local fast-food/pizza restaurant called Panino’s. It was an alright place; it felt like it was staffed from the cast of Capitol Records, but more hippies-ish. I’d never heard more Phish anywhere in my life. It’s also where I learned to love P-Funk. A couple friends of mine worked there, and I went there for lunch quite often. It was a pretty fun after-school job, and at the end of my shift I usually got to bring a free pizza home.

Right after I got hired, some friends had offered to take me to Chicago to see Stone Temple Pilots. I had only worked there a couple of months, when my folks had found my weed, so I knew my current situation with them was not good enough for them to trust me on an unsupervised trip to Chicago on a school night. I told my folks that I had to work really late. I have no idea if they bought that or not.

So, we hit the road to Chicago. It was a fairly fun show, but that more to do with the friends I was with. It was in a stadium theatre, so you could only see so much. The opening band was Local H, and I kinda liked them, but I was really there to see STP. I think this was the tour after the Tiny Pictures album. They opened with some black guy in an African tribal mask singing, and then several songs later the guy turned out to be Dennis Rodman. About midway in the set, another stage was lowered to the main stage from the ceiling above, and they played an acoustic set from that stage. For all the negative shit about that album, and Scott Weiland, it was a fun show. I’m still not a fan of stadium concerts, but I’m glad I went to that one.

During the show, an older (and by older, I mean mid-twenties) woman kept buying me drinks. She was trying to teach me how to whistle with your finger in your mouth. *shrug* I dunno. I guess we were flirting; my buddies said I could have hit that. *shrug again* I was a kid. Either way, I got buzzed.

So sometime after midnight, I make it home. I try to get into my room through my bedroom window, but it is mysteriously locked. So is the backdoor screen door. And the front door. I had a key, but both doors were secured with latches from the inside. That isn’t normal. They had locked me out. So I had to knock.

My mom opened the door. She gave me a dirty look and said, “We will not argue about this right now.” Then she smelled the beer on me. “For right now, your punishment is that you have to go to school tomorrow.” Then she let me in.

I went to school, hung-over, felt like shit, and suffered throughout the day. I think (except that time on New Year’s when I was like 6) that was my first real hangover. When I got home, I was informed that I would have to quit my job. My parents decided I was too irresponsible to have a job. ]]> Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=334494#Comment_334494 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=334494#Comment_334494 Sun, 17 Jun 2012 18:03:34 -0700 Jamie Coville Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=334647#Comment_334647 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=334647#Comment_334647 Tue, 19 Jun 2012 19:51:14 -0700 Rootfireember Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=334914#Comment_334914 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=334914#Comment_334914 Sat, 23 Jun 2012 08:36:03 -0700 government spy Storytime with GovSpy http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=335693#Comment_335693 http://freakangels.com/whitechapel/comments.php?DiscussionID=10288&Focus=335693#Comment_335693 Tue, 03 Jul 2012 12:58:32 -0700 Rootfireember Sounds like a beautiful time. :D ]]>