Angry face: I have one, too, and it robs people.. OR DOES IT?

Someone said it's alright.. save it now, don't say it for my sake!

Someone said it's alright.. faster now, you know I've got no brakes! - "No Brakes," the Offspring

What did you say? Are you talking to me? .. are YOU talking to ME? Walk on home, boy.. - "Walk," Pantera

You know, when I wrote my first entry on this thing, I did some fairly irresponsible things to your understanding of my situation. First of all, I gave you an impression of singularity, as though I were the only person on this journey, if you can call it that. The truth is, I probably would never have come this far from my comfort zone all by myself. My girlfriend (let's call her Christene, since it's possible that her and I aren't technically legal to be around one another) was the grand architect of this plan, our means to achieve it the result of a vengeful move to exact what I felt was justice for a wrong done to my lady friend and myself. Secondly, I didn't mention that the drunken mechanic with which we stay is her estranged father, responsible for keeping us awhile as we do whatever it is we came to do out here. If I had, it would have been easier to drop little bits of South Carolina life along the way, like the fact that her father Marc bock talks* like a proactive fatherly saint and then completely disregards what he said to her the next day. A great many of these drunken rampages involve Christene's mother in some way, who was shot and killed by her step father twelve years ago, and is a very sensitive subject for her. This is not something to shoot your mouth off about while drunk if you are a fifty something year old dead beat dad who hung up your hat and left before the girl you're talking to was even born, and then proceeded to stay lost on the opposite coast even after her mother was murdered and she began to be tossed about from family member to family member like a puppy for whom there is no room but no real means of humanely discarding. Coupled with the lifelong bachelor's slow realization that this whole "glorious homecoming" thing is proving to be more expensive, difficult and embarrassing than he had anticipated, the situation has slowly deteriorated before my eyes, with Marc transitioning from the doting and involved figure of our first few days to the detached and irritable ass hole that wakes up and makes his chronic broke-ness known all day long until he wraps things up at the shop and takes whatever money he DOES have to the bar to come home and further act like a drunken idiot.

Today, rather than deal with it anymore, I made a suggestion to Christene.

"Hey, you know what?" I said as we killed time like we always do, sitting around the twenty-foot long camper we occupied with Marc, watching movies while I typed away on my allegedly stolen Kindle Fire.

"What, Moose?" she said, invoking the name she had affectionately given me since our arrival at the camper, because I am six feet tall and two hundred pounds and make getting around the camper difficult for her five foot five father and five feet tall self.

"Let's go on a road trip," I told her, and I could feel the swell of excitement as it rose up and bloomed in my chest. "I mean, neither of us is happy here, so let's fucking bounce. Why not?"

"Because they do license checks** in South Carolina," she reminded me, "and neither of us has a license. Or a vehicle, for that matter. Did you think we were gonna hop on a couple of rocks and roll somewhere? They don't make rocks in your size, Moose."

"Obviously we would take the Neon," I said, referring to the vehicle her father always let us drive around town on the beer or Taco Bell runs he frequently sent us on, despite our mutual lack of a license.

There was silence for a moment, and I knew that she was considering whether or not this was actually feasible.

"What about the license checks, and gas?" she asked me quietly.

"They don't do license checks on the interstate, and we could be out of here by the time he realized something was up," I said, and realized that I was being completely serious. "We could do returns*** for gas, babe. Think about it! We lived on the street for years, and no one ever had to worry about gas while we were around."

"I can't do returns at Fred Meyer, anymore," she said, thinking of an incident in Washington in which we had tried to return a few hundred dollars' worth of stuff and failed.

"That was on the West coast," I told her. "There are totally different stores here."

It was true that, on the East coast, not as many places were as "hot" as they probably would have been on the West coast. We were virtually unknown with the police in the area, as well, and Marc's car was not exactly a red-flagged automobile itself. It was perfect.

"Where would we go?" she asked, and I answered almost immediately with what I felt should have been obvious:

"Home."

Marc, bedridden with the 'world's worst cold,' walked by just then and grumbled something about not having any cigarettes, and Cook Out is hiring. I told him I would love to go across town and apply at Cook Out (although he was supposed to have called about ten friends for "sure thing" jobs for both myself as well as Kristen).. and he tossed Christene the keys to the car.

We looked at each other as he walked back into his room, and I started to round up the clothes and miscellaneous belongings we'd left around the trailer; a pair of red sweats, used for a pillow, the few hats I'd left lying around. I considered calling my friend Johnny Marvel, because I'd left my sweater at his house, but instead picked up a sturdy Carhartt jacket I saw lying on the top bunk across the room and stuffed it into the blue bag I kept my stuff in. Christene watched silently, and when I was done, I looked meaningfully at her. We stood there a minute, and I could almost hear the thoughts as they ran through her head: this dumb mother fucker is responsible for seven eighths of the laws I've broken in my lifetime, and now he wants me to drive away from an admittedly dead-end situation and the long lost father I found out I never wanted or needed, in a car that will most definitely be reported stolen, although that doesn't necessarily mean jack shit in my experience.. look at him, he's already stolen the fucking thing, in his head. What the hell is the matter with this guy? Well, I guess we had better get going.

She picked her bag up and we walked outside, a new feeling of excitement and anticipation taking root in me. Sure, why not? It seemed to be the way of things with us, lately; maybe it wasn't right, per se, but hadn't Marco fucked me off on about a thousand levels back in Washington by the time Christene and I (allegedly) robbed him for a quarter pound of heroin and two thousand in cash? Hadn't Marc, who's name is even SPELLED similarly to the Mexican's that we may or may not have robbed, promised Christene the world, telling us to come to this far corner of the country in which we knew nobody and had nothing, where we could scarcely feed ourselves (today we ate a four year old box of dumpling mix we found by chance, mixed with the brackish water from the hose which Marc warned us not to use, though the man had been holding back every last cent he could to drink himself horizontal again when he was supposed to be going to the doctor and left us with no food or cigarettes) and every bright avenue ended in a great brick wall?

So we threw our bags in the back and started the car, as I pointed in the direction I had known was West ever since we first showed up in South Carolina. "I think there's a Cook Out in Everett that's hiring, babe. Let's stop there first, alright?"

*bock talk: "bock" refers to the sound that a chicken makes, as a bad meth addict who sells their belongings is called a "cluck," thus "bock talk" refers to the many promises and good-natured lies a person will tell when extremely high on drugs or, in Marc's case, liquor

**license checks: a sort of check point set up by police in the Carolinas, usually after dark, at which they can pull over any vehicle simply to ask the driver if they are legal to drive

***"returns": refers to shoplifting a few items from a store and taking advantage of their receiptless return policy, which can be done several times in a calendar year by each individual who attempts it, as long as they have identification and the items qualify (sometimes the employee catches on or becomes suspicious, and then you're fucked until you can come up with someone else to make the return). This yields a gift card, which can be used at the gas pump and inside to buy cigarettes or food as well

WARNING: I WAS J/K, THAT STORY WAS DEFINITELY BULL SHIT

Not because I wouldn't, believe me. A guy with a track record like mine and a recently acquired taste for spontaneity needs to vent and stuff once in a while to keep himself out of prison, you know? The facts however, unfortunately, point here: Christene and I have been dealt a pretty rough hand by life, lately. I accept mine with open arms, most of the time; Christene, however, has a harder time with hers. It was for her sake that I began conspiring to come to this place to begin with. As a man, it's my duty to take care of my girl. Marc was impressed with himself for the first few days, and it seemed like a good idea to put trust in him as far as a launch-pad back into the "real world" (as opposed to the "fake world" I have been existing in, I guess). It isn't working out quite how we had planned, but now I seem to have found employment, so it should be okay; that being said, nothing is set in stone yet. Since we can't live like this for much longer, and we might have to live like this for awhile if I don't go back to work framing soon, what comes next? I have never been a temperamental, quick-to-anger sort of person, but more of a slow boil/simmer type, and when a situation comes to its inevitable bitter conclusion, the flames burn hotter because of it. Results like these have stemmed from my unique confrontational skills (disclaimer: these results are based on what may or may not be fiction, and are very alleged and so forth, so if you are a prosecutor you can fuck off and die, baby):

- residential burglary (several times, but this one not that long ago was a very smoked out* one that involved a window that broke for like TWENTY FUCKING MINUTES, which I will detail soon because now I am drunk and it is hilarious)

- trap house destruction (mostly with Kace Cheyes, which you will hear about soon I'm sure)

- armed robbery (another hilarious story which involves pistol whipping and other fun felonious activities)

- financial fraud (WHOOPS Ms. Nettler, where did all your savings go?!)

and worst of all...

- FRIGHTENING THE PIGEONS.

So, what exactly might await us as we make our way deeper into this great, black abyss of unimpressedness and other assorted disappointments?

Well, quite possibly an allegedly stolen car put into a completely fantastical and faulty alias's name, as detailed by the first half of this post.

Let's start this shooting match off with what may or may not be a good example, because it probably isn't but just might be a complete and total fallacy.

EXHIBIT A (or B, since I've already fantasized about what I might do soon, and will make sure to leave YouTube evidence that will probably make me famous as it sends me to prison if that is indeed the case).

It's the only exhibit I have time to post before my buzz runs out, but I think it's pretty fucking good.

Once upon a time in a far away land called Snohomish County, Washington, lived a sometimes mean and sometimes nice lady named Bangel Erry. She had a vendetta against life because she was in the process of becoming totally smoked out and losing her house and kids, and also wanted to impress my brother Wian Olcott, and so after telling me that I could stay with her, she kicked me and my lady friend out two weeks later for no good God damned reason. This is the aftermath, greatly paraphrased up until a certain point...

"Hey Marco, a bunch of my stuff just went missing from the trap house because my lady friend and I may or may not have had a spare copy of the culprit's car key, which we could have but also might not have planned to use in our Great Escape to the East coast after she was a total cunt to us for no reason," I basically said to my boy Marco one day, whispering because I was in a hotel room on the Tulalip Indian reservation that he had paid for, home to one Chelsea Somethingorother that he had deigned to sleep with on the first night and now wanted nothing to do with.

"What does this have to do with me?" he probably didn't ask, but for the purpose of memory and getting right to the point, may have.

"Well, there's this television somewhere in her house.."

And so it was that Marco and I laid plans for him to pick myself and my old lady up from the hotel room he had spent the last twenty-four hours at, sneaking his laptop and other personal possessions out from under the would-be-very-angry nose of Chelsea Somethingorother, a mousey-faced little hood rat** with blonde hair and a bad attitude that looked like she belonged at a book club in a University somewhere and not at all in a hotel room bathroom with a needle in her arm, far too distracted by her fruitless attempts to hit her vein to notice as Christene and I rounded up ours and Marco's belongings and slipped quietly out of the motel room.

We met him at the McDonald's down the street, after he had told us a story to relate to Randi, his wife, about how we had gotten the laptop (something about a guy who was supposed to have brought it to us because of such and such reason and blah blah blah). Anyway, Randi had this REALLY good French Vanilla coffee thing, and Christene and I warmed ourselves with its deliciousness as we rode into the foggy night in the back seat of Marco's gold Cadillac (a very nice vehicle).

Some moron named Woen was in the passenger seat, and his ginger-headed creepiness was unsettling from the very beginning. This weirdo actually ended up stealing three grand from Marco (and made me and my girl suspects) during the incident I am about to describe, when our backs were turned and committed to a heinous act and Randi was walking down the street because of her warrants, like this:

"Marco, I'm going to walk down the street, okay?" said Randi as we pulled into suburbia, where Bangel lived. "I have a felony warrant."

We all agreed that would be best, and dropped her off while we pulled in to the driveway.

Bangel lived in a duplex, the other half vacant for the time being, closely situated beside other duplexes which were not quite so vacant. The neighbors' lights were off on both sides, and that was good enough for me. Christene got out and walked up to the door as we had planned, though Bangel was least fond of her; in situations like these, females tended to be the most disarming to unexpectedly discover standing at your door at three in the morning.

She waved to me after knocking a few times (everyone was apparently still out robbing my only worldly possessions from the trap house), and I got out of the car. Marco, as willing a co-defendant as they come, also got out, leaving Woen by himself to raid the contents of the glove box. I tried the door, and turned to Marco, but he was already off trying the other doors. Suddenly Woen was there, scaling the fence with my girl friend, and my urgent whispers for someone to come and put pressure on the door while I kicked it in went unheeded. Swearing under my breath, I approached the fence as a loud CRACK! pierced the night. "What the fuck was that?!" I rasped, craning my head over the fence. Woen, obviously the overcompensating Happy Helper now, had enlisted my girlfriend's help in attempting to pop the window off of its track, and had succeeded only in putting a great, big God-awful crack in it.

"Dude, we need a--" Woen began, and I could glimpse Marco coming over the fence on the opposite side of the yard. This was turning into a dog and pony show of epic proportions.

"You NEED to put pressure on this door while I kick it the fuck in, dude! Christene, get the fuck--"

"Just finish the fucking job, Dutch!" Marco growled, and we all puzzled over the window for two silent minutes, which gave me time to verify that the neighbors had not awoken, and that was quite alright. In a moment's time there were hands full of tools probing and bending the window, forcing it impossibly in its track this way and that, and a hushed blend of puzzled voices filled the darkness of the back yard.

CRACK!

"Oh what the fuck was that, it didn't even fucking crack anymore than it already has!" I whispered vehemently, deciding that the window was alive and fucking with us now as I hopped repeatedly, peering over the fence at the unchanged windows of the neighbors' house.

Three minutes later, when I had calmed down and stopped trying to herd my girlfriend back to the fence, the window finally gave enough to reach an arm around it and flip the latch, theoretically. I got a stick from the yard, and Christene reached around the Superwindow with it and swatted at the latch. I watched, forgetting to breathe as I wished over and over that someone had just leaned on the fucking door for me.

That's when it happened.

That fucking window gave up the ghost with a shrieking, shattering cacophany of death that reached for the ears of the sleeping, unsuspecting neighbors like Rosie O'donnell for a slice of cake on a giant stripper's ass at a Valentine's day parade. I immediately began to run in circles, and after five minutes of that, that fucking window was not done breaking. It broke until there was no glass in its frame, and the little shardlets of glass broke again on the soft and yielding grass, which bounced them back into the air and broke them again.

Marco grabbed and shook me back to my senses, saying something about how we had to get back to the door because Christene was inside now, and I gratefully jumped back over the fence only to see the dancing beams of flashlights clutched in the hands of small, crying children in the house next door through their open blinds.

I silently cursed every conniving, crafty grain of sand that had been superheated into the transparent surface of that Demon window, which continued to smash and crash and meet its end time and noisy fucking time again in the background as the front door latch bounced and rattled and did not yield for AGES, but finally after what must have been two hours, clicked. The door swung open, and Marco and I ran inside, getting on either side of a flatscreen that was about twenty inches smaller than I remembered. We hurried it toward the door and were jerked backwards as the coaxial cable, still plugged into the wall, resisted our retreat. I cursed audibly as I unscrewed it from the back of the television, and yelled at my girlfriend, who was exploring boxes full of cheap costume jewellery as though we were not about to get booked into county jail for the most retarded, noisy God damnable fifty-dollar burglary I had ever (maybe) committed.

Back at the car....

"Holy shit, dude, that was the most smoked out res burg I have ever had the displeasure of taking part in," I said to the car in general as Randi climbed in about a mile down the road, and the window finally gave its last shattering death rattle in the distance as the door closed and we sped off at what I felt in my speeding little heart was far too slow a pace.

"Yeah, how come no one thought to just kick the door?" Work's retarded, ginger face said, and I stared at him in shocked disbelief for the rest of the drive.

DISCLAIMER #500: This story may have been fictional, or may be totally true, but if you wanted to take me to jail for its possible implications, you would have to spend lots of money to come and get me, ha ha ha, ha ha, joke's on my probation officer, I actually put that dope in my pee during my last drug test so I could imagine the look on your face when you couldn't find me on check-in day.

Ahem, I digress. Make me mad, and I might go to jail doing something totally stupid to your house, but I might also get away and just cost you a lot of money in repairs, which will make you sad and put a smile on my face for weeks to come as I post said incident on my blog.

And now, I sleep.

Take it easy until next time, blogdom.

*smoked out: "on a good one," way too high on drugs

**hood rat: silly little walking vagina, drug slut

In closing, for you "visual learner" types, this is the closest thing I could find to my angry face, although that might not even be me, because it would be naughty for a convicted felon to possess a firearm: