“Forgive your enemies but always remember their names.”

— John F. Kennedy

You know, what is most disconcerting about the anxiety-riddled time that we live in, is the fact that when abusive, heavy-handed stupid people try to impose their will on the populace they believe they can force their point of view on us all as well. If anything, the reverse is true. If history has taught us anything, it is that ultimately, freedom will out — like truth and the debunking of lies rising to the surface. It was Goebbels who said “A lie told often enough becomes the truth.” And, the Third Reich would last “A thousand Years.”

Apparently, that didn’t work out too well.

So, liars and abusers, strongmen and dictators rise to the surface and abuse those who are not aggressive or punitive like them. The so-called weak, the disabled, the poor, the not-entitled in our new entitled-only America, the ostensibly Christian superior zeitgeist — has no place, even if you accept the bible. Apparently the not entitled or rich should leave or become slaves to the their Superiors.

Perhaps. But, as Don Ameche once said, “Things Change.” Remember that as you hear the lies intended to sway your vote and swallow it whole.

On a lighter note, here’s a couple of short pieces from my stay in prison, supported by my landlord and pushed by the politicians in the Town of Southampton — for housing the poor and exposing corruption — a vindictive prosecution based upon lies arranged by D.A. Thomas Spota, his associates Thalia Stavrides, Southampton Town Supervisor Skip Heaney and Town Investigator David Betts in the Hamptons. The pedulum did swing in that vindictive prosecution — and the DA was prosecuted partly as a result of my writing and he went to prison.

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Meanwhile as I languished in prison due to this vindictive prosecution, I met a few people:

“Y’know dis place remin’s me a the funeral parlor in Wes’ Palm,” said Cuba.

“What?” I laughed.

“Dis guy Ray, dat I usta ged drugs from. He hadda funeral parlor.” 

“No shit?”

“Yeah, he did a lotta work fa the Haitians. Usta be called Little Haiti.”

“So, you hung out in a funeral parlor?”

“Yeah, but not so much in the business, but, at his home.” 

“At his home?”

“Yeah, he had a whole basement fulla caskets.” 

“With bodies in them?”

“Some a dem. Yeah, he had bodies layin’ aroun’ allova. But, he kept a lotta dem at the parla. But, he was very loose and he kept a lotta urns in his house too. He was high mosta’ th’time.”

“Urns?”

“Yeah, he mixed his business an’ home-life. But, a coupla times people would call ‘im an he’d tell’em ta come by his house.”

“For what?”

“Well, this one time I’m there an’ I’m scorin’ some shit an’ the people come by for their urn. Y’know, they had someone cremated and he jes’ forgot about it. So, he tol’em ta come by his house.”

“Yeah, and?”

“So, he haddan assistant there an’ he says let’s go inta the garage an’ he pulls dis urn off the shelf and breaks it open wid a hammer and tells the guy, ‘Here pud dis innaa urn an’ give it ta dem when ‘ey come tada door. Den he scoops up some’a th’ashes wid a little beach shovel and putsid inta the urn and covas it.”

“Well, whose ashes were they?” I asked.

“I dunno. He din’ eitha. An’ he din’ give a shit. We was both high on dope an’ he jes wanned taget ridda th’ people. Y’know, he charged ’em $900 f’a a cremation. He hadda giv’em dere money’s worth. So, he gave ’em a urn wid ashes an’ some bones it it. He had no idea whose dey were. An’ I think dey was chicken bones from Popeye’s. Da people din’ know an’ ‘ey din’ care. Y’know the people who picked it up? Dey neva figg’id it was anythin’ bud dere’s.”

“Jesus Christ. And, you can’t do DNA on ashes can you?” 

He laughed. “Nah, nobody’d eva foun’ out.”

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January  29th, 2016

“After a morning of frigid walking in the Yard, my sinuses were suffering. The entire dorm was a coughing, sneezing, spitting, cursing sea of beds. Not simply because they were sick, but  because the heating system was hot air with no windows open. Wood wouldn’t allow it.

Forced hot, dry air heat without humidity was a killer. It dried out the nasal passages and forced our bodies to produce histamines. Which caused nasal drips and lung infections. Jimmy was sick and Cuba made him tea with honey.

“Yeah, Cuba did a nice job. I feel better already. But, y’know bro, I gotta geddoutahere.”

“I know Jimmy. You have a family to live with?”

“Yeah. Me and my sister. My brother’ll get out soon.” 

“He in jail?”

“My brother?” 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my brother’s been in prison for almost 20 years.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, when we were kids, I told you about my mother and father; we was separated and we each were placed with different people. My brother didn’t do so well.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guy was raping him.”

“Who, the one taking care of him?”

“Yeah, he raped my brother starting at the age of 9 years old. Did that for 4 years until my mother took him to the doctor and they checked him out. He didn’t say anything ‘cause the guy said he’d kill him.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well, my brother always said that if he ever found him, he’d kill him.”

“What happened?”

“They prosecuted the guy and he did a few years and then he got out. And, when he did, my brother tracked him down and found him.”

“And,..?”

“Put a bullet in his head. Then he buried him. They gave him 25 flat. He’ll be out in 22 and a half.” 

“Why did they give him so much time?”

“They wouldn’a done it if he din’ lie about it. The cops knew what’d happened to him. But, he hid the body. They finally found it two years later. Some woman was shopping an’ ‘is arm and leg was sticking up someplace near a parking lot. He didn’t bury the guy very well. So, when they found him they knew who it was and even though my sister got the best New York City attorney and paid him $50,000; the best they could get him was 25 flat.” 

“Jesus. After he’d been raped for years?”

“Yeah,  cause he lied to them and buried ‘im and it took ’em 2 years. He coulda gotten 35 years fa that. Dey also neva found his dick and balls. Musta gone ta town on ‘im.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Y’know, I’m just tired of these stupid people. I’m not gonna do this again. I’m done.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he said, “look around.” They were in the Rec room. 

“These people. I can’t do this again.”

Copyright: Confessions from the Gulag