Options to read DS or write Anonymously for SCUM411

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Oh Petty.

Tom Petty - You Don't Know How It Feels (Video Ve…: http://youtu.be/9TlBTPITo1I

Monday, June 25, 2012

I just listen to the voices...

Veronica looked over her shoulder to find the two consorting on what to plunder next.
"Why don't you two just give up," she said in her posh Manhattan ascent with a tone of disgust and disbelief.
"Just go on about your meager telecommunications satellite link attempt and leave the real investigative stuff to us," Pigeon said.
Pigeon grabbed the next set of file folders from the cabinet and began to let her nimble fingers stroke each piece of paper while her eyes roamed the useless information.
"Johnny, all I'm finding is house notes, bank information and utility receipts," Pigeon said. "Maybe this guy just did an up and poof thing."
Johnny only nodded. He was absorbed in his own pile of information. From what Veronica had said, he knew there was some semblance of evidence in this house, or fucking mansion, he grimaced.
Not even returning a look, muttering, "Something will always turn up; we just need to look in the right place."
Veronica slammed her cup on the glass table top, and the sound echoed throughout the empty house like a bullet in the dessert.
"Why the fuck am I sitting here in front of a computer, pulling every file from my lousy Uncle's life, when I could be in New York in the morning, spending money and completely satisfied with my own life? Won't you telll..."
Pigeon didn't even give the spoilt New Yorker the time to pollute the atmosphere with more whining. "Listen, you are the one that called us, crying, totally fringed and frayed, bitching about how you rich uncle disappeared without leaving you the investment money he had promised. You are the one who asked us to come and waste our time to try to sort out a blunder of some overfed, useless moron."
"Damnit, Stop it. Your acting like a bunch of Southern sewing circle women. Just chill the fuck out. We are getting paid, Pigeon. Veronica, you contracted our services. We haven't finished the job, yet." Johnny staunchly stated. "We are all stressed, but Veronica stop bitching and Pigeon, keep your attitude in check."
"Let's just drop it, the bastard will show in a week with a tan and a lousy excuse," Veronica huffed as she reached for her cellular phone.
"Information...Virginia Beach...Lofty Flights..." Veronica said.
Johnny grabbed the phone and handed it off to Pigeon as he held Veronica's mouth shut.
"Sorry we don't know how she got out of her room, we try to keep the patients secured. Hope you do understand," Pigeon said in her most authoritative voice to the operator.
She struggled at first but then decided to sit in her chair speechless.
Her blonde hair slightly in disarray. Her eyes red from starring at the computer screen. Her peach slacks wrinkled from the hours of driving to get to this whole in the wall house her Uncle kept. She almost reeled at Pigeon, but caught the thought before it coagulation. Violence just wasn't her style. Plus she might have to redo her nails and that just wouldn't do.
"Know I know why you like him Pig," Veronica jeered. "Takes control in bed doesn't he."
"Why if Miss Priss..."
"Shut-the-fuck-up, both of you...” Johnny said as he covered cradle of the phone.
"Virginia Beach...China Palace."
He reached in the desk drawer to grab a pencil and an envelope to scribble down the number.
"Pig...your order, k," he said in a sweet and calm tone.
She smirked, knowing that men would become useless coach beings from hell, just given the chance.
"So we know your uncle was into investments which might translate into several of underground, hence illegal type activities, Veronica. If you really think this is useless, then we can drop it, but no deposits are returnable...but it seems that when you called us from his apartment in the Village, you knew it was more. A man's entire apartment doesn't just up and disappear. Not in New York. Yeah, weird stuff happens there but that's real estate baby. I thought you were off your rocker until I saw the numbers skip from 206 to 208. Now because he owns the building, he's got to have records except that was his office and it doesn't exist. Now this is the only listing I could find for any other residential properties through my own means, so the answers here. Somewhere, let's find a motel after we eat and just sleep a bit. It was a long drive."
"Foods on the way," Pig delighted.
"I'm getting my valium from my car," Veronica said.
Johnny watched the door close and pulled Pigeon close enough to whisper.
"Keep your mouth shut, partner. Remember I am the PR man for a reason," he calmly stated.
"Do you know what you just handed me?" Pigeon questioned.
"Phone number to..."
"No, Johnny, look inside," Pigeon said quivering, half with fear, half with excitement.
Johnny grabbed the envelope and peaked hesitantly into the fold. Pictures. 

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Take 3, At 17

“We can escape Efrafra. Believe me.” Watership Down

My sister appeared in front of me, eyes blazing with resentment. The pitch of her voice escalated over the murmur of shoppers and announcements. Her actual words eluded me, however I remember some words grasping at my soul. Words like, “father,” “the pain you cause him,” and “intolerable.” Time tore and space distorted, all I could reply was “What kind of daughter were you to momma?” She didn’t even flinch as she reached back. I felt the sting against my face for only a moment as anger loomed. I could feel the red flashes heat my anger.


“I’m your mother now, your father is married to me. Don’t bring that bitch into it,” my eldest sister, my step-mother retorted.

I’d like to say that I slapped her back or responded with a witty biting remark, but I didn’t. Through the anger of being slapped, I felt more of an ache that seemed ancient in origin. This was the sister that had taught me to dance and picked me up from grade school on our Shetland pony. As I looked in her face, the woman that appeared before me wasn’t that woman at all. I no longer tried to forgive her or her actions. I saw her as the same woman that loaded my father’s gun.

I saw her as defined by her actions. She was now just the half-sister that as she plotted with my father to kill my mother. She was the one that whispered not to tell my mom of anything my father had ever done. I took her out of my heart, and suddenly it felt a little better.


At that moment, I let go. Adrenaline like lava was still coursing through my veins.

I knew that any woman who would willingly stick with a Klu Klux Klan member, who beats and drinks, has no soul, no self, no idea of preservation of life and love. She was supporting the same man who beat her and my mom. My mom stayed until I was six years old. See in 1978, leaving your husband in the south wasn’t exactly supported in the community. There was little legal protection. And when my father realized that he had beat fear into her, but not submission, he and my sister unsuccessfully tried to murder my mother. He didn’t even have the balls to attempt murder while being sober, only after 2 bottles of Jack Daniels did he have the ambition to pull out his fists and guns.

The lingering question I had always pushed away came to light. Did she help him more than loading the guns? Was there more to her actions that what I had seen? She was no longer the sheep being forsaken by a dominant figure. She was the predator too.

All these thoughts flooded into my conscious after years of trying to keep the floodgates strong. I looked over at my manager who looked more surprised, and “I quit.” She said I had to return the uniforms, and at that point, there was no way I would return to that grocery store. I promptly undressed and through the uniform on the stack of boxed stale discount donuts.

I went to my apartment where I roomed with three high school friends.


They weren’t totally surprised about me arriving in underwear, however they were when I announced I was leaving town as I carried my stereo and typewriter to my car. I hocked what I had for $100 bucks, and I headed south.

That evening, I remember watching the sunset, and through the pain and tears, I felt a release I had never known. I sent a mental thank you the roomies that had taken care of me as a little sister.

The guys that had become my big brothers would be the friends that understood me, even if they didn't understand why.

Guys are great that way.

I looked at the sunset, as the colors glistened off the waterway in hues of gold and red. And I cried. I cried not only for my pain, but what it must have been like for my mom to go through that type of situation. I cried because I knew I was as strong as she was, and I cried because I missed her, and I knew I wouldn’t see her for a while.

I took five years, and 23 states to travel through to find out that finding oneself takes a little bit every day.

And as I learned from the sunsets, that real happiness is just a vision that gives something without taking.


Breaking out of hell is hard, but the scars are better than death.

It doesn’t always reside with a foundation of guts or courage. Sometimes, the motivation resides in loosing your mind just enough to know you can’t be the only crazy one; to seek different paths because it is experiences we choose that most shapes us.

As I look back, there was no other way to do it differently because in reality, I had chosen to own my life. Life consumed me for the first time. The mistakes were my mistakes, my own narrative.

Life still laughs at my planning and strategic attempts; it showed me exactly how easy it could be.

And eventually, laughter follows tears.