One paragraph story... August 14 edition

You don’t start out bad. There’s no being born bad. You just grow to be bad. My earliest memory was when I was three. I had a cookie. I had not taken a bite out of it yet, and my Dad said he wanted it. I distinctly remember thinking, ‘Well, if he wants it I want to make him happy.” And I gave it to him. Then he hit me. Called me a faggot.That wasn't the moment I started to realize most people are assholes, but it helped. The time I realized most people are here to use you happened in High school when a bunch of kids befriended me only to ask me for some wood for their treehouse. When I told them it was not mine to give they hung out with me for another hour and then never talked to me again. After that day Hight School went from being a place I was scared of to a place I did to everyone first what they were going to do to me. Little Guido everyone picked on whom I picked on harder. Rayna that had the nice eyes that liked me, but was fat so I told her so since she probably was going to date me just to get free gifts from me. Got a job at the Pulp Mill as a labourer. Cleaning up. Moving some such thing from one area to another. No one bothered me so I set up a scheme to move lumber out the back door while adjusting the stock to reflect as if it was never there. Jack, my Boss at the time, found out and wanted in on the action. Before he finished talking the piece of rebar I used to remind him he was only my Boss in spirit convinced him to disappear from my area when I was working. That was my early 20s. Moved on down to Vancouver. Got hooked up in the dope scene. With the bikers. Mostly as a tough, but they seemed to treat me well… until, they let me hang on an arson. Wasn’t even me that set it, but they said, ‘You gotta pay the dues.” So- you stand there and tell me you and your Aryan asshole friends wanna form some kind of union with me? To what? To do what? Nah, I think I’ll be fine right here. I got my own cell. I got my own bunk mate. Say Hi Chuck. Chuck says Hi. Now. Pal. I wish I could tell you I was sorry about my involvement with the removal of your fingers but I’m not. So, take your fingers and get out of my face, I got some Dumas to read.

James C.