Tortise & Hare

May 15, 2014

Tortise  n the Hare 1


Tortoise and the Hare: Volume III of the Fables for a New Century Collection

Will need Adobe to view…hope ya enjoy…oh n the picture above is not from the book…jes to be clear.

Anyway hope you get a chance to view this fun little book.

Hemmala hoo there its me and me only, the ol Dysu,  I got a lot of things goin on and so I thought I’d just slap a little bit o whats to come and  the next Chapter of left turn…

Here at Ol’ 409 Enterprises Inc. we are quite proud to announce that we have been nominated fer the Kretive Blogger award…

That’s what really is boggin the process down, wanna make sure the Kreative Blogger award post is…well creative…but it’s comin ya ol cat’s and kittens so just hang in there…

I also have half a post about more “man” stuff finishing up on the thoughts I was rollin with a couple posts back…

And comin soon, hot on the “man” posts heels is an idea I just got from readin a blog I follow it’s gonna be all about my worst two (near)dating experiences…don’t wanna give too much away but one ends with me bloodied…no no you’ll just have to wait…

Okay anyway remember adult themes etc…


Home. To say it wasn’t much would be an understatement. The place used to be a repair shop or a commercial garage. It got turned into an efficiency somewhere in the 80’s ( I guess there was a real estate bubble here in the eighties who would’a thunk it). Anyway, the place was cheap, 325 plus 5o for utilities, and it didn’t have bars; and the toilet was all fucking mine. It’s the little things that count.

Anyway I’d lived here for a little over a month now. I ended up in Wennler the day after I got released from the state pen in Sioux Falls. I was better off than many cons getting out; I had money. Going in I had $2275.00 all together, not a lot but now it was enough to get back out to Cali, or Las Vegas. See I wasn’t planning on staying in South Dakota; I mean God, its South Dakota, but the first ride I got changed my plans.

I guess it will help to know a little of my background. I’m a bad guy, or was a bad guy definitely, pre incarceration, a regular gun wielding wild west type. I rode a bike, but was unaffiliated as it were with any organized group, not that I hadn’t been asked in my early days, I just had trouble with authority, any authority.

I got busted in August of ’83 in Sturgis at the bike rally, distribution, possession, assault with a fire-arm. I was twenty-two. I got forty-five years, which meant I could’a been out in fifteen or so with good behavior. I pulled an extra dime, sorry ten years, early on though fuckin up.

I started getting my shit together after that. I wasn’t going to be like some of these jokers, I didn’t want spend all of my adult life behind bars. I didn’t study law or nothin’ like that. I didn’t really better my life, I don’t know that’s just not my shit, I worked out, did my time; just got through it. The one thing I did change is I started going to church. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t get all Bibley or nothing, didn’t get all weepy with my fellow con’s ‘bout finding their way to the Lord. I still don’t even know if I believe, I want to; but I haven’t seen a lot of evidence of the Good Works in my life.

I was born in Vegas, grew up in a trailer park the second son of a “Show Girl”.  Mom had never married but had a series of boyfriends; who, like her job and her prospects for a happy future grew increasingly sordid and sleazy as the years progressed. The best I could hope for from these men was indifference; but and especially in the later years, violence was just as likely.

We moved, or I should say we were moved to Bakersfield California when I was fourteen by my Mom’s new boyfriend; a “Devils” meth dealer. My eighteen year old brother had left home so I was the now the oldest, Dee, my younger sister was two years younger, and Ronnie was just a little baby. The meth dealer, Carl, was a real ass. He beat my mom, beat the shit out of me, regularly threatened to kill little Ronnie; Dee was the only one he was nice too. Even at thirteen the subtleties of this did not escape me entirely. Carl had regular trade and he and his buddies were moving lot’s of product, which was the one advantage for me because I got to learn a lot of the business, first by just observing, then by making runs for the guys.

You might think it’s weird going to work for Carl and his friends. If so you did not grow up the same way. These adults, as dysfunctional, as criminal and violent as they were, were my role models. The other thing Carl and countless adults before him, including my own mother taught me at a young age was that I was on my own; the world was monstrously cruel, capricious violence was just around every corner and only the toughest prosper. Carl was the worst, but he was only one in a long succession, Carl was the sharpening stone for the blade that others forged. And you either worked for Carl or you got out.

I think I’ve talked enough about all that.

In the spring of ‘76 Carl and two other Devils were gunned down by Hell’s Angels in what was described as a “turf war” .  I was young and stupid and desperate to avoid meeting the next Carl. The house and most of the crap in it, including my mother, my sister, and quite possibly even me, were now considered Devils property.

The one thing I knew, knew above everything else, was that of all the property in the house, there was only one they considered really valuable, the drugs. I didn’t know how much there was at that moment, but I knew there was a lot. I took it all and ran. I was fifteen, not even legally allowed to drive in California, but with nearly a pound and half of meth, three kilos of weed, a shot-gun, two hand guns and scales and weights and a fucking lot of baggies rolling around loose in the back of a tricked out Ford Econoline, no license was the least of my worries.

That was the start of my street career sounds romantic, sounds exciting. The Devils killed my Mom and little Ronnie, I read about it in a newspaper a few months later; I still don’t know what happened to Dee. I swore revenge of course. Uselessly it turns out as the small upstart band of hard core bikers known as the Devils are no longer. Most killed over drug sales with both the Hells Angels and the Hessians during the cocaine crazed ‘80’s. The rest, who the fuck knows, when I was first in the pen I tried to find out if any were in the system somewhere, some lone Devil, or ragged left over’s; that’s one of the things that got me in trouble. But I’m not going to talk about that either.

The thing is, what I am trying to say is, that after the trouble, I vowed to keep it under control, Church helped that; the ritual, the call to faith. I never kidded myself that I was going to Heaven, no that’s a lie, sometimes I think about it.  I guess I really don’t believe that if there’s a Heaven, God is going to let me in not after what I’ve done, but I should at least try. When I meet the bastard I wanna be able to say I gave it my best shot

So when I got out of the pen with my idea to head west, back to my roots it is with no real plan. I tell myself I am going to get back there and find a job; tell myself I am going to avoid trying to contact old friends, avoid my old life. But I can feel the lie in my own gut.

With the money I had I could’ve taken a flight out of Sioux Falls, or at least caught a bus west, but I didn’t feel right about either thing; just hitchin’ felt good, like the right path.

The world had changed, cars were…well there were a lot of them I’d seen on TV, but it still felt weird the first time a Hummer drove by. Anyway I’m getting off track. Maybe subconsciously it was the opportunity to find a new path that made me choose hitching, I can’t say.  But the first guy who picked me up, Steve, just happened to run a grocery store in Wennler. He was a good guy, a real stand up straight, family man, church go ‘er, small town to the core; but honest and unpretentious. He and I, or the person I was trying hard to be, hit it off and by the end of the ride he had offered me a small position with his store in Wennler.

He wasn’t being phony, he never told me I could work my way to management. He was offering me, as he put it, a chance to figure out who I am and where I want to go.  I told him I would work hard and not let him down.

He’s offered once to take me to church with his family on Sunday (not that I couldn’t walk, the towns only ten blocks wide) I haven’t taken him up on it yet.

But so here I am. My little home in Wennler South Dakota. Like I said the place is small. I don’t have a TV yet, but I have a little radio. That’s okay. I was never much of a TV guy, and new music, don’t get me started. I exercise, push ups and crap. If I get real bored I walk the gravel roads. Try to figure out, like Steve said, who I am and where I am going.


Like Shakespeare but with more profanity

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