Gene always, totally denied stealing anything in 3rd grade.  He said, “People hate me and stick stuff in my locker.” He said that and  things were found in his locker:

A  special 4 ink pen,

A five dollar bill with writing on Abraham Lincoln’s face that said, ‘Happy Birthday Dolly’,

A tube of Real Jell hair cream,

Two circus tickets,

An almost new catchers mit.

Every time Gene was caught he blamed other students.

There were people who disliked Gene.  Others don’t like thieves, and Gene earned that label in school.

In school Gene got smarter in his stealing.  Gene prospered in high school, and became rather wealthy as a young adult.

People lost stuff all around where Gene lived.

Neighbors lost cars.

Some wives ran away from their husbands, and were found with Gene.

According to tax rolls some people just gave Gene their homes, farms and businesses, then mysteriously disappeared.

The police thought it was all very queer.

Funny how people got LOST after being around Gene, and gave him their stuff.

Gene was a mystery except for some of us who were in his 3rd grade.

__________________________________________________________

Written by Ray Cates  rcates2@cox.net

For stories and links to other writing  go to: http://unsightlyteeth.wordpress.com

I’ve never been a woman, as far as I can remember.  Mostly I’ve been a male something.  If it ever happened i would be happy to remember for understandings sake.

The lucky, but small part of the selected ‘best’ sixteen year olds will be bought by someone in his or her own country as a house servant or sex slave.  If the absence of life is death, being a tool of someone else for your whole life is maybe a dreadful death in itself.

In the placement collection centers they beat up a small defective group of EXAMPLES, so that the others will hear the screams, and watch the horror of whippings, branding and rape, and learn to obey quickly.  They pin large cards to the ears of the examples, like meat in a supermarket is labeled.  Like corpses in a morgue are pinned with over large safety pins to separate the dead from the living.  Death comes but once, but the living can be in states that are not really different.  Being not able to have your purpose in your life is slavery, and slavery is a type of death on two feet with a heart still pumping.

“So what did i tell you about guns son?”

“That I should shoot anyone who needed shooting.  But I think I can use Brad here at school as my slave.”

“He’s sort of old Henry.  Lots of younger people would do anything to have such a plum job like this.”

“I’ll do anything master!” Brad said, “please don’t shoot me.”  I still had my gun out on his desk.

“Tell Henry about your family slave.  You know how boys are at age 14, you know, about sex.”

“My family is ignorant master about Cunninghams and our position here as your slaves.”

“Ignorant, innocent, whatever?  Henry wants to know what women he owns at the house we have let you live in.”

“My wife Sandra is age 45.  My 2nd wife Nancy is 29 — she has twin girls age 4.  My oldest girl is a senior this year.”

“I think she’s a cheerleader, Connie Pratmore?”  I said.

“Yes master.”

“I also have a girl 12 and one 11 and a boy 10.”

“Perfect,” dad said, “and to reinforce what is said here Brad I’m going to ask my son a question that I want him to answer truthfully.”

“What is it dad?”

“Have I ever told you it’s OK to shoot someone before?”

“No never dad.”

“So you really think it would be OK to shoot Brad,  if you wanted to, really no problem?”

“Sure dad I’ve seen you shoot five or six men and a couple of women.  One guy you shot between the legs, that was a mess.”

“Why didn’t you pop our principal here in the head?”

“Well dad I thought he was humble enough and I might find him useful in school.  I told you at the basketball game that, ‘I don’t really like basketball, but I like to watch Connie Pratmore twist around so I can see her white panties.’

I figured this is your way of giving me Connie Pratmore as a present.”

My father and mother were downstairs and I screamed for them as the smoke went into my pee hole.  It felt like about 3 finger stuck in me Elmer.  I could not pull it out.  It was just in there moving like a washing machine cleaning clothes.  It didn’t feel bad, but at first it hurt.  It scared the bejeebers out of me.  I was just a fifteen year old girl.”

“Could it have been a dream mother?”  I usually asked when she told the story.  I asked it right then in the story.

“”I would have liked to believe that very thing, and my parents also tried ot believe that it was smoke that blew up inside me, until you began to grow inside me.”

The midget laughed a lot.  Everything was funny to him.  Sam was younger than me and made a better monkey than I did.  I was forty when the dwarf acquired me.  At first Sam was a rather dangerous monkey, and I thought he was going to try to kill the dwarf, thus get us both killed.  I stopped him several times over the years.  The midget was smart and caught Sam in some things.  Sam got electric treatments, and extensive whippings.  Sam was castrated, and I think much later really became a monkey.  He finally had a real monkey mind.  He may have forgotten how to talk.  We put our faces in our pet bowls, and Sam did forget how to eat with his fingers.

When I became a slave it was a real fight, and then in chains I had to know I would be killed before I begged for someone to buy me in the slave store.  Big difference in me and the jewelery shop guys who bowed their heads and maybe had a tear or two trickle down their faces.

I had to know death was certain, and coming quick before I decided being the midget’s slave was better.  If I wasn’t sold then there was a piece of wire that was wrapped around your neck and pulled tight.  I had seen other slaves get that treatment, and knew it was beg hard to be someones slave, or that was just certain.

Then as 3 bands from local high schools, and the Gator band played school football tunes the first criminals were brought out.  Their crimes were read, and the doomed were adjusted in various oak made electric chairs.  My chairs were not set to kill quickly, there is no drama in quick death.  Their purpose was first pain, and then to set each prisoner afire.  We plugged the chairs, by extension cords into regular wall sockets.  As the chairs actually caught fire, we gave the kids marshmallows to roast them over the burning corpses.  If it was a big fellow and the electricity didn’t kill him, then an ax would be sent over to sever his head.