He has lost his left arm but I have lost my right

Virginia 1850

Samuel looked up at the stars carefully looking to the north one. It was not a difficult task as the heavens were lit up and it looked as if one could see across the galaxy. He had been following the path for three days, avoiding farms and houses, living off of what he could pillage from farms. He had heard about freedom. About those who had fled the plantations and made their way north. He had heard that there were those in the north who were sympathetic and who would help him. All of it had seemed like some crazy fantastic idea but he had gone with it. He had stored up enough courage and he ran. Anything, better then the life he had left behind. A life of cruelty, of beatings, of backbreaking labor from dusk til dawn. Samuel had not told anyone about his plans, it was too risky. There were always those among them who would turn him in. Those who would tell simply to curry favor with the master. Some of the others had spoken of escape but mainly it was in a theoretical kind of way. Something they might attempt if the consequences were not too dire. They called it crazy. For Samuel it was far more crazy to submit to a lifetime of toil with nothing to show for it except a few ragged pieces of clothing and bad lodging. That was insane. He knew that there was likely a party looking for him by now, dogs and a whole bunch of rednecks. Still he vowed he would rather die then go back.

I can show you the world

John O'neil awoke with a start. He stared into the darkness for a few minutes attempting to process it all. For a while he thought he was back in the pacific but now he slowly came to the realization that he was in his home in Staten Island. Cold sweat covered his brow and he wiped it off with his hand. The images had come back to him. Horrible godforsaken images. Images of death and carnage, of severed limbs and decapitated heads. Images so horrific that no amount of time or medicating had been able to delete them from his brain. Of burning flesh, of piles of dead bodies, of talking to your best friend one minute and having his head blown off a second later. For a long time the drinking had gotten rid of the images for him. For a long time he assumed they had gone away. However they would still come back to him from time to time and tonight seemed to be one of those nights. He got up from his bed. He looked at the clock 4:30 am it was very early. Still he knew it was unlikely he would be able to get to sleep again. Most likely it would invite more images. He walked over to his liquor cabinet. He extracted a tumbler glass from underneath and poured himself a large shot. He took the shot as if he were drinking water. At this point it was almost a reflex something done without thinking. Johnny had a meeting with Vito later and he was already worried. Fear was something that was always hard for him to process. After all he had been a marine earlier in life. A decorated combat veteran for him to be scared because of a few overweight Italians seemed absurd to him. Still he knew what those men were capable of. They could order a man killed without a second thought. If the boss said so they would murder their own brother. What chance did he stand? An Irishman in a sea of Italians. They had always liked him but he knew the bigger picture. He knew if the hammer really came down they woulden't hesitate to put him out of the picture. And nowadays the hammer was coming down hard. Already the government had supeoaned him before a congressional committe investigating organized crime in labor. It was only a matter of time before they figured it all out. John poured another shot, its going to be a long day he thought.

Where today are the Peqout?

Every week he would make the same promise. Every week he would tell himself we would not drink. Every week he would tell himself we would go to the gym. Every week he was let himself down, every week he would break all these promises. It always felt the same, hopeless, dejected but he didn't know how to stop.

The sacred tree is dead

Whats goin on blog. I been out for a while. Haven't thought bout this shit really. Now I done got to move son of a bitch. Godamn assholes.

In a sacred manner I live my horses are many

When he had his first taste of the firewater he had not taken to it. It seemed to burn his whole throat as it went down and he had very nearly spat it out. The trader at the post had given it to them in exchange for some robes and a few others goods. Still after the initial burn had began to see why people seemed to go crazy for it. It made them all feel warm inside. Indeed after a few more swigs from the bottle they had all danced and sang and had a good time generally. Had he known where the path of alcohol would lead him he would not have partaken in that first drop. Still he had not seen for several years the dark things the firewater led to. How it caused brothers to fight against each other, how it broke up families how it destroyed lives. By the time he had seen and recognized this he was already addicted himself and he understood why the traders and other white men pushed it on his people so much. Because it placated them, made them fight among themselves, made them stupid. He never thought it would come to this though. That they would all be rounded up unto barren, meager plots of land like animals. That a great majority of them would be killed off by bullet and bayonet, disease, and starvation. The whiskey seemed to make him forget about all that. It seemed to make it go away, if only temporarily. A brief respite in an existence which had long since lost its luster. Sometimes he wished the soldiers had killed him so that he had not become what he was now. A weak pathetic old man living off scant rations and scrounging every last cent for a drink. He had been a warrior in his youth, a fighter, a great hunter and provider. He had the respect and esteem of his tribe and was revered by all. Now he was nothing. He was someone the other old ones used as an example of what not to become. He was a cauldron of shame, self loathing, and despair. Yes it would have been better to have been killed, with honor.

Chain of fools

Alcohol is the father of bad ideas. All bad ideas, and by bad ideas I don't mean going to the grocery store while its too busy, but truly bad ideas evolve from alcohol. Bad ideas as in lets get in this car and drive even though I can barely see anything, or lets pick a fight with this huge dude. Bad ideas which end up having extreme consequences. It seems concieveable that the planners of the Vietnam war were drunk, or at least under enormous pressure. To commit such manpower and treasure to a war being fought half a world away seems to ludicrous when thought of with a sane mind. It is that same impulse that compels you to call your ex at 3 oh clock in the morning and find out how shes doing and profess your love to her. The same impulse that makes you say stupid things and later regret them. The same impulse that compells people to do all manner of stupid things.

The man of the hour has an air of great power the dudes have envied him for so long

I hate how these days every fucking thing has to be online. Has to be accessed through some kind of username and password which you usually forget right away. Why can't some things just be flesh and blood and paper and have you speak to a real person. Like at my school to get my grades and access all this stuff I have to log in to some complex system with a random username and a password I usually forget. Can there not be a better way. I suppose in some ways they find it more efficient then having to house tomes and tomes of records and files on people but by golly its frustarating.