Leprechaun Pu$$y N’ $hit

 

Flat on my back, I awoke to bass booming in the background, as if I were outside of a nightclub…

I yawned. Sat up in bed, and my nostrils widened at the strong scent of marijuana smoke. Then I stretched my arms and lost my breath, for a second, when I sighted a vista of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Outside, it was a golden morning, and I was awed by the postcard-perfect sea views. The azure ocean appearing like an exquisite pattern of ripples, sparkles, and small waves. Its waters moving like a massive blue sheet of shimmering satin.

Taking stock of the bed, too… It was nothing if not lavish, and I felt as if I were practically floating as I rolled from side to side and stretched my limbs out on the super-soft memory foam mattress… smooth, cream-colored silk sheets caressing my skin…

Then I wiped the sleep from my eyes and further panned my gaze around… This bedroom was palatial. Featured a vaulted ceiling that must have been 40 feet high. It was clean too. Not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. And everything was white- white walls, white marble floors, white furniture. Everything sparkly, electric white.

All appeared shiny too. Almost to an exaggerated extent. Like an Instagram filter. The entire room brightening, practically blinding, making me squint my eyes as I continued scanning around the room, wondering where I was, where I’d woken up.

And who I was… Given the shock, I knew I wasn’t at home. But I didn’t know what or where home was.

I couldn’t even recall my name…

Though I couldn’t recall how I got here, a slideshow of images, flickering like an old PC, flitted through my mind: a long glass table, an electric scale… Me wearing blue latex gloves that made my fingers look like popsicles…

Then I had visions of driving, inching forward in heavy traffic while tapping at a phone affixed to a Hyundai’s dashboard.   

Then a hazy recollection of a house party. At an apartment with vintage movie posters papered over the walls. A din of chatter and someone with a jackhammer of a laugh. A Young Thug video, muted, playing on a wall-mounted flatscreen TV…

Following all that, somehow, I had woken up in this luxurious, high-rise residence.

I slid out of the bed’s silk sheets, ambled over the windows, which encased the entire room. I touched my forehead to the cool glass and saw only an infinite sheet of sea. I couldn’t spot a nightclub anywhere, or even a sliver of land. What if I was abducted by aliens, left on a water planet? But nowhere in the bedroom did I spot any space aliens, and the bass was sounding from all different directions, booming like distant fireworks.

Padding over to the bathroom, I found that it too was white. White as fresh milk. The bathroom equipped, decked out in white everything. White towels, white jacuzzi bathtub, toilet, sink. It was when I found myself facing the mirror atop the sink that I experienced the most unexpected.

Everything in the bathroom was white… Except for me.

Standing in the mirror was a young Black man, in white silk pajamas. A young Black man with face tattoos. An inverted crucifix between my eyebrows and a couplet of incomprehensible scribble across my left cheek.

Hold up, I thought… I knew that face. It was the famous rapper Shootah Sho. I was Shootah Sho! But how did I get from driving a Hyundai to being a world-renown rapper?

At this point, the previous night’s events slowly crept back into focus, clearing up like clouds after a storm.

I’d been smoking weed at a house party. One of my friends had brought a friend, and none of us had ever seen this guy. But there was something mysterious, intriguing about him.

He was like a celebrity. He had that “it” factor. Not only due to his swarthy, handsome looks; but charisma just oozed from him. He exuded a certain magnetism, and everyone in the apartment’s living room was drawn to him. Everyone at the party wanted to know him. Everyone asking him questions as he held court. And he had brilliant answers to any question. He cracked joke after joke, leaving everyone in stitches. He ripped unbelievably big bong hits and blew perfect smoke rings, smoke rings the size of donuts, as he regaled us with charming anecdotes, film trivia, and random quips. He appeared to know everything about anything. It was as if he were the human embodiment of Google, or powered by ChatGPT.  

Even his name caused a stir. “Satan.” Who the hell names their kid Satan? But no one could gather whether or not it was his real name because, just like ChatGPT, he was evasive in all his answers to personal questions. Not in a way that implied malfeasance, or condescension, but rather his was jocular. This Satan was a merry prankster.

But when I caught him in the kitchen later, annihilating a box of marijuana cookies (chewing loudly, too, with his mouth wide open) he appeared far heavier and older, the etched lines on his forehead far more visible; twin grooves on each cheek framing his mouth like parentheses. His wavy black hair, which had been neatly combed and shiny, now looked greasy, had been sculpted into two twin wet spikes. His long face had dimmed, too, shifted from jovial to subdued. Though his split-open eyes still appeared glittering, curiously restive….

As he wiped weed cookie crumbs away from his mouth with his forearm, I noticed how darkly hairy he was and that his legs appeared too slim and stubby for his chunky torso, making him look sort of like a goat.

I could have sworn I’d seen Satan before wearing a tuxedo, with a cape, like almost a Dracula Halloween-type costume. But in the kitchen he wore tattered blue jeans and a black T-shirt with AC/DC, with the lightning slash, embossed in red lettering across the chest. I noticed he wore no shoes and had feet so small and gnarled they appeared as hooves.

Satan, his expression plaintive, neglected any niceties or salutations. Instead, upon my entrance into the kitchen, he asked me, directly, in a robotic voice, what I’d be if I could be anything.

I told Satan I’d be a world-famous MC. A gangsta rapper. That that was my childhood dream. Satan’s countenance brightened as I told him about my early memories, as a Boy Scout, watching DMX videos… Memorizing DMX’s lyrics, mirroring DMX’s movements in front of the television… Doing D’s signature pit bull barks and shit…

A smiling Satan, his eyes shining like sunshine over snow, then handed me a minty-smelling marijuana cookie.

I guess he’d granted my wish. Maybe all those fire and brimstone preachers were wrong. Maybe Satan isn’t such a bad guy…

Now I was living my dream. The bathroom I stood in was probably bigger than any apartment or room I’d ever rented. I was living the life. I was in an episode of MTV’s Cribs. Sauntering out of the bathroom, I started walking like a pimp. I was on my way to kick it in the condo’s living room, where I estimated there would be fresh bottles of lean, candy bowls full of Xans and Percs, towering pyramids of cash and marijuana, and like 20 naked bitches, all of them spread eagle or bent over, all of them just waiting to have wild sex with me.

My bedroom’s door looked made of steel. Submarine-silver, it was heavy as a firewall and pulling it open felt like playing tug-of-war. Catching my breath, I saw the rest of the condo was just as spectacular. An infinite space adorned in Rothko-style paintings, sleek furniture, identical white décor.

Panoramic, floor-to-ceiling windows featuring fabulous sea views further encased the entire abode, and the distant bump of bass continued to reverberate from various directions… The stink of cannabis steady growing stronger… Oddly, though, the condo’s other rooms were all uncomfortably hot, and I couldn’t locate a thermostat anywhere…

Oddly as well, prowling about the massive space, I happened upon no other people. No naked bitches. No posse. No one drinking lean or forty-ounces. No one smoking blunts. No stacks of cash. In Shootah’s videos, there were always stacks of cash, fancy cars, hordes of gun-toting homies and naked or near-naked ratchet bitches bouncing, aiming and bobbling their butts everywhere. So I was perplexed, wondering where all my money, homies, and butt-shaking bitches in thongs were at.

A loud knock then erupted from the front doorway, and I was expecting to open the door to discover a whole cheerleading squad, a whole gaggle of smiling, twerking bitches. Maybe the twerking bitches would be petite beauties holding moneybags. Be like one of my favorite Shootah songs, “Leprechaun Pussy n’ $hit.” 

I also hoped the twerking bitches might know how to operate the a/c, as I was dripping with sweat…

But when I pulled open the massive, submarine-silver, 10-foot-tall front door, which, too, was heavy as a firewall, the loud bass in the background suddenly ceased, the odor of cannabis completely vanished, and a blast of cold air pushed me a step backward. Filling the doorway stood a scowling pair of late middle-aged, mustached policemen in uniform. Both smelled of coffee. Both had dark rings under their glowing eyes.

“Sir, are you … ?” one of the mustaches asked, in a gravelly, cigarette-smoker’s voice. But I didn’t know the name and shook my head, shrugged.

“Sir, are you Shootah Sho?” the other raspy-voiced mustache asked, his wet breath stinking of stomach acid.

But I was mute, unable to speak. Words just wouldn’t form. My tongue stuck to my teeth. The policemen then handed me a warrant. At first, the tiny black words on the document’s white pages looked like lines of crawling ants. But then the document came into focus. It detailed numerous charges under the RICO Act, a number of felonious crimes, and the possibility of life imprisonment.

As the policemen patted me down, clicked a pair of cold metal cuffs on my wrists, read me my rights, I began to tell them about my meeting with Satan.

It was then my stomach sank, and I wondered just who Satan really was…

The Girl Wearing Sandals with Socks

 

Grayson, Kentucky… Yup, I visited there once. Many, many years ago…

I’d gone to meet a girl I’d met online.

Driving in from the Big City, I discovered truth to the notion that small-town folks are often friendlier than their urban counterparts. Almost instantly, I felt charmed and welcomed. 

Randoes smiling, making conversation. Strangers strolling by at the gas station, happily asking “How are you doing today?” as I was filling up my tank. At first, it was slightly off-putting, coming from the Big City, where most everyone is tight-lipped and in a hurry. But I quickly came to appreciate Grayson’s slower pace and congeniality.  

Grayson, to me, was like a real-life embodiment of The Andy Griffith Show. It just exuded that category of genial warmth and inviting atmosphere.

Not only were the people pleasant, but I also found the area’s surroundings majestic. And green. Full of bucolic foliage emblematic of the Appalachian Plateau… That sorta gorgeously rugged terrain steeped in rolling hills and deep plunging valleys... Panning my gaze, I admired a multitude of oak, hickory, and maple trees alighting under the big blue sky, sniffed in a stack of fresh air, and appreciated the peaceful rush of a nearby stream as I idled at an intersection.  

Seizing on the feeling, I whistled The Andy Griffith Show’s theme song over an obnoxious AM radio ad for an ambulance-chasing lawyer.

When I arrived at my motel, which boasted of having “Color TV!” the place was quiet. Nearly to a creepy extent. I might have been the only guest there, at this roadside, self-proclaimed “Motor Hotel.” I wondered who exactly would be staying at a roadside motel, in rural Kentucky. Perhaps other people in town to meet people from the internet.

After checking in, getting situated, I decided to get some exercise and walked a couple of blocks down to the downtown but didn’t find much. I’d read an article in Rolling Stone about how Walmart and its pernicious, predatory business model had killed Small Town America. Decimated Main Streets. And that was what I found. Boarded-up shops, empty buildings. I can imagine it being far worse now, with all the phone zombies, Amazon, post-Wuhan Virus…

After my disappointing foray downtown, I returned to my motel, washed myself up, slapped on some deodorant, trimmed my nose and ear hairs, changed into a nicer shirt, and readied for the big night. Lil Wayne’s “Lollipop” was on MTV, on my room’s “Color TV!”, and I grooved and lip-synced with myself in the bathroom mirror.

I was psyched to finally meet my internet girlfriend. We were to meet at a bowling alley that evening. But she wouldn’t be coming alone. She would be accompanied by her younger sister. Which I didn’t really like. I wanted to meet my internet girlfriend and only her. But I could understand. Meeting a stranger online was, I’m sure, why she didn’t want to meet me alone.

Despite the 1950s sitcom vibes, Grayson had to have its darkness... So I plugged in my laptop, connected to the room’s ancient 56K modem. After enduring a painful series of strangled beeps and white noise, I started Googling “violent crime,” “crime rates in Grayson, Kentucky.”

But my search didn’t yield much aside from a 1993 school shooting, when some shitbag pulled a copycat attack inspired by Stephen King’s Bachman novel Rage... Then I read about a few meth labs exploding or getting raided… But crime in Grayson seemed nothing like the urban war zones, gang violence in the Big City. So I felt safe enough.  

However, I considered my safety. I didn’t carry much cash and decided to stash my gold watch at the motel.  

It’d be a pretty dastardly scheme to lure a stranger from the Big City to Grayson, Kentucky, just to rob him. The local scammers and crooks could easily rob locals, I thought. But maybe they already robbed all the locals and were widening their base.

Or were they trying to steal my kidney? I was more concerned about getting my kidney stolen than anything else because I’d recently seen a movie and read an internet story about organized, international kidney thief syndicates. And that was more in line with the sort of scam I’d envisioned. A healthy kidney could fetch $40K to $50,000 on the black market.

(For a time, I worried everyone, anywhere might be conspiring to steal one of my kidneys. That even visiting a restaurant or a trip to the dentist put me at risk of waking up in a bathtub filled with ice cubes.)

Just in case I was being drugged, about to have my kidney stolen, if I got groggy before passing out, I planned to yell out that I have AIDS or Hepatitis C or something like that. Sure, that might not stop a highly professional, diabolical and well-prepared kidney thief. But maybe it’d work against my date.

But fortunately, that night’s events never reached such dire outcomes. Although what transpired was dark, too, in its own right…

I’d videochatted with the girl. I’d seen pics. But when two young ladies entered the bowling alley, I was struck by their appearances. They were practically identical twins. They looked about the same age. And both had heavenly faces. Both with perfect Barbie doll features and facial structure.

But from the face down, the two were far from alike. One had an hourglass figure, was showing lots of skin in a black half-shirt and a shorter-than-short plaid skirt. Her silver, fuck-me heels clicking louder upon approach. While the other, in a loose floral sundress, had a squarish physique, as if she were built of Lego blocks.

But far worse…

She wore sandals with socks.

I’d only seen headshot photos of my internet fling and when we’d videochatted, I’d only seen her face. But still, I was invisibly slapping myself.  How could I not have known? Or thought to check…

That she wore sandals with socks.

Bright white tube socks underneath big clunky Birkenstock-style sandals too...  

As the two approached, my heart thumped like a drum. I was hoping, praying, just really, really wanting the girl in those loud, click-clacky heels. No, not the girl in sandals with socks. No… Not the girl in… No… Please, not the…

Then they introduced themselves. And yes, mine was the one in sandals with socks.

I was disappointed. But I decided to stick it out. I’d really vibed with this girl. We’d had long chats and shared secrets, deep thoughts. We both said that if it didn’t work out when we met that we could be friends.

However, what happened next would change everything…

As we sipped Cokes, munched on pepperoni pizza, the younger sister, who was sitting to my right, without provocation, ran her hand underneath the table, and rested a warm palm on my thigh.  

She played coy, showed no change of expression as she went below the belt. Began snaking her sticky fingers under my cargo shorts. Then she went below my boxers. Wrapped her soft digits and palm around the tip of my cock, which was growing, inflating like a balloon. Lightly, she squeezed and caressed my mushroom tip. Started working her way back. Glided her palm along my shaft. Then, her hand still slick from the oily pizza, she started to slowly jerk off my suddenly stiff dick.

Her sister, to my left, showed no sign of knowing what was happening and went on with this long story about her cat’s strange habits and that she honestly thought her cat might be gay.

I’d never heard of a gay cat, but it didn’t shock me. I think it’s great that cat was living its truth, its best life. And I might have been able to offer more than an occasional assenting nod or “yeah,” as she spoke of the cat, its gayness. But I was clenching my teeth, my cock hard as concrete as my internet girlfriend’s smoking hot, horny little sister went full speed, throttle-choking my chicken. She must have been left-handed too, with the precision and strength with which she wanked me. Or at least was ambidextrous.

Whatever it was, it took everything I had not to flip over the table, fling the nymphet to the floor, hike up her short skirt, tear off her panties and plow into her.

The nymphet was wearing one of those sexy Catholic school-type skirts. It was criminally short too. Upon first sight, I’d been silently hoping she left the skirt on as we bowled, so I could sneak glances at her legs and ass, and the whole meal I’d been doing all I could to avert my eyes from scoping her svelte, luscious thighs. But now that she was strangling my dick, not reacting was tortuous…

Thankfully, Socks and Sandals got up to use the bathroom, mid-handjob, so I was finally able to turn my attention to her sexy sister and her most wonderful helping hand.

Our table was in the back corner of the bowling alley’s dining area and there was a red and white checkered tablecloth overhanging the table, so no one, except maybe a mouse crawling on the floor, could see what was transpiring under the table. That my date’s college-aged sister had reached into my cargo shorts, was performing a surprise sex act on me.

I figured it was time to return the favor. As Socks and Sandals shuffled off toward the bathroom, I swung my gaze to the nymphet, who was coquettishly looking the other way, chewing on her lower lip. Admiring her features, her pointy nose and super high cheekbones, I just loved how deliciously trashy she looked, wearing that much glittery makeup. With fake lashes that long. Platinum-blond hair teased that high. Even some strippers might have told her to tone it down. But I was game…

I sniffed a tang of the nymphet’s fruity perfume, then peeked below the table, for an instant, just to check that I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t. Then I raised my gaze to hers. Our eyes met. Instantly, I smiled and chuckled and she returned my smile. Hers was a sexy, crooked smile, and it possessed a certain mystery. For a second, I examined her physiognomy and had to wonder about this chick… Here was this girl, only 21, giving an unsolicited handjob to her 25-year-old sister’s date, a random 28-year-old stranger from the internet… Just who the fuck was this girl?

Sure, I was a good-looking guy. In shape. I ran, swam, walked, played racquetball, did calisthenics, lifted weights. But I was also a bookish corporate dweeb with terrible anxiety. Porno flick shit, stuff like this never happened to me. I was suddenly feeling as if I’d stepped onto the set of a Girls Gone Wild video rather than The Andy Griffith Show. But maybe shit like this happened all the time in Grayson, Kentucky. I’m not sure. Whatever... I went with it.

Like a submarine plunging below the sea’s surface, I lowered my right arm underneath the table, slapped and clasped my right hand onto the fine young freak’s legs, which were crossed, and petted, stroked her delicate thighs. Her thighs felt soft as feathers. Feeling along that smooth skin as she pumped my cock was bliss.

I crawled my hand along her sumptuous thighs, worked my way up, went under her skirt and then made a beeline for her cunt. As I cupped the girl’s cunt, over a pair of thin cotton panties, I felt that she was bare, down there, and it gave me a thrill... Feeling her bare cunt breathing… Warm as a midsummer breeze...  

I slipped my middle and index fingers underneath the hem of her panties’ crotch and playfully explored the young skank’s slick, bald mound. It was just as svelte and soft as her thighs. And radiating heat. Afterward I traced the folds of her fat, outer pussy lips, felt along her wet hot cunt crease. Right as I touched her slippery slit, she groaned, audibly, under her breath, began beating me off harder.

Though I’d smiled at her, in acknowledgement of her efforts, I’d kept silent about… whatever we were doing… Neither of us made any mention of our illicit charade. In fact, we maintained small talk, her telling me about running track for her college. But when my fingers found her opening, started sliding in and out of her steamy, tight little pussyhole, she unloosed a whimper and a slight “ooh.” Quickly went quiet. And all subsequent conversation ceased.  

I began rotating between fingering her cunt and flicking at her clit, which was enlarged and the size of a kidney bean. With each flick at her throbbing clit, she seemed to inch up in her seat a bit, so I kept doing that. Then I noticed her posture go straight as a pole for a beat before she relaxed back into a slouch, and she covered her mouth with her free hand, leaned closer toward me and whispered, in a sultry voice, “I just came,” which pushed me over the edge. The floor then fell from under me, euphorically, and I blasted a big wet load into my boxers. Thank goodness my cargo shorts were a dark color. If they’d had been gray…

The nymphet noticed me coming and giggled, pulled her hand away after squeezing out the last few drips. Then she wiped her small hands clean with a clot of napkins. I, likewise, withdrew my guilty hand from her crotch and also snatched a wad of napkins from the dispenser. A premonition struck and I spotted Socks and Sandals, at 11 o’clock, emerging like a Lego figure on the horizon. Yet she was still at a safe distance, so I asked the younger sister for her phone number or Myspace. Her eyes narrowing into a surly, vexed countenance, she capriciously shot back, “Like, why, so we can date?”

Honestly, I was hoping to have Round Two later at my motel room. But, alas…

“Uh,” I could only stutter. And when Socks and Sandals returned to the table, began pulling back her chair, her sister rose to her feet, pointed at me and angrily declared, “He just asked me out!”

Flabbergasted, my tongue felt made of stone. I couldn’t even manage a word. Then Socks and Sandals cursed me out, threw the remnants of her Coke in my face and the two stomped off in a huff. I’d expected a sardonic wave or a middle finger from the nymphet but received none.

In hindsight, sure, I probably should have resisted the nymphet’s naughty temptation. But, to this day, I’m unsure what even really happened. Perhaps that was the nymphet’s way of “vetting” her sister’s internet dates. Though I guess it worked. And was far more cost-effective than hiring a private detective...

Whatever it was, it was an unforgettable fap. Plus, I am very grateful that I didn’t get my kidney stolen.  

Heading back to my motel, I decided to leave the next morning and never returned.

Still though, to this day, I get more than bad fashion vibes if I see anyone wearing sandals with socks…

 

 

"Bum Bashing"

Hank and Jimmy were the biggest bullies in our high school. They were the stereotypical “bad kids.” They wore lots of black baggy clothes and had multiple facial piercings. Hank even had a tattoo of a Chinese character on his forearm before it was a fad.

(Of course nowadays, since he wasn’t Asian, he might be accused of cultural appropriation, though it’d be hard to picture anyone saying that to his face.)

The two were inseparable, and if it weren’t for the rumor about Hank raping a drunk girl, on a sofa, at a party, it might have been thought the two were lovers.

The two were always beating up on nerds, scrawny kids, foreigners. There was a pudgy little Indian kid named Kartique (pronounced “Karta-kay”) and they’d kick the crap out of him, call him “Farta-kay” and steal his lunch money, damn near every day.

The worst I heard about them (well, maybe second to the raping) was that the two liked to go “bum bashing.”

Bum bashing, I didn’t even know what that was until my friend Tim filled me in.

“Bum bashing is when people go out, normally under the cover of night, and beat the shit out of bums, homeless,” Tim told me, in the cafeteria, as he chomped on a corndog.

Tim had gone on to say that Hank and Jimmy would allegedly carry baseball bats, pipes, hammers, whatever blunt object they could get their hands on, and then they’d set off in the night, find homeless sleeping rough in parks or in alleys and then savagely beat the ever-living shit out of the vagrants.

Tim and I then joked about dispensing a healthy helping of vigilante justice on the pair. Maybe slapping an electromagnet at Hank and Jimmy’s faces, watching it vacuum off their facial piercings. Then we talked about flinging gasoline on them, as they stood behind the gym, smoking cigarettes, setting the fuckers on fire.

We fantasized about numerous horror movie scenarios, numerous gruesome ways to murder the two. Even though they never picked on us as much as other kids, still, Jimmy had punched me in the stomach once and stole my Chicago Bulls stocking cap and Harry had slammed Tim’s head into a locker and stolen his Gameboy.

Yup, even though I already despised them, hearing about their penchant for “bum bashing” pissed me off to no end.

For real though, despite stinking worse than a bus station bathroom, the homeless in our city were mostly harmless. Most were elderly, with mental problems, many were Vietnam veterans. I always felt for those vets, too, since I’d had an uncle killed in ‘Nam.

For real though, those veterans deserved better. Dammit, that was the last thing they deserved, getting beaten on by those two snickering shitheads. The more I thought about it, the more my blood boiled.

 

Soon after that cafeteria chat, I saw a story on the evening news about a homeless man, in his 70s, who’d been found, beaten to death, not far from our high school. I’d suspected the perpetrators to be Hank and Jimmy. But I didn’t have any proof, aside from the rumor I’d heard. However, I’d considered calling the police.

As much as I hate snitching, murder, especially that of a senior citizen, now that’s fucked up, and the more I pondered it, the sicker I felt, and I contemplated calling the cops and leaving an anonymous tip.

But I decided not to after I heard the news.

 

It was a damp, chilly and foggy Monday morning, and I got to school late after missing the bus. My friend, Tim, who was my only friend, really, back then, had seen me in the hallway, between classes, and he ran up to me, giddy as can be. His breath smelled strongly of mint chewing gum.  

“Hey, you hear about Hank and Jimmy?” he asked, his eyes bulging and blazing with excitement.

Shaking my head, “Nah, what about those asshats?” I asked.

“They were out wilding last night, slashing tires, breaking windows, beating up on bums. But, like, a younger homeless veteran spotted them wailing on an old guy in a cardboard box, and the veteran ran over, went fucking Chuck Norris on the pair, beat the both of them... bad… Beat ‘em bad, I mean, reeeeeeal bad. Hank’s neck is broken. Dude might never walk again... And Jimmy… Yo… Jimmy is dead…”

“Dead?”

“Dead. Got his skull caved in. And the veteran is in jail.”

I lacked the language to respond, I was so floored by the news. Jimmy was the first person my age I knew who’d died. Even though I despised him, still, his sudden, violent death hit me like a gut punch.

 

Hank showed up to school, a couple months later. But he wasn’t the same guy. He was emaciated. He had these heavy bags under his eyes, making him look almost like a raccoon. He kept quiet and was transferred to the “special needs” classes, where he sat with the mentally retarded kids. Later that summer, he was convicted of the murder of the old homeless man, and was charged as an adult, sentenced to a lengthy prison term.

The young veteran pled guilty to lesser charges and got off relatively lightly, with only a short prison sentence.

I’m not inclined, usually, to believe in karma, but sometimes, sometimes I wonder…

 

 

"Teaching Experience at St. Benedict College, Bangkok, Thailand" by Kink Bundy

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