Trip That Changed My Life 2
“You punch like a little girl,” I muttered, while preparing myself for a real fist fight. “Let me show you what a punch ought to be,” I said, and then fists started flying! But I think that button (knobkerrie) must have done some serious damage to his head when I whacked him earlier because he wasn’t himself. He was kinda drunk or something, so it wasn’t hard knocking him out all over again with my left uppercut hook to the jaw.
By Christina Lopez
Part Two (2)
Quickly I reached for the ropes I had brought from home that morning and fastened his legs and arms behind his back. Then I played music as if nothing was happening. Even singing along, happily ever after! I switched my auto-kettle full of boiled water I intended to wash his penis with! And I knew he wasn’t dead because I could see him breathing weakly. Finally, I woke him up by pouring cold water over his stupid face and immediately he woke up, extremely frightened. You should have seen his face, pathetic!
“Whacha doing you bitch?” he bellowed. And I replied, “Who is the bitch now, bitch?” I roared, scornfully. Then I cranked my voice recorder and started interrogating him. Each time he lied I would pour hot water on his penis until he confessed it all. Mentioning the names of all his victims and those of his gang members, and how they lured women into their shady traps. Unfortunately, throughout the time he screamed at the top of his lungs like a little boy as I tortured his penis with hot water, and suddenly I heard his boys screaming outside for me to open the damn door but I ignored them.
When he was done confessing, I announced my verdict. Saying he was guilty of crimes against women. And that he was sentenced to corporal punishment to be carried out by me on behalf of all women he had gang raped. Then I started punching him in the face until my hands ached. Eventually, I remembered I had a knobkerrie, damn; what a relief! I pulled it out and worked his ass really nicely. I can’t remember how many times I chopped that man in the head with that knobkerrie, maybe 29 times if I’m not mistaken. I was mentally gone! They had to dismantle the door from outside to rescue him. But too late because he was like half dead when they entered! I was very proud of the work I did on him.
So the police came and lugged me to the cophouse (police station) where the bastards charged me with attempted murder before locking me up. But even a butcher couldn’t have been so full of blood like I was that day, man; I was bloody red all over I tell you! When they threw me into a holding cell, all those hard-core women criminals in there nearly climbed the wall to get out, they were so terrified! None of them asked my name even, let alone playing silly games with me, ever.
But in hindsight, given a chance to relive it over again, I’d have taken the deal and fucked them all up or just quit my job and go look for another one elsewhere. Having a criminal record pinned to your name for life is the worst thing that could happen to you. That shit story of self-defense doesn’t work in court; it only works if you survived with injuries. And worse, that stupid judge threw away that nice confession I had extracted from that rapist by force; apparently it was obtained illegally. So they found me guilty and sentenced me to 17 years in prison. The judge even sounded as if he had done me a great favor only because I had no criminal record before that; otherwise it’d have been worse! And the rapist I fucked turned out hero in the long run. In papers they wrote that he was the victim and survivor of a complete psychotic mad woman. These were women writers who wrote such bull-crap about me, can you imagine how hurtful that was! I wouldn’t have minded men writing such silly things because men are stupid, but women like me; how could they! But it turned out that such great headlines in the papers become your shield when you’re in jail. So I left that jail without being raped by some woman! Even the guards were very scared of me; I swear nobody played games with me there!
However, I stayed only 9 months there before my lawyer obtained a fine option granted for me to pay half a million dollars to get released. Mom paid that and I walked under 23 years’ probation. So I can’t break the law before my probation is up. Worse, I can’t get a job in New York. And that’s what drove me to writing, hoping I’d make a living through literature, but it didn’t happen.
“Then I tried selling wares around but nothing worked. Family and friends abandoned me; they wouldn’t buy anything from me either. As if not enough already, out of nowhere, one day my head just stopped working. I found myself talking crap and they took me to the Inn! Waking up in a mental hospital (manicomio) and when I asked; some stupid guy said that I was fuckin’ crazy in my head in; apparently I had nearly chewed his ear off! They kept me there for three weeks, almost a month. My kids were devastated, luckily Mom was there. She took them to school and everything.”
It was at that place I realized that writing a book and have it published was only possible if one had enough money throughout. That story of having your book published and sold through all major retail channels free of charge only worked in movies. So if you don’t have money, don’t write some stupid book because you don’t want to start something you won’t finish. Nevertheless, I got discharged from that shit-hole mental hospital after what seemed like a lifetime of pumping pills. But deep down I felt totally broken than I had been before going there. My self-confidence was utterly gone. I feared my own shadow even. And starting a new business was the last thought on my mind because I believed nothing worked for me anymore. Even men who used to propose to me daily when I worked and still married, now looked away when they saw me coming. It was like I had a banner written over my forehead saying: “Here Comes the Greatest Looser on Earth” in bold letters even, and that feeling of helplessness drained the living light out of me!
Mom has got money. Lots of it, I think she is twice richer than President Trump even, but she won’t spend it on you. For all she cared, you could go to the moon and back and she won’t hear about it even. However, seeing that I was still mentally fucked up, even after coming back from the joint, she took me and my kids on vacation to Africa.
She had business plans going for herself in Namibia, so she used that opening to take us along on a vacation as well. So prior to landing, when I asked about a shuttle service from the airport, she said she had booked some cab driver while she was still home in New York. I only found out later that the cab driver she referred to was Joseph Sambi. And why she had chosen him, of all people in Africa, I didn’t know at that point in time since Mom never talked. In a day if really busy at work she spoke less than a thousand words only, otherwise she hardly spoke. She could answer your question just by looking you straight in the eye, and there you would see your answer in her eyes. I don’t like my mother very much. I wouldn’t have suffered so much if only she had paid for my book to get published. I would be rich by now and so I could have refunded her money with interest even, but she wouldn’t hear of it! (To be continued)…