Quandary: The Aftermath

After just shy of two months, I finally put my fictional story to rest. 18 posts overall, including just under 20,000 words. That qualifies as a novella, and is about half of the minimum requirement for a novel. I just looked that up a moment ago, and I was a little surprised. I think I'd like to collect all of those words, do a little editing, and maybe submit it somewhere and see what happens. We'll see what happens.

I have found that the more I write, the more I want to write. Sometimes I don't have enough time in the day, and sometimes I'm just lazy, but I could write a post every day. I couldn't guarantee I would keep on track writing about recovery issues every time, but I could keep it interesting. But I won't.  My life is busy and it's about to become busier with this new job. More on that later.

While writing the Quandary, I often had to bring my mind to a dark place. Although it was a work of fiction, it wasn't far off from the reality of the meth world. Kidnappings, robberies, and even murders take place every day in our country with their main goal being the acquisition of meth or money for meth, or as the result of doing something taboo such as narcing. Down in California and Arizona, closer to cartel territory, murder over drugs is a daily occurance. I've heard stories about people being brought out to the desert to see mass graves before being given the opportunity to work with the Mexicans, and they came from fairly credible stories.

The point is that fiction is often based on reality, and I was given the opportunity to create more of a background story and paint a picture for your mind and I had fun with it even though the subject matter was scrofulous. I would think about the characters while I was working, and be excited for the weekends when I could put pen to paper so to speak.


Now it's concluded, and I wonder what I could have done differently. I knew it was going to have an unhappy ending from the very beginning. The original beginning and ending happened at an airport but I soon realized the inherent danger of transporting drugs and money via the sky. Bus trips to Arizona for cheap meth are a very real thing so that made more sense. The part I wrote about signs in the bus depot about trains, and the tracks outside all happened by accident when for some reason my brain kept telling me I was in a train station. Either way, the real motivation for the decor was unit 10 at Moose Lake prison with the shiny gloss walls and signs and flyers everywhere.

King and Mason were based on my main suppliers in real life, both of whom are serving Federal time now for their parts in crimes involving drugs, guns, and money. Seth is based on a crackhead version of my real friend Seth who is nothing like that except maybe for some of the mentality.  Crystal and Erika are real people from the Fillmore County area that are friends of mine, and blog readers.

Yes, everything I wrote had a root in some very real person, place, or thing. I don't know if I could write a novel or short story about something that I had no experience with, but maybe someday I will find out.

Quandary 18

This is the last in a series of fictional posts that starts here.

I wasn’t thinking about my future that night. I wasn’t thinking about myself at all. I didn’t really even know if these guys were capable of hurting my loved ones, I just knew I thought so at the time. That story I wrote happened six years ago, and I’ve been locked up ever since with no chance of seeing the outside again. I changed some of the locations and names as to avoid prosecution of certain friends.

I hadn’t paid any attention to my surroundings when we drove up to the other two on that gravel road. As it turned out, we were less than 300 feet from a house, and those residents called the police as soon as the first shot was fired. An officer showed up about a minute after I emptied the contents of Driver’s head onto his own lap. I had already thrown the gun, and I was taken in swiftly without a fight.

I sat in the back of the cruiser for hours covered in blood and chunks of skull while the police surveyed the crime scene. Goggles had actually survived for a little while but eventually died at the hospital. All I wanted was a shower and a bed to sleep in.

I don’t know that I can say I would have done things differently if I were given another chance. I perceived a threat, and I acted on that. The police say that I should have contacted them, but that was never going to happen. Criminals solve crimes in their own ways, often with violence, and that’s what happened that night.

After a short trial I was convicted of all three murders in the 1^st degree and sentenced to three 20-year terms to be served consecutively. That is a total of 40 years I will have to sit, including good time. If I’m still alive, I will be released under supervision in September of 2051.

My days in Moose Lake prison are very boring. I play a lot of cribbage and Monopoly 1M1B. My only visitor is my mom, and she only comes on my birthdays. I told her not to come more often because she just cries when she sees me. I’m not sure she understands the latent danger she was in, or that, for me, the whole thing was worth it if it saved her life. I try not to think about it all too much these days, but I wanted to get the story out so I could be done with it in my head. I feel a lot better having it all out on paper.

There’s one stipulation to reading this. I’m dead. This letter was to be sealed and delivered to my mom only upon my death. I didn’t want to cause any more trouble for any of my friends, nor did I want my family to have to read this somewhere without first giving their consent. So, that’s it. That’s the story of why I’m in prison.

After serving 11 years in Moose Lake prison, Vince got into a fight with a guard and was immediately swarmed by nine C.O.’s. The official cause of death was ruled accidental strangulation when the weight of five officers crushed his wind pipe against the arm of another. I wasn’t allowed to see the body but if I had to guess I would say that it was probably bruised and battered.

Vince made a lot of bad choices in his life, and that’s why I decided to publish this story on the internet. I hope that somewhere, somebody sees this and decides to avoid the toxic world of drugs and deception. I miss my son every day.

-Vince’s mom

M.I.A.

Yesterday the plan was for my mother and I to go pick up my grandmother and head out to Lake Calhoun and rent a canoe, or maybe it was a paddle boat, for the day. Because the sky was overcast and there was some rain, we opted for the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. I would not be disappointed.


I hadn't been there in well over a decade, and to be honest, very little had changed, but I was still captivated by the history and creativity that can be found within those walls. I was the only one unaware of a particular exhibit including various artists and their takes on landscaping. Or maybe just landscapes; there were no lawnmowers to be seen.

Before we could go see the special exhibit, however, we would wind our ways through the maze of rooms that is the institute. Here's how it all went down.

As we entered the arena of ancient Japanese fighting arena, we were asked to choose a helmet to wear throughout our journey. I chose this one because it made me look taller and similar to an insect, which generally I think people are afraid of. Upon attempting to remove the helmet from it's storage container, an employee asked me to please stop of I would be asked to leave.

These are the three wise men of  Chevapravatdumrong.

This is believed to be the first glory hole ever discovered from ancient times. It is said to be over ten-billion years old, and is likely made from an unknown material from outer space.

On a serious note, these next two paintings were in the Landscape exhibit and I couldn't stop looking at them. I passed right over the Monet's and stopped at these beauties painted by German artist, Gerhard Richter.

This was my favorite piece in the museum also a Richter piece. I don't know how to draw, but if I did, I like to think this is what I would paint. He somehow made it look like a blurry photograph. No matter from what distance, or from what angle I took it in, it confused my eyes.

I got bored and stared out of this window for a while. It really would have been a bad day to be out on a lake.

This is a picture of future artist, Claude Monet from the year 60008

This gentleman followed me into every room and tried to copy the faces I was making. He did pretty well as you can see here.

This is exactly what it looks like.

Again, a piece that made me look twice. I almost walked right past it then my mom told me it was made out of sand. I immediately turned back to it and was in awe at the length of time it must have taken to produce such fine quality. 

The last three pictures are of my mom and grandma with their favorite animals, and two Japanese warriors with cool hats.

We did our best. We ate overpriced food at a restaurant better suited for a mall food court, and made our way through the gift shop where they do sell a cheese knife set for $1,700. We paid $60 for the three of us to see a handful of paintings of landscapes. And we saw the same jade, gold, and bronze statues that I have seen since childhood. There were a few empty rooms this time through, so maybe there's hope for new material. I left with a sense that I should research Gerhard Richter, and probably not go back to the museum for another decade. I gave it a shot, and I wasn't impressed. But, there are other museums, and other places to visit, and I'm open to experiencing new things.

Quandary 17

This is the 17th in a series of posts that starts here.

We pulled alongside the parked car and Driver powered the vehicle down. Dumpy put his fat head in the driver’s side window and asked, “Did we get it?” Oh yeah, he was going to get it, all right. Driver pointed at me in the general direction of the brief case which seemed to please Goggles because he grinned. If I were a gambling man, I would wager that Goggles did not own a tooth brush.

It was time for action. I needed to make a statement so I pulled up the revolver and pointed it at Dumpy’s head. I had already pulled the hammer back and it took surprisingly little effort to pull the trigger the rest of the way back. The gun kicked in my hand as the bullet exploded out of the barrel and through the skull and brain. I was temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash which I hoped also blinded and burned Driver. I knew I had to act quickly if I was going to get Goggles before he ran away. The report from the bullet also took my hearing away. I probably could have prepared a little better than I had.

My senses reeled, I grasped at the door handle and got out hastily. As my vision came back, I could see that Goggles was just standing there, staring down at his friend. Dumpy had fallen down right where he had stood. There was a lot more blood than I ever thought there would be because his heart didn’t stop when the bullet tousled his brain. It looked as if he were still breathing but I knew it was just spasms, his body didn’t quite know he was dead yet.

Goggles looked up at me and said, “You fucking killed him!” Good observation, bud. You get a gold star.

I decided not to waste any time so I raised the heavy gun at him and fired again. This time my aim wasn’t as good and the bullet tore through his cheek. There was a violent head movement, followed by a quick trip to the ground. I glanced over at driver but he was just sitting there, watching it all happen. I looked all around but all I saw was darkness aside from the beams that cast light over the gravel road ahead of the car. I walked over to Goggles and saw that he, too, was dead. Two bullets, two kills.

I thought that I would feel something by now. Some pain, sadness, or at least guilt. But there was nothing. I hadn’t had any real feelings for years other than anger and frustration. I had wasted all of my years as an adult committing a plethora of crimes and feasting upon every chemical I could get in my hands. I wanted it all to be over, and I knew there was only one way for me to be done with it all forever. Looking back, I think that’s why I was so reckless that night; I wanted to get caught.

I locked eyes with Driver and pointed the gun at his face. I maintained eye contact with him as I walked back around to the passenger side and got in. As I sat I could feel the nerves in the seat next to me. I could smell them, too. Like all good murders, this one summoned a good amount of fear from the next victim in line. He had seen his friends die, and he knew he was next, and he shit his pants. I just had a few words for him before I sealed his fate.

“You guys threatened my family, my friends, and you put me in a trunk. Twice. You just can’t do that to people without consequence.” I grabbed the handle of the briefcase and pulled it up to my lap and opened it up to show him the void inside. He looked over at the empty case and shook his head. I continued, “King was never going to be at the bus station, I have no clue what he’s up to. Now, are you ready?” He started to cry and shook his head. I raised the barrel up to his temple and squeezed the trigger.

A Little of This...

Yesterday one of my agents came to my work for the second time in three days after not seeing any of them for nearly a month. He needed a U.A. and I was happy to provide one for him because I was standing at the urinal about to make uno when he called to say he was around the corner. We had our normal conversation where he asks all sorts of invasive questions while I'm trying to focus on pointing my penis at a small cup in front of me, and a coworker is dropping dos in the stall stage left. It will make a great scene in the movie someday.

Today, when my second of two bosses arrived, he walked over to the large bay door that separates our workspaces from that of our neighbors and opened it up. He then opened the other large door and walked back over to me and said something like, "I wanted to get some airflow going through here since the A.C. is not on today. So, if you see a n****r walking around over there, apprehend him." He chuckled to himself and strolled off.

I really hate how much and how casually the "N" word is thrown around by the owner of our company. This place is a dump, and I hate working here, and both of my bosses are ignorant, racist, and what is truly wrong with this country.

That said, nothing pleased me more than to see the look in his eyes when I told him I was actively seeking other employment, and that I had a promising interview yesterday. My bosses love me because I'm hard working, I've never called in sick, and I've never been late. They have given me raises in appreciation of my hard work, but I simply cannot stand this environment any longer.

The job I applied for at the Xcel Center would only be part time so I would have to continue working here until I'm off of ISR in October, but I think by then I will be ready to immerse myself completely in the culinary world again by finding additional hours in a restaurant somewhere.

What is this job, you ask? Well, even I am not 100% certain. What I do know is that the company, Levy Restaurants, does high volume, high-end catering for large venues, specifically Wild games and other events at Xcel.

Yesterday I had an interview with two executive chefs all dressed up in their kitchen whites and I kept thinking about how nice I look with a chef coat on. Hopefully I will get to wear one soon. I won't know for certain until the 1st if I have a job. I'm sure there are many applicants to choose from, but I think I did well. I will certainly write more on that as it comes.

I'm in bed now. It's 8:38pm on Friday night. Sometimes I wish I had a life, and sometimes I'm happy being a bum.

As I look back on my day, I wonder if I should have said something, instead of nothing, when my boss said what he said. I mean, if I tell him what I think, he will probably stop using that word, around me at least. But then what would I write about?

A Letter

Nearly all of The Quandary is fictional. The characters are loosely based on people I've met over the years, and I've named some of them after people I know. Mason and King, the two big-time drug dealers are very real to me because they are based on two people, one of whom I knew quite well. Mason's name in real life is Ken. Ken was my guy up until my arrest in 2013. He was arrested a short time later and has been locked up ever since.

Ken is now a resident in a Federal prison in Adelanto, California. He was given a 15 year sentence for two counts of first-degree sales of meth. He also had something like $30,000 tucked away in his home when the police raided it, which is how it became a Federal case. The Feds only allow 10% good behavior time which means he has to sit for 13 1/2 years.

I write to Ken because he's a friend, and he's far from home and doesn't have many people to communicate with. I received a letter from him yesterday and I thought I'd share it with you. I won't edit it, just keep that in mind.

Vince, 
Hey man what's up? It's good to hear that things are going good for you. Don't lose focus. It's real easy to get off track. Keep them priorities in place. Things are alright here. Its been hot as hell the last week. The last couple days just been dragging by for me. We been stuck inside cause there a huge fire close by and is ash falling from the sky and the air is somewhat smoky. So yeah, it's been real boring. Not much to do. I wish they would let us out to go fight the fires. That would be pretty cool I would think. And maybe more productive. I guess they let some of the state prisoners do it. It would be a hell of an experience. Man I miss the green grass and the trees. When I look out my window all I see is gravel and little cactuses. Can't wait to get back that way. Hopefully it's sooner rather than later. But who knows with the Feds. They tend to do everything ass backwards. That's crazy about the vehicle falling on your old buddy. It goes to show how quick and spontaneous a persons life can be yanked from them. I got a B day next month. I'm gonna try to make a little meal for myself and maybe a little cake or something. Best I can do where I'm at. Anyway, I hope everything keeps going well. Just keep yourself busy! Don't let that mind wander :-) I'll talk to you later,
Ken

I hear a lot of sadness and despair in those words. He has been behind bars for nearly three years, with a decade to go. Nobody from his family has visited him, including his two children, and contact with them is becoming more infrequent.  It's as if he's being slowly erased from the picture of life.

Someday, after a few years, they may transfer him to a facility closer to home. Until then, he's stuck inside the bare walls of a compound on the fringes of a desert. He's lonely, depressed, and probably feels a bit scared for himself. All over two handfuls of meth and a few stacks of money, this man's life has been all but taken away. There's nothing he can do for an early release, there's nothing he can do to take it all back. All he can do is sit there and wait.