Around 2003 I was writing the book. I never got around to finishing it. Maybe one of the reasons I never finished it was the fact Mchael Powell passed out of my life after Chapter 3.
Hi Michael (Ratso, from Midnight Cowboy, always seemed more appropriate, but you lacked his charm and virtue):
It must have been Veterans Day, you commented you didn’t understand why I was allowing you to hang around or some such thing. You claimed you never understood what I saw in you. I almost told you that night, after you’d flitted around Sky City and the streets of Albuquerque behaving like a lunatic, approaching one stranger after another trying to sell meth to them.
You, persuading me that morning to take you; urging me to keep in there with you, almost begging me to allow you to continue. I’d never before observed anything in that league for human folly. You, a man out on bond for a couple of felonies, evidently manifesting the best behavior you could muster, were an irresistible experience for any writer worth his salt.
I never made any bones about the fact I’m a writer. When we first met I was completing a book about the lost gold mine. You sat in my apartment one night and read part of it. When all the refinements on that were finished, you might say I was a writer all dressed up with no place to go. I was always surprised you never made the connection.
The study of human frailty is meat and potatoes for a writer. You dropped into my life as a voodoo-doll on a parachute. You reminded me of a 1950s cartoon of a Tasmanian devil. A sort of whirlwind energy creature dedicated to breaking anything breakable, and disrupting anything disruptable.
You are one of those rare, incorrigible folks incorporating the entire catalog of human vice and frailty, and showing none of the virtue, so far as I was ever able to detect. You stayed in my life from March 1, until a couple of weeks after Veterans’ Day without much input from me, sponging, begging, stealing, banging on my door at all hours, and generally rebuilding my enthusiasm for the project whenever it flagged.
The name of the new book is, Zombies On Boogie Street, Methamphetamine In the New Millenium. It’s all about blasters, pathological liars, rats, snitches, thieves, sex-addicts, stupidity; people who shoot meth and people who believe they are possessed. Generally, in short, about the low-life scum bottom-feeders who choose to make meth their major goal in life.
You inspired a book, and you earned a major piece of it.
Three chapters, so far, although your part isn’t really finished yet. I expect the Michael J. Powell ones will be the centerpiece. There’s nothing in the book I didn’t see for myself, if it’s stated as fact, or that you didn’t tell me as fact. The reader will be forewarned that that whatever came from you can be trusted only as far as you can be trusted. Which is to say, not at all.
I do believe your assertion that you are possessed, though I don’t know much about possession by demons. I think my readers will be as convinced of your possession as I am. I expect they’ll be convinced some of the homicides, burglaries, rapes, robberies, and other mayhem you claim to have committed, actually happened, as well. Even a pathological liar doesn’t lie all the time.
For a long while I really felt sorry for you. That’s why I prepared and took food to you and your mother when you didn’t have any. It’s why I prepared the Caisse’s Tea for you when you dreamed up the story about having a brain tumor. I knew it was probably a lie, but figured, just in case, it couldn’t hurt.
Anyway, being around you cost a lot of money, time, and energy. Probably most ‘normal’ people would agree that a day with you leaves a person feeling a good hot bath isn’t enough to wash off the residue you leave behind.
I’ve already done what I can to make sure some unsuspecting person doesn’t get blown away by your ‘satchell charges’, assuming they exist. If someone does get hurt by your burying the damned things, then allowing them to stay there, dangerous as you described, responsibility will fall where it belongs. The same applies if you actually manage to snuff me, or someone near me. You’ll be right up there at the top of the list.
That brings me to the threats you’ve been making about me and folks I care about. If you want to try to carry them out, it’s your call. The widow-lady figures there’s nothing about you a .357 magnum won’t cure if you come bothering her anymore. If you manage to harm her, or her daughter and the law doesn’t do anything, you’ll be well advised to move to Bangor, Maine, and change your name. I intend to make certain you don’t get off without any consequences. ‘Nuff said.
As for your intentions toward me, I just don’t give a damn. You do what you think is best and we’ll see what happens next. Exposing the Michael J. Powells to the world is a worthy enough job for now. If you blow a hole in me, I’ll heave a sigh and consider it a job well done, knowing you’ll finally be off the damned streets.
See you around, Space-Monkey.
Best to you,