Since this is at a time prior to my acquiring of evidence, I honestly do not know for sure if this is just big pompous talk, or is it the bare truth of the matter? Its a most confusing and complex matter and instead of allowing this situation to totally derail my focus, I have no choice but to steam ahead by ignoring these deadly warnings to put all deadly warnings on the back burner to focus all of my energy on my work until I can find the incontrovertible evidence to support such deadly claims and at the present writing, I have more than enough incontrovertible evidence to support such deadly warnings, but my friends that is what we call, hindsight. So just ignore that last sentence. Before James can turn around to egress from my office, with a serious stone-dead expression on his face, he takes the words right out of my mouth:
"Vince, just between you, me and the four walls, these damn racist Rednecks Are Goddamn Crazy! They are also bloodthirsty murderers! For my own safety, my nervous wife Robin wants me to quit this construction job before the racist Rednecks murder me for something I know nothing about. Since these racist Rednecks have committed murder in the past, so its very easy to commit another murder in the future and my wife Robin has had a very bad premonition for eight nights in a row that the next murder victim that these racist Rednecks murder — Will Be Me! My wife is very scared for my life! In a dream, my wife has envisioned that my dead body will be dumped into Brother Brent's fresh water pond out back and she also dreamt, that his big man-eating bass will be gnawing on my ears, nose and lips as I sink to the depths of the pond. Because when you know too much information about criminals who commit murder, you end up swimming with the fishes!"
With that deadly forewarning said, at long last James finally turns around to egress from my office and after the hourglass of a few months is empty, James is never seen or heard from again! While I inquire about the whereabouts of James from time to time and without an answer ever given, to this day I have no idea if James remains in the land of the living, or if he swims with the fishes? All I know for sure is, that one day James disappears like a grilled cheese sandwich left alone with a fat man. Could it be possible that the premonition of his wife has come true? Has James become food at the bottom of Brother Brent's black murky pond located smack-dab in the center of the dealership lot? for these questions I can not answer with any degree of certainty. But what I do know is, even to this day the disappearance of James still remains an unsolved mystery wrapped in a riddle inside an enigma.
But if one is to trust their gut instinct, boys and girls can you say — Fish Food?
"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."
Abraham Lincoln, U.S. President
I only wish to cut Abraham Lincoln up into tasty little meat squares to feed him to the 'gators, because its Death To The Nigger Lover!
Brother Brent Wainwright, with social security number of: 593-12-9671
Eddie Murphy is a racist Nigger who hates white people. To prove my point, on the movie set every white person is forced to turn completely around to face away so that they can not look at Eddie Murphy when that black Coon walks past them and that's a standard rule of Eddie Murphy and what makes it even worse, is that the movie studio who kisses the big black Nigger ass, goes along with it because the movie studio is also racist against white people only because, because only the Niggers sue with a lawsuit when it comes to racism. Don't flatter yourself Eddie Murphy, because no one wants to look at your ugly gorilla face anyway You Son of a Negro Slave! And if I ever get my hands on Eddie Murphy, me and the great Mr. Wayne Frier will gladly hang that African bush monkey from Wayne Frier's Nigger Hangin' Tree and then, the mighty me will feed the dead corpse of Eddie Murphy to the hungry 'gators, because the 'gators loves to eats black Spooks, because the Niggers look like big fat monkeys!
Brother Brent Wainwright, co-owner of Family Home Center of Homosassa
V
The Sexual Hound Dog Meets The Stripper
WITHIN MY FIRST FEW MONTHS at the dealership and in the early hours of a Saturday afternoon, while I walk from model home to model home in the lot and as I reach midway, at the front steps of a model home that I wish to enter, unbeknown to me at this time, I meet a decorated war hero who is affectionately and respectfully known among the troops as Sergeant Douglas R. Parke. After a friendly greeting, we become engrossed in a conversation for thirty minutes before we even enter the mobile home to then continue our interesting conversation and since Sergeant Parke is a native New Yorker who has also made the mistake of relocating to Florida, we have many things in common and a strong friendship quickly grows and the model home that we have entered as our conversation continues, is sold to Sergeant Parke by yours truly. After receiving a mortgage approval and as the lengthy mortgage process drags on from month to month with little progress slowly made and while Sergeant Parke's aggravation with the dealership owners steadily climbs from day to day since they have slowed up the deal to a dead crawl, upon his many invitations I find myself on most Saturday evenings meeting Sergeant Parke at an outside night club that is located on the beach to drink no less than thirty mugs of beer while we do our best to chase the skirts since we are both bachelors. On one Saturday night, as we become inebriated with alcohol from the nonstop beer drinking and I am so inebriated, that I feel like I have hair growing on my face, anyway, Sergeant Parke who is by nature on this particular subject reticent and not at all talkative about it, but after he lifts his mug to toast the fifteenth mug of beer, Sergeant Parke confides:
"Vince, since we're very good friends, I'll tell you the story of how I became a decorated war hero, of which is a story that I rarely tell anyone. During the Vietnam War and near the end of one of many bloody battles, all alone and while under enemy fire I ran three separate gauntlets which began from the chopper to each of the three wounded American solders that without me running those gauntlets would have been left behind to either be killed, or at best to enter the Viet Cong's prison to be relentlessly tortured day after day. With every step that I took to run toward the wounded Americans, the soil all around me danced as the soil violently jumps from the incoming hail of bullets that especially penetrates every square inch of soil of where my next step is to be taken that flies upward from the enemy machine-gun fire. Once arriving at each of the three wounded Americans, one by one I place each man on my back to then turn around to retrace my steps back to the safety of the chopper that was waiting for me to climb aboard. While the many able solders inside the chopper hastily grab the wounded solder that I had retrieved from harm's way and while every solder begged and pleaded with me to climb aboard the chopper and to forget about the two badly wounded solders who I had promised that I will return for them, so without hesitation I ignored the solders in the chopper to instead turn about-face to run the second and then the third gauntlet of death when finally, I arrive at the last wounded solder and while enemy gunfire hits the soil all around us, with my herculean strength from the adrenaline flowing through my veins and with one hand, I toss the last wounded solder as if he weighed only five pounds onto my right shoulder to then run the full length of the deadly gauntlet to place my feet on the very spot that had just exploded from gunfire a tenth of a millisecond earlier and as the rubber on my boots begin to melt with black smoke rising from the intense heat that is generated by the incoming rounds of gunfire that heats up the soil that a tenth of a millisecond later I step on, luckily every one of those bullets that were fired to kill me as well as to kill the wounded trooper that I carry, was absorbed by the soil dancing violently around us instead of penetrating our bodies as I ran like hell to the chopper. As I ran the gauntlet of death three separate times, with every step forward, I knew that I was the only American target and that every weapon of the entire enemy's army was firing at me and by the grace of God, I survived with only receiving minor scratches and bruises, of which is due to the hail of bullets that hit th
e soil everywhere around me that forcibly propelled dirt, rocks and debris to impact against the exposed skin of my face and hands to cause bleeding. The good news is, that each of the three brave troopers who I rescued, after a lengthy hospital stay they each survived their wounds."
When sometime later that evening, after the toast of the twentieth mug of beer and as aggravation suddenly overpowers every other emotion, Sergeant Parke swears:
"Since I need to move into my new mobile home as soon as possible, I swear that if Brother Brent and that Goddamn Redneck Wayne Frier, if those two Redneck Bastards slow down my deal again, you can warn Brother Brent that I will not hesitate to drive my Mack truck through the center of that Goddamn Mobile Home Dealership and I'll drive my Mack truck through it so many times, that only toothpicks will remain! I will not be fucked over by a couple of Goddamn Racist Rednecks! There is no reason why my deal is taking this long to close. If I ever call you from my truck phone to warn you to quickly evacuate from the dealership, that means that I'm three miles down the highway and once I reach the dealership, I'll turn off Highway 19 to drive my big Mack truck at full speed ahead right through that Goddamn Dealership! So if you hear me say 'evacuate,' then get the Hell out of that dealership because two to three minutes later, my big Mack truck will drive right over that dealership and I'll destroy it as if it was a little toy building! Then I'll find Brother Brent and I'll run that Bastard over too! Then, I will not procrastinate for a moment to drive to Live Oak to drive my Mack truck through the Wayne Frier Headquarters and I'll run over every Goddamn Redneck Bastard that I see running from the building! Those Rednecks got me so fucken aggravated by constantly screwing with me and I'm at the end of my Goddamn Rope! Second of all, every damn day that I drive past the dealership on my way to work, it sickens me to see the total disrespect that Brother Brent has toward the American flag, because it is disrespectful to not only have twenty American flags that are shredded from the wind, but to leave the flags on the flagpoles when it rains as well as during nightfall is extremely disrespectful to me and every other veteran who bled for those American flags and if Brother Brent doesn't correct his disrespectful ways, I'll take great pride to hang Brother Brent from his own goddamn flagpole! Is Brother Brent a Goddamn Confederate Traitor or is he just an idiot who has the brains of a moron? If you hang twenty American flags on twenty flagpoles in front of your dealership, then you must follow the rules or pay the consequences of hanging by your neck on your Own Goddamn Flagpole! Every time that I drive by the dealership, it upsets me to see the desecration of those twenty American flags and Brother Brent deserves to be shot by a firing squad composed of veterans! As a matter of fact, you can tell Brother Brent that this Wednesday, I'll come down to the dealership to have a heart- to-heart talk with Brother Brent to give him only one single chance to put an end to the desecration of those twenty American flags, or I'll need to solve this problem my way and Brother Brent won't like the solution of it. He'll have only one single chance to clean up his act, or else drastic steps will be taken. On Wednesday, if I don't like Brother Brent's answer, I will return with my Mack truck and not a flagpole or dealership will remain standing!"
"I agree Sergeant Parke," I agree while sipping on the twenty-sixth mug of beer, "as a matter of fact, I'm very glad that you brought this topic up, because I told Brother Brent exactly the same thing not more than three days ago and after he made a big frowning face while rolling his eyes, he disregarded everything that I had said about his disrespect of the American flag and then, he refused to even discuss the topic any further after his only comment of, nobody ever complained before and as far as he is concerned, he said that if he had it his way, the American flag would only be used as toilet paper since the flag is worth less than the steam rising from his morning shit!"
As the color of Sergeant Parke's face turns into a blood-red color, he angrily replies:
"That no-good confederate traitor Brent, is going to meet his maker on this Wednesday if he gives me any disrespectful lip at all and I swear, that I'll hang that no-good Redneck From His Own Fucken Flagpole! Don't get me wrong Vince, because I'm not trying to advise the owners of the dealership of how to run their business, but every time that I drive by the dealership, I get sick to my stomach to see twenty American flags intentionally desecrated and every single veteran who drives by to see this, feels the same way that I feel about it. Its nothing more than outright treason on full display, because every American flag out there is torn apart by the wind and rain from years of neglect. Is Brent too goddamn lazy to take the flags in at night? And I'm being very easygoing about this upsetting situation, because other veterans will not be as tolerant as I am, since its very emotional if you fought in a war defending those flags only to come home to see those flags desecrated by a mobile home dealership who wants our business. The heroic veterans who died defending those American flags, are turning over in their graves!"
"As of three days ago, I already had two heated and very explosive arguments with Brother Brent about this desecration problem and the big problem that I'm having is, no one will back me up in this argument, the employees will not speak up against Brother Brent and I'm the only one trying to rectify this desecration problem and without another person to side with me, I'll be forever ignored and nothing will be done to solve the problem and the desecration of the American flags will continue."
"You now have backup, because I will take sides with you in this argument against Brother Brent," Sergeant Parke excitedly exclaims, "besides, Brother Brent needs to realize that I'm not only a veteran, but I'm also a customer who is buying a mobile home from his dealership and he needs to realize that I can go down the block and buy the same mobile home from a Wayne Frier competitor at a much cheaper price. So in more ways than one, it behooves Brent to get rid of his desecration practices, or he will find himself hanging from his own flagpole like a fat hideous scarecrow!"
"Good! it feels good to have backup for a change! Sometime either on Monday or Tuesday, I'll have another long discussion with Brother Brent to set him up for the big Wednesday meeting and I'll call you on your truck phone to update you on what he says," is the reply that I make while sipping the suds of the thirtieth mug of beer.
A wee bit after noon time at the dealership on Monday afternoon, in an ironic and timely set of events, as Brother Brent turns off Highway 19 to slowly drive into the dealership parking lot in order to park his pickup truck to make his morning debut, three to four miles down the highway Sergeant Parke telephones me from his truck phone to excitedly tell me not to evacuate from the dealership, but to egress from the dealership in order to stand in the parking lot to watch Sergeant Parke drive by in his eighteen-wheeler Mack truck and within moments of stepping in the parking lot, while honking the loud airhorn and as the ground trembles with an eerie sound to signify that something really massive is approaching rather quickly, the massive Mack truck driven by Sergeant Parke who stares out the window while waving and honking the loud and obnoxious airhorn speeds by in which causes a fierce gust of wind to blow through the parking lot and while I wave to Sergeant Parke in return, in the middle of the parking lot Brother Brent stands frozen in place with crippling fright to watch in awe of Sergeant Parke driving by and only when the Mack truck disappears into the far horizon, does Brother Brent become unfrozen to then walk up to me with the comment of "See I told ya! That all veterans are off their rocker, because they're all crazy and Sergeant Parke is one of the most craziest!" to then skedaddle into the dealership while shaking his head in a "no" gesture, of which is a gesture that is very unflattering by nature. Within the next thirty minutes, I'm able to initiate a meeting with Brother Brent to tell him of the Wednesday meeting that will take place with Sergeant Parke as well as to warn Brother Brent that he must change his desecration policy toward the American flag, otherwise disastrous events may occur. However, Brother Brent only answers with the disrespectful answer of:
"Tell that crazy war hero Sergeant Parke, that the g
reat and almighty me said that he's as crazy as all of the other crazy war veterans who always let themselves get upset, mad and very angry over something that is as stupid and insignificant as a piece of colorful cloth on a pole and that is what We the Rednecks call it — Ludicrous, Crazy And Ridiculous! Whereupons, if that crazy war hero goes to our competitor to buy his mobile home, then me and the great Mr. Wayne Frier will not refund his sixteen hundred dollar down payment and we will rob him blind no matter what kinds of threats that he threatens us with, 'cause that crazy psycho ain't gettin' a refund! And I'm not afraid of that tough guy, because I wrestled in High School!"
Crime Does Pay Page 11