Hard Times

By Ward Price

Oklahoma native and former prisoner, Ward Price shares his story of life in Tulsa, Oklahoma during a challenging time in our nation's history. The rise of gangs that were given access to vast amounts of drug money changed the very fabric of our society, yet that access was the result of several factors, including the maneuvering of a justice system more concerned with its own ultimate goals.

This Series, 'Railroad To Justice', begins with "Hard Times", A Story that DOES need to be told, in which Mr. Price shares his formative years and reveals the influences which led to his 22 year absence from his family and community - a community he is now working to rebuild.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ward Price
• Release date: Mar 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370703050

Ward Price

THIS Conspiracy was not a 'Theory'. Oklahoma native and former prisoner, Ward Price shares his story of life in Tulsa, Oklahoma during a challenging time in our nation's history. The rise of gangs that were given access to vast amounts of drug money changed the very fabric of our society, yet that access was the result of several factors, including the maneuvering of a justice system more concerned with its own ultimate goals. This Series, 'Railroad To Justice', begins with "Hard Times", A Story that DOES need to be told, in which Mr. Price shares his formative years and reveals the influences which led to his 22 year absence from his family and community - a community he is now working to rebuild.

Book preview

HARD TIMES

WARD PRICE

Railroad To Justice

Series Book 1

Hard Times

© Ward Price 2016

1st Edition

@Smashwords

The stories contained in this Series are based on true events, much of which can be found in Records available to the public. Some names have been changed, to protect the innocent or for Legal purposes.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Front Cover Design: John Nix

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LpJ Publishing Enterprises

2017

All rights reserved

Dedication

This story is dedicated to my little Brother, Terry. May he Rest In Peace. I also dedicate it to my mother, and my big sister Rachelle, because without them, none of this would have been possible.

Table Of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

~ A Sneak Peek

~ About The Author

HARD TIMES

Chapter 1

1976

Ward Ray Price, get yo black ass in this house, right now! my mom shouted. Her eyes were fixed on me, observing my every move from the other side of the screen door.

Yes mam, here I come! I shouted back, nervously trying to figure out if I may have said a cuss word while being secretly observed. I quickly ran toward the house, hoping that whatever it may be, it would not warrant another beating by extension cord.

Yes mama? I said in my nicest, sweetest, voice.

And there we stood, face to face. Mom was every bit of five-foot-four, but she towered over me – at that time – by at least two feet. She treated all of her kids differently, and unfortunately for me, I just so happened to be the spitting-image of my father, Ward Price Sr. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that my daddy was in trouble. Big trouble.

Smaacckk!

My mom slapped me so hard that I fell backwards, inconveniently landing on top of the glass coffee table located in the front room of the house. I was fine, not a scratch; the bad news was that several items broke during my fall. My mom looked at me with devils in her eyes.

I'm going to kill you, nigga, was all she said, calmly turning and walking toward the kitchen – to retrieve a weapon to make good on her promise of death.

As I lay on my back, face numb and ears ringing from my mother's blow, it suddenly occurred to me that I needed to run for my life. I jumped to my feet and dashed toward the front door, ignoring the pain starting to wash down my lower back region, refusing to give into the urge to look behind me. I was confident that I could out run my mother; she was crippled in a auto accident, brought about by my fathers irresponsible actions years earlier.

Baamm! Out of nowhere, someone tackled me.

As I lie on the ground, secure in the arms of my pursuer, I turned my head to catch a glance of the person who was holding me for the slaughter. Our eyes met; I was not surprised that the culprit was my sister, Damita Price - also known as Bonnie.

Let me go, Bonnie! I pleaded.

My sister looked me eyeball to eyeball, and proclaimed with spittle dripping from her mouth, You gone get it today, nigga.

SMACK! SMACK!

The leathery skin of the extension cord cut without mercy into the back of my neck. My mother was slightly crippled but, when armed with an extension cord, she was just as effective as the old slave masters from the South who broke Grandfather Kunta Kente with a bull-whip.

Several hours later, I lay in my bed, body covered with whelps from the beating I had suffered. In the other twin-bed, right across from me, sat my sister, Bonnie, my cousin Trecy, and my little brother, Terry. As usual, they seemed to be enjoying my agony, obvious considering none of them could stop laughing.

Mama beat that ass! Bonnie shouted out, with joy.

My cousin Trecy – who is just one year younger than I – rolled across the bed, consumed with uncontrollable laughter. Even my little brother Terry, no older than 3 years old at that time, was holding his little tummy, laughing at his big brother. My body was still burning from the beating – I literally hurt all over – but ironically, the thing that was causing the most pain was the jeering laughter coming from my siblings.

Deep within my soul, thoughts began to compete for attention. At first I was terribly distraught, and saddened; I was always getting these Kunta Kente-like beatings. With cords, switches, belts, sticks, etc. And in my opinion, almost none of them were deserved.(NO, REALLY!)

Truth is, I started out as one of those not-so-cute-but-sweet kids. I was taught to always respect my elders; it was always 'yes sir', and 'no mam', with me. I never talked back, and I consistently followed instructions. My problem was that I was named after my daddy, and I looked like my daddy – therefore I was never really given the benefit of doubt. Because of my dad's prior actions, I was always guilty in the eyes of many. I'd always loved my dad, but today was the day that I decided that I hated him. And I hated the name Ward Price. And just for honorable mention, I hated being in this house. That's when I decided that I was running away from home.

My mindset was (Fuck this shit!) it was time to go.

Mentally, I came back to the reality of my current situation, and suddenly stood up, startling my giggling siblings. What the fuck is funny? I shouted, able to see that the three of them were momentarily confused by my actions.

I pointed to Bonnie – because she was the oldest of the four of us, as well as the unquestioned leader of the pack. "Yo dumb ass laughing at me, but daddy is laughing at you, dummy!" I could see that she was trying to figure out what our father had to do with this; trying to determine if I knew something about our father that she didn't. She hated him, with a passion, and was always looking for a way to hate him just a little bit more.

Say what? she questioned, eyeing me carefully.

You heard me! I proclaimed with anger. Daddy is laughing at you. He hurt mama with the car, and he wants me and you to hurt each other, so that when he gets out of jail, no one will be able to stop him from hurting mama again...dummy. Honestly, it was a stab in the dark on my part. My plan was to temporarily redirect the attention off of me and onto my dad.

I could feel all six of my siblings' eyeballs gazing over me from head to toe, trying to determine if I was on the up and up. I looked at Bonnie; something had changed. She was allowing the hate for our father to consume her being. It always amazed me how she could channel that hate – in the same way a Medium could channel a spirit.

We gone kill that Nigga, I swear to God! Bonnie proclaimed in a voice that sounded like Muhammad Ali, mixed with a little Keith Sweat. "Daddy, I hate you!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.

Of course, my father couldn't hear her; he was locked away in prison at the time, and had been given a life sentence. (Thus, I had naturally assumed that we would never see his black face again)

We're going to break his legs, before we kill him! Bonnie was screaming to no one in particular.

I knew that she would be revved up for awhile. Every time that she got to thinking about our father, she would get hyped, angry and evil. But as I was enjoying Bonnie's antics, my oldest sister, Rachelle, entered the room.

Turn that T.V. Off! she yelled, as she marched through the room. Time to say prayers...time to go to bed.

Rachelle was four years older then Bonnie, and five years older than me. At 13 years of age, she was grown, for all intents and purposes. I have no memory of Rachelle ever actually being a 'kid'. Amazingly, she eventually started driving her self to school – and work – at the tender age of fourteen. In her own car.

The truth is, Rachelle was never allowed to play and have fun, like me, Bonnie, and Terry. In my house we had two parents; my mother was parent