The Beast Degree

By Kevin Bradley Canada

The Beast Degree, an opus of cathartic fiction inspired by real life events is a surreal and allegorical journey through the Criminal mind via the lives of two very different subjects and their respective peripherals, The author illustrates the cause and effect of criminality as well as consequence and resolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oxford Book Writers
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088257876

Book preview

we

(Ebook-Kevin_Canada-Innerpages)EditorFaizan Tauqir202023-06-15T22:31:00Z2023-06-15T22:57:00Z2023-06-15T22:57:00Z665121219690953Aspose5757162181055116.0000

The

Beast

Degree

Kevin Bradley Canada

Disclaimer

Though partly inspired by true events, this is entirely a work of fiction for cathartic purposes. Names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this opus are fictitious, expressing no identity to actual persons living or dead. Some situations have been switched and modified for creative effect. If there lies such a resemblance to names or certain situations, it is purely a coincidence.

Copyright © 2023

All Rights Reserved

Words of Appreciation

First and foremost, I would like to thank the Almighty Creator of the Universe and everything in it for giving me the strength, courage, and perseverance to complete this project, surrounding me with the right, like-minded people and providing me with my wonderful son.

To my late grandmother, Ruby Davis Allen, for always believing in me and rooting for the good part of me. You never turned your back on me, regardless of how many times I allowed the Beast to consume me.

To the staff of the Lookout Mountain School for Boys for planting the seeds: Bill Czechura, Jim Economy, Sharon Hammond, Bill Chisolm, and the late, great Lonnie Lynn, Legendary power forward of the ABA’s Denver Rockets. Lonnie, not only did you teach me how to play basketball on a college level, but you also taught me how to think and approach life as a man. To Mike Moon of Canyon City. You were very critical of me, concerning my writing. Your honesty and no-punches-held feedback and tutelage taught me to stand by my thoughts, actions, and creations. You made me aware of the fact that writers reveal the depths of their souls through their works. To Ruby Gordon-Penny, for being one of my best friends and confidants and for being my biggest fan. You were the first person to believe in me concerning my writing and this project; To the late Dr. Lewis Pernell for encouraging me to go back to school for my degree; To Dillet David for being a true friend and support.

To Austin Carl Hatch for your wonderful illustration. Last but never the least, I thank my mother, Gaila, and all my siblings for providing me with love, support, and life’ lessons that molded me into the man I am today. I am grateful and appreciative to all of you. Thank you all so much.

Dedication

For Grandma Ruby

You have loved and supported me from my birth until your last breath. You showed me that I was loved and appreciated when I was in my darkest of places.

Your love was constant and unconditional.

You will forever be missed, Loved, and Appreciated….

I LOVE YOU

Table of Contents

Disclaimer

Words of Appreciation

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

(Ebook-Kevin_Canada-Innerpages)EditorFaizan Tauqir202023-06-15T22:31:00Z2023-06-15T22:57:00Z2023-06-15T22:57:00Z665121219690953Aspose5757162181055116.0000

Foreword

Every day for nearly 14 years, I arose within the smothering confines of a concrete jungle while the amazing sun, free and laughing its ass off, cast shadows of my barred reality across my face and chest. And you know what? I can’t blame anyone but myself because I’m a recidivist; I keep coming back to prison no matter how many breaks are given to me. So, it’s only right to say that I like the funky, low-budget meals, the power-tripping correctional officers, being counted like branded cattle, the pissy, matchbox cells, and all the other disheartening things ambient to prison society.

With four convictions to my misfortune, one would conclude that I’m institutionalized—incapable of functioning outside of an institutional environment. Well, based on my pattern, one would be right. But, what I’ve come to learn to be true is this: it’s not that people just like me are incapable of functioning as normal, law-abiding citizens; we’re so trained to our negative mode of thinking and rationalization that everything outside of our distorted perception is perceived to be unrealistic and impossible.

For years, I wore the labels of criminal and convict. To me, they were stigmatic pseudonyms representing grim facades. A phase, and not intended to be a permanent condition. I came to this realization once I purged myself of all the toxic programming that had been eating away at me for a long time. Once free of all the toxic waste that eroded my well-being, I was able to see that I was a unique person with lots to offer; that, before my tenure as a criminal, I was an innocent, law-abiding human being with lots to offer. With this realization, it only made sense that the other convicted felons, regardless of how heinous their offenses, were cut from the same ready-to-be-programmed blank canvas. So, Regardless of popular belief, criminals, convicts, delinquents, etc., are human beings who suffer from the disease of criminality.

In no way, shape, or form am I trying to excuse or make light of criminal behavior but rather paint a clear picture of cause and effect. To show the creation of the criminal mind from a reformed human being who was altered by the bug of criminality.

To understand the concrete nature of a person suffering from criminality, whether they be a victim or victimizer, is to have an open mind and be willing to listen regardless of the graphic nature of some circumstances. It is my belief that to communicate effectively concerning criminality; it is necessary to be raw and direct. No sugar coating. Sugarcoating minimizes and makes light of an otherwise graphic situation. It should be presented the same way it occurred. No corner cutting. No holding back. This is how we, as a whole, get to the bottom of understanding the cause/effect and resolution of criminality. To do so, empathy is necessary—leaning into the matter and not shying away from it. We will touch base later. But, for now, there’s someone you need to meet…

Chapter 1

Adolph

I grew up in a small house in Denver, Colorado. Nothing too fancy, just cozy enough for a white, middle-class family of five, living off the mediocre salaries of my tired stepdad, a mechanic at Gates Rubber Company, and my mother, a registered nurse at Denver General Hospital. We were proud Coloradans.

The oldest of three children, I felt special: I handled the entire house when my folks were away at work. My sister Cynthia, who is a year younger than me, hated me for that reason. She always felt that she should have been the one in charge because of her keen ability to change our baby brother Ben’s diapers. She was also a good cook. Our relationship with each other was okay, I guess. Except sometimes I’d have to smack her around a bit; girls can get sassy at the mouth sometimes. She’d always nag about the simple things— Adolph, can you go to the store . . . can you fix this, can you fix that . . . will you empty the garbage...? It was as though she was calling the shots over me like my dad used to do my mom before he passed (he was killed in a car accident on Colfax and Washington Streets). I remember he’d always order my mom around, screaming at her . . . beating her. At times he’d even beat her with his belt. In a strange way, I felt relieved that my dad was killed when he was; his attitude toward my mom was out of hand.

Life with my stepdad was painfully awkward because he was the exact opposite of my dad. Instead of beating my mom and ordering her around—making her feel like shit, he was the recipient of all her anger and frustration. She’d curse him as though he were the bastard child of Satan. I remember her laughing and taunting him, tossing her drinks in his face—treating him the exact way my dad treated her. Jack was really a coward when it came to women. He’d beat the crap outta me whenever I screwed up or whenever he needed a reprisal, but he would let my mom use his face for slapping practice whenever she felt like belittling someone. I have nothing but contempt and disgust for him. Damn coward! I don’t mean to get angry or disrespectful, a lot of old feelings are starting to resurface, and it hurts like hell. How could he be so weak towards my mom? Aren’t men supposed to be dominant figures. Rulers. We should never be submissive. It’s infuriating to reflect on such an uncomfortable time in my household. Infuriating!

My school was also weird. I went to Moore elementary—Mimi Eisenhower’s alma mater—located in the Capital Hill area of Denver. My teacher, Mrs. Franz, a bitchier version of Faye Dunaway, hated my guts. And I hated hers, too. My work was never good enough for her. No matter how long or how hard I studied, she always had some crazy-fucking reason not to give me a perfect score or a gold star next to my name on the bulletin board. I think it was because all the other kids—except for Frankie Thomas, who was then the only black guy in school—kissed her ass as if she were queen of England. Frankie and I didn’t see any point in smooching her ass; everyone else was doing a wonderful job at it.

Now that I remember, Frankie and I agreed on lots of things. Though most of the kids, as well as Mrs. Franz, treated him like shit because he was—I don’t know—dipped in chocolate, I guess. I found it to be completely senseless as he was always clean and polite. He never harmed a soul. Yet they tried to make his life at school a living hell. Mrs. Franz suspended Frankie for three days because his attitude was supposedly disrespectful and threatening. All he did was tell her that he wasn’t her child to be yelling at, and the lousy bitch took him by the collar of his shirt straight to the principal’s office. I was pissed. Frankie was the only person at school who understood me, and now he’d be gone for good: his mother decided to transfer him to a school in Park Hill. He was probably the only true friend I ever had.

Angrily, I devised a plan to get back at Mrs. Franz. One day, while we were all out on recess, I snuck back into the classroom and took a ferocious crap in Mrs. Franz’s purse—laughing my ass off the entire time. Afterward, I returned to the schoolyard as if nothing had happened.

We had just returned to the classroom. No one noticed the horrible smell but me. After a few short minutes, my fellow classmates were suddenly aroused by the rich aroma of my proud creation. They began accusing each other of bursting farts when suddenly, Mrs. Franz raised her head from her work; her face contorted into the most god-awful expression. Silently and maintaining her look of discomfort, she arose from her chair—studying the faces of every student, including mine. Did someone get sick and have an accident? If so, don’t be afraid to tell me; I’m here to help you, she said, dying to know the identity of the stinky student.

It took every bit of strength I had to keep from exploding with laughter. I repeat, is there anyone who had an accident and would like to be taken to the nurse? Except for a few smirks here and there, the class was virtually silent. Pounding her fists on her desk, Mrs. Franz came straight for us when suddenly, she paused at her brass coat tree. Fervently, she began sniffing and searching until she came across her Chanel purse.

Briefly hit with a dose of silence and inertia, Mrs. Franz froze like a manikin. Reluctantly, she pulled her purse off the tree and set it down on her desk. The class stared in complete silence. With trembling hands, Mrs. Franz opened her purse. The color was chased from her face by an angry wave of paleness and horror. The entire class went into a series of grumbling and over-exaggerated gagging as the room was now filled with the stench of my demonic pride.

Mrs. Franz, shocked and unbelievably pissed off, stormed out of the classroom, screaming at the top of her lungs. I, along with my classmates, laughed, dizzy. A few moments later, she returned with Mr. James, the school disciplinarian. Knowingly, they marched towards me. Mr. James snatched me outta my chair, carried me over to the desk, and made me empty the contents of the purse onto the desk. My artwork was the first to hit. Spat!

The class roared their amazement. Tears began to fall from Mrs. Franz’s eyes as the precious items of her purse—stained and scented with the devil’s own—fell one after the other. By looking her in the eye, I could tell that I succeeded in hurting her, that she was affected by something I did, and that I was completely in control of her. That I, a measly 6th grader, was capable of reducing a usually stubborn and obnoxious schoolteacher to tears. She was crying! Though her tears were supposed to be my cue for a sad and remorseful performance, I thought it best to continue being me: fuck her and her feelings! She didn’t cry when she, along with the entire class, laughed at Frankie for one reason or another. Screw her!

Mr. James asked me if I had anything to say to Mrs. Franz, and I took one look at her pathetic face and exploded into uncontrollable laughter. Everyone stared at me in silence as I was the only one humored by what I’d done. Mrs. Franz couldn’t believe that I was laughing in her face. The look on her face was indescribable.

Mr. James tightened his grip on the back of my neck. I could barely laugh; his strong vise was cuttin’ off the circulation to my brain. Since you find humor in this...this...this filth, I want you to pick it up. Now! I couldn’t believe my ears. The fat fuck wanted me to pick up my own crap with my bare, fucking hands!

Fuck off! I yelled. He got all hurt and bothered, squeezing the back of my neck until I could take no more. I picked the small, smelly wonder up from the desk, and the class went ape shit. Their faces were filled with disgust as I stood there holding a turd in my hand as if it were a piece of clay.

Let’s go, Mr. James said as authoritatively as he could. His attitude was incredibly shitty. So, I did the first thing that came to mind: Pisch! I smacked him in the face with the turd, broke loose from him, and hauled my ass outta there as quick as I could. I ran all the way home, non-stop.

An hour later, the police, Mr. James, and Mrs. Franz were knocking on my door. What a bitch that day was. Of all days to come home early, my stepdad had to pick that one. He never came home ahead of schedule.

Being that I chose not to answer the door, the police, Mrs. Franz, and Mr. James were still ringing the doorbell when Jack drove up. All at once, they bombarded my stepdad with angry accusations. I heard him mumble something, and the next thing I knew, the key was turning in the door. I contemplated running but took too long because the front door opened, and in came the fury.

Without hesitation, my stepdad rushed me to the floor and began beating the crap outta me (child abuse didn’t exist in those days). You-worth-less-fucker! How dare- you- em-barr-ass us- this- way! How-fuck-ing- dare- you! He beat me until the police got tired of watching him.

The officers of the law finally pulled him off me. The bastard worked up a good sweat kicking my ass. Mrs. Franz was just delighted; she was lousy at concealing her joy. Mr. James, on the other hand, was still pissed. I could tell that he wanted badly to take a crack at me, but the presence of the officers wouldn’t allow him.

They took me to the Gilliam Youth center on 29th and Downing Streets, where I was processed for vandalism and assault on Mr. James. I couldn’t believe that the lousy fuckers pressed charges against me. I have never been in trouble with the law before that day. To make it worse, my mother, in agreement with my stepdad, decided that rather than paying my bail, which was a measly eighty dollars, it was best that I sat in Gilliam until the matters were resolved. I could have killed them both for abandoning me that way. I rotted in Gilliam’s F unit for 28 days before I finally went home on probation. Though by that time, my hatred for my parents had long vanished: all I could think about was my precious freedom and how good it felt to be out of the juvenile hall. However, my family life was still fucked as ever. My stepdad began whipping my ass on a regular basis for any little thing I did, whether it be a failure to empty the trash or not answering him quickly enough when questioned. For some weird reason, he truly hated me—despised me as much as I despised him.

Since taking a crap in my teacher’s purse, I was moved to a special class for the behaviorally and emotionally challenged, which was a lot better for me because I wound up in a class with kids that saw things the way I did. Our teacher, Mr. Heath, a stoutly built middle-aged man, was out of this world. He was the most compassionate, most empathetic person on the face of the earth. We all loved him. The other teachers made us feel inferior to them as well as the other students. We were often singled out and ridiculed for being different. Everyone perceived us as being oddballs; Mr. Heath perceived us as being ‘special human beings with special problems’ I mean, the guy went as far as talking to us on a one-to-one basis. He really cared about us.

Mrs. Franz never spoke to me again—not for any reason at all. She hated me with every cell in her body. What’s crazier than that is: I don’t blame her. Hell, if someone took a crap in my expensive school bag...I’d shit cinder blocks. Talk about a bold double standard!

My grades had improved considerably. Mr. Heath spent lots of time with us to assure that our grades were, in fact, acceptable. Most of the other teachers thought that we were incorrigible—no hope whatsoever, but Mr. Heath showed them all. I guess all we truly needed was a little love and understanding.

My parents cared the very least about my grades. Just as long as they weren’t bothered by officers of the school or of the law, they gave a rat’s ass about anything concerning me. It got to the point where I didn’t even bother to show them my report card. They didn’t care.

Chapter 2

It was the winter of ‘69. I was a 12-year-old waiting for my 18th birth date. Life at home had gotten bad. As a means of refuge from my family, I hung out at Denver City Park on 17th and York Streets. I loved to go sledding; only I didn’t have a real sled: I had an old makeshift model that I made from a piece of scrap sheet metal. It really made me feel worthless to watch the other children, clad in the latest winter wear, slide by on a nice-looking sled. Death to them all!

I remember going to the park one day, just after fresh snow, and there was this strange-looking man with a brand-new fire engine-red sled. I remember thinking how cool I’d look if some of the girls my age were to see me with a sled like his. I’d be the king of City Park, having friends up the ass.

The man must have sensed that I was staring because he suddenly turned to catch me admiring his sled.

Hey, kid, come over here and check out my new sled. I was confused. I didn’t know whether to take him up on his invitation or to run.

Come on; I’m not going to bite ya. He had a friendly face, and his sled was beautiful. I decided to go on over, leaving my so-called sled behind.

He greeted me with an oversized hand and a sincere smile. I knew in my heart that he was indeed a good person.

My name’s Robert. What’s yours?

Adolph, I answered, eager to make a friendly acquaintance.

Adolph? Well, hey, that sure is a nice name.

Thanks! I said, feeling really welcomed. Robert stood to the side as if to let me get a better look at his sled.

How would you like to take it for a spin, he asked with the brightest smile.

I’d love to, I replied, as anxious as any child would be if given the chance.

Okay, Adolph, why don’t you just hop right on, and I’ll push you around. As instructed, I hopped onto the sled. I remember him telling me to keep my legs close together and my hands tightly around the handlebars. Once all the so-called safety checks were in order, he pushed me around the park quickly and steadily until we came to a huge mound of snow fashioned especially for sledding.

We made our way up the mound. Robert positioned the board, holding it steady to prevent it from sliding down the hill.

Go ahead, get on, he said, just as enthused as I was.

Frantically, I remounted the sled. Much to my surprise, Robert joined me. I couldn’t believe it. The sled could barely support me, not to mention a grown-ass man. I remember feeling weird with an oversized man wrapping his arms and legs around my torso, grinding his nuts into my back. Though it felt crazy, it wasn’t enough to make me jump off the sled and leave. I was there to

have fun.

Using his hands as a launching device, Robert gave a shove and off we went. That was the first time that I’d ever been on a sled. I’ve never had so much fun. I’ve never had an adult figure outside of Mr. Heath who was so concerned with me enjoying myself.

We descended the hill at rocket speed, it seemed. So fast, in fact, that a stream of saliva shot out of my mouth and wrapped around my head. Talk about excitement! We finally crashed into a smaller mound of snow, which exploded upon impact. I looked like a miniature snowman.

The rest of the day turned out to be one of the best days I have ever had in my young life. After we rode the sled for a while, Robert took me to this small, greasy spoon located just a couple of blocks from East High School. There we ate gigantic cheeseburgers and hot, greasy French fries. My stepdad never took me anywhere unless it was a family essential—flu shots, dentist, shopping for shoes or school clothes, and to the grocery store. He always told me that I didn’t have any manners and that he’d be ashamed to take me anywhere. But Robert was different: he cared about me. I had known him for only one day, and already he’d taken me sledding to a restaurant, and afterward, while the day was still young, he took me to his home on 13th and Gaylord Streets.

Robert’s home was unique and peculiarly attractive to my kiddy tastes. He had an elaborate gun cabinet filled with various types of weaponry—.38's, .45s, 30.06, 12 gauge shotguns, and a couple of Derringer pepper-box pistols. Next to the gun case stood a smaller cabinet filled with Vietnam memorabilia: medals of merit and bravery, group pictures of wild, war-crazed men, mean and ferocious in appearance, and an enormous poster-like photo of himself pressing a huge gun firmly against the skull of a Vietnamese National. When I inquired as to why he had the gun up to the man’s head, he told me that the boy was an enemy and had to be dealt with. He also told me that the kid was no older than me but extremely smart and dangerous. He bragged about killing the boy.

I was amazed by Robert’s home. It was so cool. In the center of his basement, there was this huge trampoline radiating and ready for me to jump on it. Robert told me to take off my coat, shoes, and socks. I remember him also telling me not to jump so high because I could hit my head on the ceiling.

I jumped on that trampoline for at least an hour before I finally got tired. Robert watched me the entire time. He got a real blast out of watching me have fun.

It was time for me to go home. Robert gave me a handful of change to keep my pockets warm and drove me to my neighborhood. On the way there, He told me that if I wanted, I could come by his house every day since it was Christmas vacation. He also expressed that it was best that I kept him a secret because if anyone was to find out about him, they would keep him from taking me sledding or out to the burger shack. He insisted that no one could be trusted. I agreed to his terms, and he dropped me off within a block of my home.

I really liked Robert. He was like night and day compared to my stepdad. I thought about him the rest of the day, fantasizing about how cool it would be to have him for a dad 24 hours a day, though my fantasy would come to a crashing end as my parents were arguing. Again.

It seemed that they couldn’t agree on anything anymore. My mother would disrespect him whenever she had the chance, and he’d just stand there and whimper like a pup. What kind of a fucking man are you, my mom would yell. But, instead of smacking her one, he’d endure her verbal abuse. I’m sorry, Patricia...you know I love you, Patricia...Honey, please, you’ll wake the kids. It’s all my fault...!              Man, I’ll tell ya, he was sickening!

Later that night, I received the shock of my life! I was on my way to the john to take a late-night pee, and I heard strange noises coming from my parent’s room. Their door was partly open—which made it worse because I was able to see what was going on. Jack, the biggest wimp in the world, had my mother bent over on all fours, ramming it to her from behind. I was shocked! I had never in my entire life witnessed such a thing. I mean, sure, I’ve heard of sex and may have browsed at a few Playboy magazines whenever I got the chance, but this was some heavy shit. They were completely naked. I remember studying Jack’s bodily movements—his method of screwing my mother, back and forth, back and forth. I had never seen anything like that in my life. Jack was a different person. His attitude was very much like my father’s: he was mean and dominant; his mouth was foul and full of contempt for my mother.

Take this cock, you fucking cunt! Tell me how hard you want it. Tell me! It was as though the devil possessed him. That was the first time that I’d ever seen him control my mother in any way. He treated her like dirt, and she loved him for it.

Aggh, fuck me harder... fuck my cunt...ooh, Sugar, I love you so much...fuck me like the real man that you are...!

Not only was I shocked, but I was also confused: my mother had always treated Jack with such disrespect—a sour attitude that no man in their right mind should endure for any woman, and now, now that he was smacking it to her, she was incredibly submissive.

The woman I knew as my mom, a true bitch that hated men, was reduced to begging, cooing sex fiend.

As deeply as I have despised Jack, I really admired the way he took total control of my mom. In the bedroom, he was lord and master, and my mother was a sex-crazed cock hound inferior to the omnipotence of Jack’s phallic sword. Only then was I bludgeoned with the uplifting truth that it isn’t men whom women respect; it’s the almighty cock! Men are only tolerated by women; it’s our dicks they truly worship...not us. Now I know that was seriously a distortion of perception. But at the time, those were my thoughts.

I decided to escape the confusing scene and relieve myself as I had intended. I went into the bathroom to take a pee and realized that my little penis was hard as a rock with thin transparent fluid oozing from its head. At first, I thought that I had lightly pissed on myself as my underwear was virtually soaked around my crotch area.

I went to touch it, and my knees buckled. An unfamiliar feeling raced through my body only to set up camp at the head of my penis. It was so weird that I couldn’t pee. All I could think about was how good it felt. I began to massage the head of my penis until a fiery sensation took control of my body; a brief montage of my parents’ episode ricocheted in my mind. All I could think about was how strange and arousing it was to see my stepdad thrashing my mom, her sexy pleas, and the sound of slapping flesh. I didn’t know what was happening to me—why it felt so damn good to rub myself. Why was I so aroused by my parents’ mind-blowing scene? Over and over again, the pictures raced through my mind until suddenly, without warning, a fireball raced through my body at God-speed; I grew light-headed, and my legs all but fell from beneath me as an unfamiliar feeling attacked my penis, sending thick, white fluid exploding from its head. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I nearly fell into the bathtub.

After my body calmed itself down and I was mentally prepared, I commenced cleaning myself off. I remember feeling really ashamed of myself for using thoughts of my parents to spank my frog. That was the first time that I had ever had an orgasm, an orgasm motivated by the supposedly private scenes of my parents’ bedroom.

I felt guilty for a long time after that session in the bathroom. I couldn’t look my parents in the eye for at least a week. They hadn’t the slightest idea of why I was so withdrawn. So isolated. If they’d known, they would have sent me to Fort Logan’s psychiatric ward. Only a sick person could masturbate using his parents as a cognitive aid. For a long time, I had a bad habit of staring at my mother in ways no kid should ever look at his mother. I hoped that it was just a bad habit that would eventually subside, but it never did. It got to the point where I’d masturbate at least three times a day—repeatedly playing the cognitive memory of my mother, naked and on all fours, being plowed by Jack. Shamefully, that was one of my most cherished fantasies.

Robert and I have grown close to one another. It was often that I’d pretend that he was my dad. He made me feel special like I was the son that he’d never had. He lived alone, so naturally, my visiting his house meant a lot to him, just as much as it did to me.              My stepdad and I never talked about anything. We always argued. Robert and I talked about everything: girls, sports, motorcycles, and the Vietnam War. Robert was a war fanatic; he talked about the war as much as he could. Sometimes I think he felt as if he were still there. He was medically discharged because of his Epilepsy (he would throw an epileptic fit in the middle of combat).

It wasn’t until my fifth visit to Robert’s house that our relationship changed drastically. I was sitting in his living room playing with an unloaded .38 handgun when he came into the room in his bathrobe. The expression on his face was strange and unusual. Sitting next to me on the couch, he placed his arm around my shoulder.

Adolph, let’s go downstairs; I want to teach you something. his voice was suspiciously soft.

Sure, okay, I replied nervously. I had no idea what he wanted to show me that he hadn’t already shown me.

We went downstairs into the basement—which was unusually dark. I noticed a film projector sitting on top of a wooden cocktail table. It was facing toward a sheet that Robert had affixed to the wall.

Have a seat while I start the movie, he said, fumbling with the knobs on the projector. Movie?! I thought to myself, feeling delighted that Robert was full of surprises—always doing nice things for me, treating me as if I were special.

He started the movie projector and then took his seat next to me on the hide-a-bed sofa. After a short moment of flashing numbers, the movie started. And much to my surprise, it was a dirty movie titled: ‘Young and tender’. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The opening scene involved this young girl performing oral sex on a much older man. I have never felt so uncomfortable in my life. The girl couldn’t have been any more than my sister’s age, and the guy had to have been every bit 40 years old. I mean, his penis couldn’t even fit into her mouth!

What do you think, Robert asked me with a foolish grin on his face.

It’s cool, I guess. I lied. I thought it was absolutely disgusting. Beyond disgusting!

After about five minutes into the movie, Robert did something to me that was really and totally unacceptable: he groped my crotch! I mean, I could have died. A man was touching my frog!

I swept his hand away, and he looked at me as if I’d done something drastically wrong.

Hey, kid, don’t you ever push my hand away again! What the fuck’s the matter with you?! I’ve treated you real nice. Now it’s your turn to be nice. Take off your fucking pants! I couldn’t believe what was happening. I prayed that it was just some weird dream. That I would awake at home, in my own bed, safe and Robert-free. But it was clear that God had no love for me because before I knew it, Robert had forced my pants and undershorts off and, like a starving hyena, began performing oral sex on me... just like the girl in the movie.

I was speechless. I didn’t know what to do. Everything was so weird—so fucked up! I tried to pry his mouth from around my penis but was unsuccessful, as he was stronger than me. He treated me as if I were created to serve him sexually. As if I were his pet.

I eventually traveled to a new dimension escaping the horror of what was happening to me. I placed myself at my grandparent’s house, where I always had a good time and where I felt loved.

After sucking me off, Robert made me lie down on my back, pinning my legs far behind my head...just like the older man did the young girl on the screen. I could barely breathe. Reaching onto the cocktail table, he retrieved a jar of petroleum jelly and applied it to my backside area. I was clueless as to why he did that to me until he began inserting the head of his huge penis. Oh, please don’t, Robert, it hurts! Please! The pain was unbelievable! He forced himself deep inside my rectum. I screamed for him to stop, but he ignored me. He treated me like an animal. He did just as the older man on the screen.

After sodomizing me for what seemed an eternity, he pulled himself out of me.

Get up, he ordered me. Trembling like a scared pup, I did as I was told. I stood up from the sofa and silently awaited further instructions. I was extremely sore; it felt like it was bleeding.

Bend over and grab your ankles. his attitude towards me was mean and hateful, as though he were punishing me for something.

Fear of not knowing what Robert could do to me, I bent over and grabbed my ankles. Terror raced through my body as he began working himself inside of me for the second time. My rectum, fully irritated by then, felt like he was stabbing me with a lit cigar. It hurt so bad. It seemed the louder I yelped, the harder he’d slammed into me. My only consolation was to return to my grandparents’ house. I couldn’t feel a thing while in their presence; they were my protectors.

Robert sodomized me for a long time. He repeatedly slapped me hard on my buttocks, commanding me to call him weird names or to make strange animal sounds.

SMACK!!

Call me War-Doggy from the 173rd! SMACK!! Do it now, goddamn it!

War-Doggy fr-from the 105th...

SMACK!!

The 173rd, you fuck! SMACK!! Now say it!

I began to cry. War–sob, sob—Doggy from the 173rd!

SMACK!!

Don’t you dare cry, you fuckin’ yellow, slant-eyed, gook motherfucker? SMACK!! Moo like a fuckin’ cow, you rice-eatin’ bitch! SMACK!! Do it now!

Mm-sob,sob—moo . . .

SMACK!!

Say it louder and longer!

Mm-moon. . . I did what he wanted: I mooed like a cow. I did it loud and continuously, just as he’d demanded. I could hear and feel his breathing increase with every slam into my body. For some sick reason, my cow sounds aroused him.

Aw, that’s it, kid, moo like a cow. Moo like a fuck-ing cow...Oh, fucking shit, you gotta great ass, gook; your ass is amazing . . . This is a great–fucking–war . . . Oh, fuck, here comes the napalm, you slanted fuck! Aah, aaah...!

Grunting like an orangutan, Robert quickly withdrew himself from me. Immediately I began to feel a hot sticky sensation splash against my lower back area, sliding down into the cleft of my buttocks. It was over. He had finished with me—that filthy…!

Please excuse my attitude right now; it pisses me deeply to relive such a nightmarish event. I have never felt so humiliated in my life. So confused. He treated me like I was some evil harlot or, better yet, a war enemy whom he detested. I can’t believe I ever trusted him.

After draining his frog onto my back, Robert left the room. The film was still rolling. The older man had the young girl bent over a chair, sodomizing her as if she were a dog. I remember feeling sorry for the young girl—how bad it must have been for her to endure such sordid abuse. My feelings of sympathy subsided when I realized that I was half naked with a man’s jiz sliding down my body. I quickly forgot about the young girl.

The room was virtually dark. I used the light from the projector to guide me as I searched for my pants and drawers. I found them curled up in a corner, and with the speed of a bobcat, I jumped into them. I was relieved to finally be able to cover myself. I was afraid that if I hadn’t, Robert would return to start his abuse all over again.

Somewhere around fifteen minutes had passed before Robert returned to the basement. He was freshly and fully dressed. By the slick look of his hair, it was easy to see that he’d showered. I noticed a large, flat object protruding from underneath his left arm. It was gift-wrapped. His smile was indicative that he was completely oblivious to his previous mood and actions.

Did you enjoy the rest of the movie? I sure hope so; I ordered it, especially from Amsterdam. I gotta friend who’s cool about sending all types of shit. Maybe next time we can enjoy a French film I’ve got stashed out in the garage.

He had some nerve talking to me that way. He acted as though what he’d done was totally acceptable, as if I was cool with everything. I guess he hadn’t noticed me screaming as he slammed into me. That crazy fucker! I didn’t say a word.

Well, in case you’re wondering what I have under my arm, it’s a gift for you. You’ve been an incredible kid, and since Christmas is in two days, and I’m going out of town tomorrow night, I felt that now would be a good time to give it to you. Here, take it.

Silently, I took the gift from Robert. It was kind of heavy.

Go on, open it, stupid. It’s for you. His smile was broad and encouraging.

I tore off the Santa Claus gift wrap. It was a sled. The asshole raped me senselessly and had the gall to give me a damned sled!

Well, what do you think, Adolph? I looked at him with malevolent eyes. If I thought I could make it outta there alive, I would have hit him with it. It’s cool, man. Can I go home now? I gotta help my folks with some things around the house. They’re gonna be pissed if I’m too late.

Sure. If you wait a sec, I’ll fetch my keys and give you a….

No! I mean, it’s cool, man. I can walk . . . I’d rather walk.

Well, okay, kid. Suit yourself. But before you leave, let us reach an understanding. If you tell a soul about what happened here tonight, I swear to you; I’ll make your life a living hell. No one needs to know anything about our personal affairs. Let’s keep ourselves a secret. And just in case you get any wild Ideas, I have your fingerprints on the .38 pistol. Don’t try anything crazy. Now get outta here.

Before he changed his mind, I bolted outta there quicker than shit. I ran up to Colfax and Gaylord Streets. There was a kid younger than me standing on the corner with a tin can. He appeared to be taking handouts, so I gave him the sled; it would have only served as a poisonous reminder in my hands. The kid was extremely grateful. It pleased me to know that I could make someone smile, considering what I’d endured only an hour earlier.

In no mood to run any further, I walked the rest of the way home, constantly thinking about what had happened to me. I don’t know how I crossed some of the Streets as I hadn’t paid any attention to anything but the horrible thoughts in my mind. I was a basket case.

It was just after dark when I made it home. I was immediately greeted by the smell of fried trout. I love fried trout! My little sister, a royal pain in the ass, was in the living room watching television as I entered. Adolph, you are going to get it! Jack has been looking all over for you. I am so glad that I am me and not you because you are in big trouble. Jack is furious, she grinned, anxious to witness my ass-whipping.

Drop dead, I yelled at her as horridly as I could. She really had a bad habit of vexing me at the most inopportune times.

I was on my way upstairs when I was suddenly slapped back down by my stepdad. He was pissed. Where the fuck have you been?! You were supposed to have been here three hours ago! I wanna know where the fuck you were, Adolph? And don’t you lie to me because I’ve been to the park; you were nowhere in sight. Now start talking!

I wanted to fucking scream. I had gone through pure hell, and all he wanted was a reason to kick my ass. He didn’t care where I’d been. I was just an easy opportunity for him to vent the anger that he’d created because of my mother’s verbal abuse. Jack took all his anger and frustrations out on me. I guess you can say that I was his major coping tool; my being his punching bag made it