Intro

“Better far to live and die under the brave black flag I fly than to play a sanctimonious part with a pirates head and a pirates heart.”
Gilbert and Sullivan

It was fitting that I ended up in jail, that postgraduate academy of survival. I was
definitely predisposed to make the deans list and graduate Momma-Cum Loudly. In the introductory curriculum I learned how to use toothpaste as glue, fashion a shiv out of a spoon and build communication networks. After many seminars, some tutoring and a bit of basic hazing from the upperclassmen, I learned the only rehabilitation possible, self preservation. My entire young life has been, in a way, a manual of survival in the prison that was once the United States. Since the reign of Herr Donald Cheetolini the “united” part is obvious bullshit. I learned early on where and exactly how to place the explosives that would one day destroy the walls of this overbearing and oppressive nation currently run by the rich for the rich. I learned to judge people as people not as a herd. I learned to help others through compassion and caring.
Coming of age as an urban pirate, I was educated by my parents and their friends in the idea of building a nation where the technology produces goods and services for whoever needs them, come who may. “From each according to his ability. To each according to his need.” I believe Marx said that. Karl not Harpo. I had those words hammered into my psyche. My generation was to be the new Robin Hoods of the urban jungles. We were trained to steal from the robber barons who own the castles of capitalism. That one of these sons-of-b*****s now sits in the White House makes the cause seem that much more urgent.
But there is an ironic twist in the Robin Hood analogy. For Lord Loxley was a nobleman who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. Myself and most of my peers were the poor. Or rather we would have been if we were not pirates. That being so, we robbed from the rich and gave unto ourselves and each other. That is the root and essence of urban piracy. By the time I was ten years old I was ideologically set, in that I understood corporate feudalism as the only robbery worthy of being called a crime for it is committed against the people as a whole. Even so I was not entirely comfortable in my pirate role. I had moral qualms.
Whether the ways we plundered goods and services were legal or not seems irrelevant now. That was not always the case. It took time to grow inured to a life that operated on the margins. Over time I came to accept that the dictionary of law is written by the rich b******s who make money from our sweat and blood. The moral dictionary of the urban pirate says no heisting from each other. Never rip-off a square-john (I.E. A mom and pop operation or a small business.) To steal from a square-john, or a brother or sister pirate, is evil. To not plunder the institutions that are the pillars of the corporate regime is equally immoral. Community within our band of marauders, chaos in the fields of DC; that is the message I was raised on.
I would not have survived for long without learning to fight. Physically as well as
mentally. Fighting separates the pirates from the corporate outlaws. The purpose of our war, I learned early on, was not to screw the corporate system run by the rich, but rather to annihilate it. The weapons were carefully chosen. They were and are "home-made," in that they are designed for use in each unique urban jungle. And you can bet your a*s that our fight never went unnoticed by the wealthy land barons. Once again the dictionary of law is moot. Murder in a uniform is considered heroic, in a costume it is a crime. False news reports and advertisements win awards, forgers end up in jail. Inflated prices guarantee large profits for King Donnie and his kiss-a*s chorus while shoplifters are punished. Politicians and the media conspire to create riots and the victims are convicted in the courts. Natives protecting their sacred lands and our drinking water are gunned down and then indicted by suburban grand juries as the trouble-makers. A modern, highly mechanized army travels 9,000 miles to commit genocide against another nation and then accuses its people of terrorism. Everything is topsy-turvy.
I was told that should I internalize the language and imagery of the rich politicians, I would forever be screwed. It is not really arguable that our nation was built on the slaughter of an indigenous people. That is national history. For years citizens have watched movie after movie premised upon the white man's benevolence. John Wayne, the epitome of fairness, puts his arm around a chief and tells how the Native Americans and the whites can live in peace if only both sides will be reasonable, responsible and rational (the three R's imperialists always teach the natives.) “You will find good grazing land on the other side of the mountain," drawls the public relations man. "Take your people and go in peace." Cochise, Joseph, Sitting Bull, as well as millions of youngsters in the upper mezzanine seats, were and are being dealt off the bottom of the deck. That was the teaching I received. The Native Americans should have offed the cowboys in every picture and the audience should have cheered themselves hoarse.
So it was that I concluded that bank robbers rather than bankers should be the trustees of our nation. I began to think like my educators. I saw the mainstream media and Wall Street as cesspools of violence, filling the minds of the young with hatred, turning us one against another. My peers and I began to think like pirates. And that started the course of events which brought me here to Washington.
I finish my share of the food. Billy lights a cigar and Doc starts on a second one. They offer me one but I decline. I’ve given up smoking. They nod at me to continue. I do.

Author's Note

This is a rough draft

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Mac
So now I have read both the prologue and the introduction. Just to keep my head in the game I read ahead to chapter one. ( This to let you know my reading position thus far.)

You mentioned to me you were considering combining the prologue and intro . My first thought was to ditch them both as separate parts and incorporate the information into the chapters. I still think that, but I can see the value of a short introductory segment if you want to begin this thing in the half way house. Such a segment would save some flash back writing and pull the reader in early.

You say rough draft. I say good because even though the writing is compelling it is all over the place. Philosophy, politics, ethical systems, yada, yada, yada… So far the strength of this story is all in the voice of the narrator. This reader has an immediate interest in such a character, but what exactly is he? Is he a preacher or a thug? Personally, I’m hoping for thug.

Back to “rough draft”. I say hold that thought ,and don’t get married to any particular slant yet. I hope you give yourself acres of room to rewrite a single directive version/vision for this thing and keep it in that direction, whatever it turns out to be.

[Mac]

Prologue
“I travelled through a land of men,
A land of men and women too,
And heard and saw such dreadful things
As cold earth wanderers never knew.”
William Blake

“My name is Vincenzo Cassiel Michelangelo Il-Cazzo. Most call me Vinnie. Or
Il’Cazzo. I’m an urban pirate and an addict.” I’m sitting across from a middle aged man who looks snappy in his chestnut colored fedora and marching Burberrys, grey slack with matching vest and bowtie and a maroon short sleeved shirt. I’m understated in my ripped Wranglers, dark green t-shirt and beat up hiking boots with broken laces knotted together. I feel like my clothes, worn out and shabby.
“We know who you are. We know what you are. What we don’t know is what you want
from us.” Another man walks up the porch steps bearing a tray of sandwiches and iced coffee. He is decked out head to foot in black. Engineer boots polished to perfection, Cucinelli jeans, a sleeveless undershirt and a bandana rolled up and tied around his shoulder length salt and pepper hair.
“What Billy is so delicately telling you is that we have done a thorough Internet search on
you. And we found almost nothing. We have the letter of introduction from Jeremiah Ezelkut that he wrote after sentencing you to time served plus five hundred dollars. And from what he tells us, you have no problems with fighting. You also have an attitude problem and a chip on your shoulder.” The man in grey, name of Doc, looks at me with a stern gaze. Billy is the man in black.
“I disagree with some of that. But he wouldn’t understand. Judge Ezelkut is part of the
overall problem.” I shrug slightly. “The law supports the wealthy not the common clay.”
“Are we part of the problem?” Billy pours coffee and lights a Don Carlos Belicoso. He
hands one to Doc and offers me one. I decline. I’ve given up smoking.
“I doubt it. This place you run here, it seems like part of the solution.” I look over toward
The swimming pond. Even this far north and west, the heat on this July day is intense. In deference to the weather the attire of those swimming ranges from full swimsuits to birthday suits. And some of those swimming make me appreciate those options.
“Let’s quit it with the small talk. You were in jail recently and after being released you
showed up here with that letter from Jeremiah Ezelkut. You spent the night, had a man sized breakfast, toured our property, and ogled the residents. Now, we need to know your story.” Billy has a smooth voice but with a sharp edge to it.
I lean back in the rocking chair and give them both depressed and deflated. “Sure. This
Might take a while, but if you want to know about me, sure. I have nothing to hide. Not anymore. I was in jail, yes sir. I ended up there through my own stupidity. I also ended up there because I was born and bred to end up there. I should have been there many times over throughout my life. I spent my time in stir quietly and met some tuned in men who visited and encouraged me to consider not drinking or using drugs. I attended some meetings that the jail allows to occur. For the time being I am clean and sober. Thirty days so far. Because of my willingness to attend meetings I was released with a fine and time served. Judge Ezelkut suggested I come here. He says you two help people like me. In return for service and labor. I need help. I will gladly work in return.”
Doc applauds briefly. “Congratulations on the thirty days. But all any of us really have is
today. You are all of twenty one. You clearly started drinking and using at a young age. Mind if I ask why you started?”
I look off in the distance toward an area full of trailers that have seen better days and
prefabricated log dwellings. “I don’t know if you would dig the reasons.”
“Try us, Vinnie. We’re pretty sharp.” Billy puffs his cigar.
I nod. “I already told you that I was destined to end up incarcerated. My entire life has been,
in a way, a series of lessons for surviving in the prison that was once the United States. Since the reign of our current President the “united” part is obvious bullshit. I was educated early on where and exactly how to place the explosives that would one day destroy the walls of this overbearing and oppressive nation currently run by the rich for the rich. I learned to judge people as people not as a herd. I learned to help others through compassion and caring. My parents claimed to believe in helping the underdog and maybe they did at some point.
‘From each according to his ability. To each according to his need.’ I believe Marx
originally said that. Karl not Harpo. I had those words hammered into my psyche. My generation was to be the new Robin Hoods of the urban jungles. We were trained to steal from the robber barons who own the castles of capitalism. That one of these sons-of-b*****s now sits in the White House makes the cause seem that much more urgent.
But there is an ironic twist in the Robin Hood analogy. For Lord Loxley was a nobleman
who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. Myself and most of my peers were the poor. Or rather we would have been if we were not pirates. That being so, we robbed from the rich and gave unto ourselves and each other. In time we concluded that bank robbers rather than bankers should be the trustees of our nation. We saw the mainstream media and Wall Street as cesspools of violence, filling the minds of the young with hatred, turning us one against another.
In spite of these beliefs I faced a moral dilemma. It took years to grow inured to a life of
crime, and in the interim I wondered who might be getting hurt behind each scam or hustle. The code of the urban pirate says no heisting from each other. Never rip-off a square-john. And yet everyday people clearly were hurt somewhere along the line.” I sip iced coffee.
“What’s a square john?” Doc inquires.
“A mom and pop business, you, me, Billy. Regular folks. Not the super rich who grow
wealthier on the blood and sweat of the underprivileged.”
“So you don’t really have a problem screwing the system as long as no one actually gets
hurt in the process. Except that someone always does.” Billy gives me a wry look.
“You are sharp.” I nod absently. “I felt guilty so I drank. I felt ill at ease so I used drugs.
The more complicated life became the more I needed a release for my feelings. Drugs helped for a while until they didn’t. It has been a long and not always pleasant road.”
You said you came to us seeking help. You clearly have a story to tell, Vinnie, and we
have all the time in the world. Please, start at the beginning and fill us in. We have heard it all around here. If we can help you, then yes, yes that is precisely what we do.” Doc lights a second cigar and pours coffee.
So I start.