I know a guy named Mike who just got sent to 26th and California, site of the luxurious world-renowned Cook County Jail. Eveybody who comes out of there always talks about getting their dicks q-tipped for the health check when they go in there. That sounds rough.

Mike was on house arrest, except that he was confined to his place of employment rather than his home. He had to wear one of those ankle bracelets that keep you within the judicially defined perimeter. He would frequently take this off and put it on the coffeemaker, since if the anklet gets below 90 degrees the alarm goes off and the hounds are unleashed.

Anyways, before all this he was visiting and trying to recruit a driver to take him to some dodgy south side crackspot. He's dealt with a certain house before, and they knew him well because he'd always run down there to get heroin for a friend who had silly money.

Mike was getting low on money, so he wanted to take my kitchen knives there to steal their crack and cash. He promised something like $2000 in liquid funds and a comparable amount of crack. He already had two of my knives wrapped up in a Ralph Nader t-shirt of mine from the 2000 elections.

Personally, I don't like crack. It makes me sweat like a hog, my heart races faster than cheetah on rollerblades, and I'm scared of absolutely everything. I smoked some in an alley behind Union Station with a homeless guy, and he put me on the Red line to get to a concert, but all the signs were blue. It fucked my head up, but I got to the show okay. He smelled bad too, but I paid his train fare and he came half the way there with me. He said things like "little whiteboy ain't cut out for the big city life, oh no oh boy my goodness heh yeah."

So obviously I'm not interested in helping Mike. His bigass van, which I think he stole from some Hispanics, had fresh bulletholes in it that still had paint flakes floating off of them when a strong breeze gusted. I did not ask about the holes. I don't want to be an accesory to murder either, I don't approve of murder, it's wrong in my opinion. He kept saying that all I had to do was drive and wait on the corner down the street, but whites can't just sit still around there. I'd really be asking for it. Eventually me and his friend talked him out of it, at least for the day.

When the fidgety gleam finally left his eyes, we went to get some weed from one of his buddy's ex-girlfriends. I didn't know they intended to steal it from her car until we got there, but fortunately it was too late to buy a slimjim and we couldn't find an appropriate metal stick, so we gave up. I think stealing is wrong, too, and she's a nice girl who should know better that to date one of these guys.

I'll tell you how Mike landed in jail next time.
3:16 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm