The doctor presented me to my parents and the world bloody and smelling of pussy. Slapped my ass and I had to make a scene, wailing my ass off.

Then he cut the cord then circumcised my dick. A young pharaoh. A speck of dust in space.

Soon a social security and driver's license number. Then came the immunization shots and I really didn't know what the hell they injected in me.

Who was to say I wasn't a lab rat for a secret social disorder? That's why eye reject Flu and H1N1 shots.

Hell to the no! I'll pass.

I WAS. CreATEd, why yes I was, thank you. But I had to be created amongst my inner child so I was the oldest son of a federal officer, thrown into prison and
did time with the niggahs that murdered my best friend and they laughed in my face the entire time for a job well done.

I wouldn't change doing time for nothing in the world. Because that snatched the wool from my eyes.

When it comes to my own black people. Niggahs talk big shit on the streets till those flashing red and blue lights disrupts the block party, killing a kilo of the DJ's bass, treble and sound.

Why did police lights flash Blood and Cripp (red and blue) colors anyway?

Everybody's face was red and blue when they pulled up to a crime scene after dark.
Then when the crackahs took your freedom, your beautiful black hands were gregariously stripped of its brilliance and brusquely painted with a color we sometimes hated ourselves: black...

Unfortunately, a carbon copy of your fingers (each and every last one) you press down on a Finger Print ID card.

They even guide your hands for you, the crooked officials that was. They take your cell phones, wallets, car keys and car, too.

That shit part of property. You wouldn't see it again. I still wasn't given my property from county jail in Salem, Oregon. Officials make you strip naked.

"Niggah, bend over and spread that pussy," the guard told me at OSP (Oregon State Penitentiary) in Salem, Oregon back in
Spring of 1998.

I have some advice for brothers without records (or even with them): Don't go to Oregon, niggahs!

Go there on vacation you WILL leave there on probation. Don't say I didn't warn you. And if you go you better not jay walk
or blow a bugger on the ground and let the cops see you.

And a lot of the civilians would call your tag number in to the hotline quick fast and a hurry. I will NEVER go there again! I'd rather die first.

The correction's officer, with a noticeable erection said, "Put on your jumpsuit."

I put it on, scared as hell of the Oregon State Penitentiary. I was not a hard niggah. I was a pretty boy that sucked his thumb.

In an effort to sway me from my new hobby of finger sucking, Mama tried hot sauce,
dipping my thumb in the toilet, everything and I washed it off with soap and still sucked my thumb with a smile on my face.

It pacified me. Kept me cool and calm.
But walking past the guard in a state pen, I stopped sucking my thumb instantly.

He stopped me. "I need to pat you down."

What?

He grinned slyly, with that T.I. look about his face. He pat me down, rubbing my asshole with his ring finger then
caressing either leg.

My breathing increasing. He looked up
into my eyes, licking his lips. He then stood back up, caressing my legs again. He momentarily massaged my throbbing asshole with his ring finger then said, "You are free to go."

Then he whispered, "I'm coming to your cell late tonight to get up in that tight booty."

He kissed at me. And I thought, Oh,no! I'm about to be given the test of my life.

Life or death. At the Oregon State
Penitentiary with the Happy Face Killer.

But this part is later on in my non-fiction series.