This has been one of the worst two days of my life. Last night, some friends and I grifted some keys to a ‘real life’ haunted house on the UMKC campus (my college). Had some fun, walked the Plaza in KC, went back to one’s sister’s apartment. We returned the keys. About 11:30 my friend Jon and I decide to go home. I climb into my car and notice a wire from my stereo laying on the ground. Aw, hell, I think, it’s broken again. And I just re-crimped this wire. Jon mumbles something, and I do a slow pan to the right and notice a gaping, trashed, hole in my dash. Time slows. Someone has stolen my CD player. Someone has ripped it from the fucking dash, leaving the remains of my trim whoreishly mocking me. Someone has ripped the wires from the back of my stereo, leaving them strewn about the floor and dash, laughing at me. Someone has violated me, personally and physically, more so than anyone has ever in my life. Someone has forced their way into one of the few things I can unequivocally call MINE, and stolen my single most prized possession. I don’t own a house. I don’t rent an apartment. I barely have a room. The only thing that is wholy and completely mine is this tiny cabin in a small car. Someone has taken that from me. Someone has punched me in the stomach. While I was out having fun, someone and their friend broke into my vehicle, laid my seats back so they couldn’t be seen, ripped my dash apart, tore the wired from the back, and removed my CD player. Then, they leaned into the back seat, ripped my rear deck off, removed my subwoofer and box, and attempted to wrench my 6x9s from the mountings. Those speakers took me a combined six hours to install, front two and back two. The bastards should have known. It would take at least two to take them back out. They took every single CD that I own, some that I have made myself, honing for hours, just to get the perfect order to the songs contained therein, to get the perfect emotional impact. They stole not only from me, but also two of my best friends, whose CDs were with me at the time. They attempted to force the ignition, utterly destroying the keyhole and a large part of the column. They live somewhere in the apartment complex. I don’t know who. But they have to. My car is NOT one that would be coveted. It’s someone who’s listened to me pull up, someone who’s looked in my windows before, fogged them with their dirty, filthy breath, waiting for their chance to destroy me. Someone watched over me, and knew what I had. I don’t know who it is. But if I find the bastards, I’ll kill them with my bare hands. God help them.
I must be an adult now, because I am no longer innocent. This is hatred. I’ve not liked many a persons, but never before have I felt so much a primal urge to twist someones neck until broken. These bastards deserve to die.
This was in the ‘barrio’. I am not a racist. But I will hate every single illegal immigrant, lawn care working, rusted out econoline driving, dirty, sweaty, greasy, mexican bastard that I see pulling up into this $200 a month apartment complex to walk in to his filthy wife preparing food for his twelve unwashed children. I will find out who this is. But each and every one will be hated equally until I know exactly who it was that did this to me, that violated me and mine. Insurance will replace most of what has been lost. But it doesn’t make it right. I now have to pay $100 to have something back that was MINE in the first place. I bought those CDs with my money working in a restaraunt for three years. I bought that car with money I got working construction for two summers. And I bought that stereo with money received upon my graduation from an institution in which I spent twelve years of my life. I earned it. I earned every damn bit of it. And it was taken from me. Taken by someone who hasn’t known what it’s like to finally be out of school, to graduate, to be free of childhood. Someone who probably doesn’t even speak a good assemblage of my own native tongue. I will punch this bastard in the face. Break his nose, bloody his eyes, burst his lip like a tomato, sitting too long in the sun. Bruise his temples, smashing the bloodflow to his scalp. Punch him in the neck, right in the adams apple, taking from HIM his ability to speak. Ulcerate his stomach, forcing him to vomit his crude meal over his dirty pants and old shoes. The bastards had no right. I will find you. Pray. You’ll need all the help you can get.
