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Michael Kindt's Blog, page 510

June 18, 2011

So this poor misunderstood bastard raped a passed-out woman, see?

And he went to court and was convicted. A funny thing happened on the way to the slammer, however. The jurors in the case had not been told to consider the possibility that the poor misunderstood bastard might have thought he had the woman's consent.

You see, earlier in the night she had twice rejected his advances, but now that she was passed out, why, she was no longer rejecting him. Cool, huh?

The conviction was set aside and a new trial has been ordered. Jurors will be instructed to consider the possibility that the woman's lack of resistance (due to being unconscious) was interpreted by the poor misunderstood bastard as consent.

Rape is one of the most horrible and invasive crimes imaginable. For those involved in law enforcement, it must be very difficult and time-consuming to deal with. Hopefully, by manipulating technicalities in this case and forcing her to publicly relive her rape twice, more women will get the message and not come forward. Right?

Jesus fucking christ.

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Published on June 18, 2011 05:05

June 17, 2011

Story time.Beer Run From Hell        I remember feeling like I...



Story time.

Beer Run From Hell

        I remember feeling like I was going crazy or something. I had been unemployed all summer and didn't have dollar one. My girlfriend kept asking me every day, "Did you find a job yet?" Yeah, not a good sign. The answer was always, "No." I didn't elaborate by telling her I wasn't looking for one either.
        So my 'relationship' was on the rocks, but there was more to the crazy feeling than just that, a sort of low-grade shame that wouldn't go away. Also, I wanted to drink, but Ross and Miller were having none of it.
        "You need to pitch in before you can drink," they said. "No just showing up and drinking a bunch of our beer. We barely have any money either." Usually they let me drink no problem, but lately they had been getting more and more 'economical'.
        Ross and Miller lived in 'the Cave', an old, run-down house on Serenity Street. The rent was comically low, 150 bucks. For a whole two-bedroom fucking house. Even all those years ago that was cheap. True, the place was a fossil and looked like something out of the Apocalypse, with badly peeling paint, broken, boarded up windows, a sunken, rotted porch, and a yard full of waist-high weeds. If it wasn't such a small house it might have looked creepy and haunted. As it was it just looked like shit.
        It got the name 'the Cave' much earlier in the summer, maybe even the spring, when I noticed at a party that the ceiling was covered with soot from the old leaky wood stove that sat in the living room like a squat, black-metal pig.
        I got up on a rickety kitchen chair and began drawing hunting scenes and buffalo and sea monsters in the soot with my finger, telling everyone I was the First Artist in Human History. The other people at the party got up on end-tables and the old ratty couch and the wood stove itself and did the same thing. Well, not really the same thing. Mostly they just drew tits or snatch or wrote the word FUCK.
        From that day forward the place was known as 'the Cave'.
        But Ross and Miller weren't letting me drink and I sat there churning, sat there with my mind spinning in on itself and feeling crazy. "You can have one," they said and handed me a wet, ice-cold can from the cooler that wobbled on the three-legged coffee table. The Cave did have a fridge, but it was empty and unused because there was no electricity. Ross and Miller hadn't paid the bill since, according to them, "sometime last year."
        We drank by candle and kerosene lantern.
        I tried to savor my one beer, fought to not slam it down. It was cool and sharp on my throat and I wanted it to last. Daryl, another guy at the party, brought in a battery-powered CD player and there was music. A fight broke out in the bathroom that resulted in its door being ripped off the hinges. Ross and Miller hauled it outside and leaned it up against the house, saying they were going to burn it for heat when it turned cold.
        The night rolled on. I managed to finagle a few more beers out of Ross and Miller as they loosened up with alcohol. A few other people took pity on me and gave me some out their personal stashes. I was pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk, and the squirrelly feeling in my head was now in the background.
        As 2 am approached, a hat went around for contributions to get the last haul of the night. I put in nothing since I didn't have dollar one, but I did offer my services as runner, telling them, "I'll walk down and get it."
        "Cool, man," everyone said.
        "I want some, though."
        "If you go down and get it," Ross and Miller said, "sure. You can have some."
        I took the wad of ones and fives and quarters and headed down Serenity to Main and the liquor store, which was several blocks away. The night was cool and the breeze coming down from the peaks put chills through me. I don't remember if it was late August or early September, but that doesn't matter. At the time, I probably didn't know what month it was either. I wasn't much for schedules in those days. Come to think of it, I'm not much for schedules in these days either.
        I got to the liquor store just before closing, loaded up, choosing quantity over quality, and began lugging my way back. About halfway there, a red car pulled up beside me.
        "Hey, buddy," the driver said, "how about sharin'?" It was a Native guy with long black hair. He was smiling and looked friendly enough.
        "Can't. This isn't mine. I'm just doing the beer run."
        "That's a lot of beer, man. Must be some party."
        "Ain't they all?"
        "Heh, heh. Yeah, I guess." He looked conspiratorially up and down the deserted street. "Say, you wouldn't know where I could get some pot, would you?"
        "Nah."
        "You sure? Come on, man. You look like you're holding."
        "I wish. Sorry."
        "Man, I'm desperate for a high. Is there anything around here?"
        I remembered I had a few NoDoz brand caffeine tabs in my pocket. I had shoplifted them earlier that day and had been munching them like candy. "Well," I said, setting the beer down before it pulled my arm out of the socket. "I have a couple of these." I got what I had left out of my pocket.
        "What're those?"
        I decided to try something. "These? These are Zodons," I said.
        "Zodons? What the fuck're Zodons?"
        "Good shit, man."
        "I've never heard of them."
        "They're new. Fresh outta Cali."
        "Cali, huh?"
        "They'll fuck your shit up. You'll trip balls."
        "How much?"
        "Five apiece."
        "I'll take one, what the hell." he struggled inside his red car for a second, then handed me a five dollar bill. I gave him a NoDoz tab, making sure to place it upside down in his palm. He looked at it curiously. "Zodon, huh?"
        "Good shit, man."
        Off he went and I continued my journey, chuckling.
        I never made it back to the Cave, however. About half a block before, a police cruiser pulled up and I was arrested for DISTRIBUTION OF A NONCONTROLLED SUBSTANCE REPRESENTED TO BE A CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE, a class one misdemeanor I had no idea existed. The Native guy had been an undercover cop. They took me to jail for the night and confiscated the beer as 'evidence'. Weeks later, in court, I plead guilty out of sheer boredom and was fined $250, which I haven't paid to this day.
        I still have a warrant out for my arrest for NONPAYMENT OF FINE in that county, so always drive extra careful-like whenever I go back to see my sister. I have no idea what happened to the beer. It was never mentioned at my abbreviated trial. My guess is the fuckers drank it. I would have if I was in their jackboots.
        Thugs.

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Published on June 17, 2011 13:17