Kenny Pt. 1

    Kenny had been to the 'pen' one time and he sure as hell didn't want to go back.  The day he'd walked out of Walla Walla, a free man, all of twenty-one years old, he knew that he was a changed man.  Some thirteen years later, that way of thinking was about to change.

 As a kid Kenny had committed dozens criminal acts, mostly kid stuff, and mostley misdemeanors, and he’d only got caught once. 

    This he chalked up to stupidity.  He was only seventeen.  He and his buddy, Dwayne went into 7-Eleven for some smokes, and while inside the store, Kenny got thirsty for a case of Bud Light. With only a five dollar bill in his pocket, and not being old enough to actually purchase a case of beer, Kenny grabbed the beer from the cooler, and casually walked out the front door.  The young lady working behind the counter screamed for him to stop, but instead of stopping, Kenny just turned, flicked open his Zippo lighter, lit a cigarette and flashed the most evil, psychotic smile he could muster.  Kenny and Dwayne, both laughing, walked directly to the car.  Kenny tossed the beer in the back seat and began to hop in the drivers seat when the clerk came running out of the store.

    “Stop!“ the lady clerk said from just outside the convenience store door, once again, her voice tinted the color of fear.  She was probably somewhere in her thirty, twenty pounds over weight.  Her face was puffy from too much booze over a short life.

     Kenny stopped, slowly shut the door to the car, noticing for the first time that the clerk was holding a gun.

     Dwayne, stuttering, said, "Kenny let's get the hell out of here."

    “I called the cops,“ she said, her hands, the gun, shaking fiercely.

    “Is that right?” Kenny said, calm considering the store clerk was pointing a large hand cannon at him. “Why did you go and do that?”

    The question seemed to confuse the woman.

    “I mean, we just wanted some beer and smokes,” Kenny said, inching closer and closer toward the clerk.  “Is that such a crime?"

    “Stop, please,” the clerk weakly pled.

    “Haven’t you and some friends ever been thirsty on a Thursday night?  I’d bet your life that you have.”      

    Kenny had got within ten feet of the scared 7-Eleven clerk when a sudden explosion and the most intense pain that he'd ever experienced shot through his body.  He fell to the ground, his left leg a bloody mess.  A puddle of blood grew larger and darker underneath his faded jeans.

    To this day, Kenny still can't figure out why his only thought at the time was what a lucky son of a bitch he was to be alive.  Especially considering how scared the convenience store clerk was when she shot him.  Had she been steadier and whole lot less scared, she probably would have got a larger piece of him than just his leg.  The paramedics might have been hosing up chunks of his half blown head off of the parking lot concrete.

    “The fuck you shoot me for?” Kenny screamed at the clerk, but she didn’t say anything, shock setting in.

    Not only was the first and last time Kenny had been caught committing a crime, but it was the only time he’d been shot.

    Kenny had intended it to keep it that way on both counts.

    Yet, here he was, in the midst of a completely idiotic, and most likely, impossible crime.

Constructive Critism Needed, Check Your Badger at the Door

The reason for this blog is to write in a fictional manner, only writing what the voices in my head are telling me to, only using 'real' in the manner of surroundings, weather patterns and dilapidated memories.

I have been writing for many years.  In notebooks, bar napkins, several word processors and even an old electric typewriter that had a short in it that made me afraid to use the 'e' key. I had to use the '@' button in place of said vowel and as you might think, it was @xtr@m@ly irritating.

Those days are behind me, but I continue writing.

I'm a whole lot older now, and may or may not have grown as a writer, and I certainly won't label myself as an author just yet, but one day that is the goal.

I read continuously and voraciously.  Newspapers,biographies, RollingStone magazines, self-help books, blogs and shampoo labels while taking care of 'business' if I've forgotten to bring a more intriguing masterpiece.  For the most part, I read fiction.  I've gone through many genres of fiction; the Beat Generation, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Bukowskit, Kurt Vonnegut,  and the Harry Potter series!  Michael Crichton, Stephan King, Raymond Chandler, John Grisham and Shel Silverstein.

I love a humorous read with even quirkier characters.  Tim Dorsey, Carl Hiaasen and a Pacific Northwest bred Pat McManus come to mind.  Tim Sandlin, Christopher Moore, Douglas Adams and Harry Crews and....well, the list goes on.

The point of this post is to inform you what I'm doing with my newest blog though, which is, more than anything, trying not to scare you off.  I want to spew, make-up, create and delve into a world that isn't based on fact.  I have my other writings, over on that other network, scuzzymoney.blogspot.com, where I like to go off on, verbally assault and throw monkey feces at politicians, actors, ex-girlfriends and American Idol finalists, but this blog, launderedscuzzymoney.blogspot.com isn't that.

It's fiction, and depending on my mood, what is consuming my thoughts at the time, the characters, the plot...they will change from post to post.  Whether it's in first, second or third person, or if I have a fleeting idea that I think can be so much bigger, then I might throw it out there.

Most will be short stories created at that particular time, but some might be taken from older writings of mine, in hopes that I can tweak 'em, re-write 'em, and possible TNT 'em.  Who knows. 
In doing this though, you need to understand that I'm exposing myself, at my weakest and showing you my naughty parts, if you will.  So, that being said, this is where I need your help.  Give me feedback, people.  Good, bad or just plain ugly...I would love to hear about.  Don't be polite.  If you hate it, tell me.  If it's decent, tell me.  If you simply hate me and want to see me die a painful death by rabid badger, let me know.  I can take it.  But most of all, if you could possibly spare something constructive to help in my pursuit of what I really love, please, please and please, let me hear about it.

This will be the last post where I'm not making shit up, so at this time I must go, the voices are calling and won't leave me alone, but in conclusion, I hope ya likey!