Wednesday, July 2, 2008

The Chosen Ones - Chapter 1.2 - A History Lesson

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The Chosen Ones – Chapter 1.2

Thirty one years old I am, and I barely got five of those years for myself. I spent my earliest childhood watching my mother grow very old in front of my eyes. Her rotten husband spent most of his time “working” and she was left alone a lot to deal with raising me. She did her best, but it was hard for her to raise me right in a house that was full of fat uneducated mobsters. By the time I was six years old I knew every foul word in the English, Italian, and Hebrew languages, but for some reason I had really resented hearing them. My mother had been betrothed to my father, and it was quite obvious that she hated it. I blame that Italian influence over my family that kept us woefully trapped in the twelfth century, and I think I managed to get that from my mother.

Don’t get me wrong, because it would only take a monkey to not hate what was constantly going on around me from my earliest days. I hated Wednesdays because it meant that a table full of fat slobs, with their squealing wives were going to be infesting our dining room. My mother would work like a slave all day cleaning the house, and drinking cooking sherry. She would prepare a banquet, and then I would be forced to sit there and listen to all of these people eat. None of them had any manners, and regardless of what language they spoke, it would be a mix of ignorant and slob as food would fall all over them as spoke. I absolutely hated food because of these scumbags, and spent most of my teenage years quite skinny and unhealthy as the mere thought of eating would make me sick. My mother had “disappeared” many years before that point, or so my father had told me. I started noticing that a lot of his loser friends had girlfriends that disappeared right around the time their wives had found out about them, and this was around the time I started doubting my father’s fidelities. I was raised by one bimbo after another for most of my teenage years.

After my mother had disappeared I didn’t have to go to Temple anymore. My father wasn’t a total hypocrite like the sloppy Catholics he hung around with. I hated God, in any incarnation that you could bring him out in; as I watched two different levels of righteousness mar his name for all of my adolescence. I realize that most people would simply become atheists or something along those lines, but I preferred to become more jaded than that and actually assume there was a God, and he was as big an asshole as all of these scumbags. My father and his friends had every racial effigy for black people, who coincidentally were their biggest marks in what they called “business” but more and more I found myself having only hate speech for those that I was surrounded by. The first time I used the term “Wop” in front of the crew, I had suffered the first of many “beat downs” that would plague my teenage years. My own mouth was the cause of that but the result was my hatred of Jews like my filthy kike of a father.

Now mind you, I have since been reborn into the fold of the children of Abraham, but it took tragedy to bring me to that point. I’m not going into that right now, but understand ahead of time that when I say my father was the only filthy kike I ever knew, that is my business and I am entitled to it. More over as I act less and less like a child of God, I find myself getting closer to him. Nobody truly understands the inner workings of a deity until they have made peace with them. In the end I had become more kosher than my mother, but I had thought that I was entitled to that after I had left the family the first time. Desperation will drive a man to the most awe inspiring of things, and my own escape from the family drove me completely out of the United States in general, and I was happy.

My father’s “friends” had driven me to this. They had driven me to many things that the average human being going through their life wouldn’t care much about unless they watch it romantically on the television. Such an amazing hunk of crap people will allow themselves to be entertained by. Simply rooting for the “bad” guys and finding it to be a noble sense of living within the grey area. I never could root for the bad guys and I was surrounded by them my whole life. I tried so hard to be normal within it, and they never seemed to leave me alone. In the end I managed to be one of the toughest kids in school simply because my own father’s relationships drove their kids to harass me and abuse me because I hated them all and they knew it. They knew it with every action I took, and every chance I had to simply stay away from them. Their self righteousness told them that I had no right to think I was better than them, but I was far better than them.

My epiphany finally came when my only friend in school, a non filthy kike but likeable all the same was found dead next to a dumpster outside of his father’s grocery store. I knew the type of shit that would have done something like this, and I was furious. Seventeen years old and full of hatred already for my father, I confronted him, and he started in with his “ungrateful bastard” talk that had always made me incensed. The night ended with a few of those guinea wop bastards working me over in my own house after I had finally completed the right of succession to manhood. My father would have died that night if they hadn’t stopped me, and I would have had his blood upon my hands before I knew everything I needed to know about the family business. They should have killed me, but not for a lack of trying. My father’s maid had me sent to the hospital the next morning, and I didn’t see him again until I finally came to settle up the old debts. That didn’t need to happen actually either, but you order shit, you eat shit.

It was in the hospital that night that I had the afore mentioned beginnings of my “epiphany”. Despite my best efforts to convince the local rabbi that had come to visit me that I hated God, him, and everyone else in the world, he continued to work on me. He was a very kind man actually and somewhere along the way I started to feel rather badly about how I was treating him. I know most people would have given up, but I must have said something about my friend Jacob that inspired him to save my soul. He even assured my father’s “friends” who had come to have a chat with me that they should leave because he wasn’t going to. It was strange the way that they seemed to have a healthy fear of him, and usually grumbling left all the same. They never took orders from anyone, whether because of their inbreeding, or the fact that they usually got away with whatever they did. The second night I woke to find him asleep in the chair at the other end of my room and I saw hope in his fragile bearded face.

I was scared and confused when Jacob’s parents were found dead in their burned down grocery store the next morning. My father’s “friends” showed up again but again they were turned away by the little rabbi. I completed my epiphany when he explained to me “The dead will take care of the dead, our job is with the living, and those that we want to keep that way,” after I had asked him why he didn’t leave to comfort the flock after the tragedy. “You didn’t exactly ask me for help my boy, but I decided to help you anyway,” he peered over his shoulder at that point to make sure that we were alone and then said, “I have made arrangements to get you out of here today, and upstate where they can’t find you if you would like,” and he started shaking his head when I was about to protest, “My boy, there is nothing that you can do here, and I can see how much you wanted to just get away.”

He was right at that since “just get away” had been my every hope and dream from the time I was a little boy. I hated everything about here from the ruthless father, to the garlic smelling pigs that he was always surrounded by, to the fact that everything I grew up in ended in evil or death. I couldn’t resist, mainly because I couldn’t do anything with my anger that wouldn’t lead to my own end. It was fourteen years before I had used terms like “filthy kike” again, but I violently stand by my decision to apply it to that man who died twenty minutes ago. I have a feeling I will never have to apply it to another human being, but if I do they will be dead before I have an opportunity to say it twice. My job after all is with the living, and the dead shall take care of the dead. … to be continued

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Nothing that was printed here was intended to offend anyone, and if it did, screw ya, you begged for it. If you believe that there are some measures that can be taken to change me, then please feel free to pray for me, and while you are at it yourself, because you read this far, and if you hated every minute of it, then you are an idiot, not me, or the other people who like what I have to say! .. Jeremy

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