Sublime

motallaric

In the purple living room, two men, definitely Latins, with their hands and feet bound with copper wire, were face down on the floor. They had both been shot in the back of the head, and their faces were unrecognizable.

meaner. That morning, he’d brought me into the station, placed his thick hands on my shoulders. “This is my boy,” he said. “Your old man’s a hard-ass, kid,” said another detective. “Are you a hard-ass, too?” I shrugged. They laughed. “Send him down to Vice,” another detective said. “Pop his cherry.” They wore suits and fedoras and smoked cigarettes

In 1979, police officers chased thirty-three-year-old insurance salesman Arthur McDuffie on his motorcycle, claiming he’d made a vulgar gesture at them. When McDuffie toppled off the bike, police removed his helmet, beat him to death, and then replaced the helmet. My father used to have a copy of a poem about this event on his wall, titled “Who Kil

“I lit into them. ‘You goddamn cowards, afraid to face who you are. Pat, you’re a mooching drunk who screws his own cousin and sponges off everyone. You, Duff, you’re great company, I love you, but let’s face it, you hop beds hoping to find some unidentified something you lost. And you, Harold, you know your trouble? You’re a Guggenheim with no pri

commuters without jobs who never arrived at any workplace.

À la suite de quoi je descends la rue en direction d’Angel’s Flight en me demandant ce que je vais bien pouvoir faire de cette journée. Mais il n’y a rien à faire, alors je décide de me balader en ville.

but Castro also opened his prisons and insane asylums and sent along another twenty-five thousand hardcore criminals, gays, and maniacs.