They call me Satchmo, and life has a way of pushing you to the edge of reason. So once again and like a mouse to cheese I resolve to embrace the sanctuary of my noble sedan, again I am a transient ghost haunting the confines of a gold painted chariot. Far better than dwelling in the home and wafting in the frostbitten silence of a bitter old shrew that slammed doors and hurled accusations like daggers.
The steel frame of my automobile, it doesn’t shame me when I utilize its horsepower; just metal and rubber, a faithful companion in a wildnessness of wretchedness. Outside, shadows flicker, gang stalkers lurking, chickenshits inflicting cyber-psyops. . They’d rather watch me wither than end it with a bullet, more profitable and besides, they’re too miserly to spend the seventy cents. But hell, I’m ready for the worst; this country had mildewed long ago and as every tax return has vanished into the abyss for twelve long years, I’ve toiled like a dog to feed these parasites but too damn long.
And then comes the contemplation of my final scene. I figure if these cowards following me ever find the balls to finish the job their bosses would just write it off as a suicide… as if. Had I the choice i’d prefer to meet my end swift and merciful and I’d prefer not to see it coming, but I know better. Cowards and devil worshipers deliver a slower death… the kind that make a man wish for the gallows. So in accordance with the Good Book which says walk the extra mile with your enemies, I’ve scribbled a little note on my last one dollar bill. It simply says, “Mother, hate me now.”