What about me?

It got bad. Really, really bad. See, this prostitution ring merged with one of the severest drug showdowns of the year. Leo was the head, but his leaking blood did not share DNA with the stereotype suspect of the job. He wore mild-blue eyes,brown locks, and an unprecedented tan that all together gave him the appeal of an inoperative, fashion hypnotized Brazilian model.

How he got involved, Leo that is, still beats me. I'm guessing that he was in the wrong place at the right time, inevitably sparking his on-going Derick Todd Lee charisma, but I can't be sure.

I watched TV, a lot of TV like a Disney-brainwashed five year old; so I knew of this so called "drug game." Killings, rapings, simply an avenue carrying moral decay. That was my glassy savvy, and I never discovered there to be a rhyme or reason, or any sort of ordinance involved in the prohibition-like game. My problem, my big problem was I observed the 'black' scene, all the loud talking, killings, and out-of-hand disrespect. That's how media depicts drugs, and blacks as an unwilling whole, but in truth, that is only one unacceptable pureness of their blinded form of life. This forever manifests why these sable people, these people who's ancestors fought like white-colonist for emancipation, are victim to such hefty derogatory titles.

The indented obstacle is the media, in their ill desired quest to differentiate these killing blacks, with the likes of black doctors, lawyers, and the all around Oprah-types. It must be hard to realize that in the black world of foggy confusion; present is more than one facet of the double lined community. Now I am a white guy, but the way media takes a knife; carves and torments the skin of the black citizens like the spreading of the bird flu is absurd, unconditionally accepted, and putrid to my eyes-

It was about 2 a.m. and lets just say I wriggled through the darker tunnel of L.A in my sandy cooper. I went from an island infested with nameless paparazzi to a land where men handle themselves like a baby hidden from its mothers breast.

On a corner, and there were many corners, but this one was the most appealing; a tar creature stood tall, and sternly above a black mouse. This woman most likely played the role of one of his many dealers/prostitutes, but we can't be sure. I saw him beat her, just aimlessly beating her as if she were a seersucker southern boy speaking spit to his mother.

Then he did it, he pulled the fucking trigger like she was a woman made up of Monopoly money peeking out of a window in Darfur. She was beautiful too. Black, but not that prostitute, big titty, ass hanging out her shorts kind of thing, she was a woman. She seemingly played the part of a sex/drug worker, but she was immensely sensitive. My conclusion was painted after a twenty minute observation, and the way she searched for some sort of appreciation and justice with her eyes, proved me to be correct.

He left, ran actually, as if one of the white cops were chasing him with a, "no like blacks" German Shepherd. Thing is, I don't know why he ran, why he even cared. She was just another black perch dead in a ocean of white sharks, no one would notice, no one would fucking care.

I thought for sure she was creative, 'real' music on the radio, but her pulse held on like the faded yellow of a school bus. I needed to save her, I had to improve my state as an undefined person. It was sick, so fucking sick. She was injured, almost entering a never-ending sleep, but I was the one deserving of an Gatsby-like funeral.

In all honesty, I did not care if she survived, she was just another black girl in a third world country, blocks away from the Ivy. But I wanted to be in the paper, I wanted to be honored and praised like I rightfully and innately deserved: "The man who saved a woman doomed for a new awakening." My designed intentions were not to help, which made me an executor of a sentimental feat, but a man with a scratched heart. Sometimes I try, I won't lie, to convince myself I saved her out of fluffed sympathy. But I don't know, I have not a clue what malfunctions lie in my tangled brain.

Did she make it? Well, that's for you to decide, but yes, she was able to ride-out her wounds, and live to dream another day . She was not free, as much as the world and I want to believe she changed-She did not. People, they rarely change, and why should they. See, they don't know any better, that's what I took away from this experience: Change for the better, and do not go back to what previously left you an injured character.


The shots were fired regarding my dreaming. I visioned migrating away like a bird before a storm, but problem was, my storm had already hit. I became sick, really sick see, and took on a broken wing. I caught Pneumonia, or some sort of ailment that keeps the powerful enfeebled down. For weeks nearly making up a month I lied there, just contemplating a more-advanced form of life. Dreaming of a land where I am not afraid to depart from my own home in fear of enjoying a death of no substance. Today, healthy as a new born baby, I still can't leave. I don't know why, but I just can't pack my bags up and go, I wish a "run away dad" could implement into me his villainy ways. The doctors labeled me "unable to function" during my pneumonia stage, but I am a Jew accepting Christ as the savior in regards to their cleaver, PHD assumtion. Healthy, I am sick, a sick fucking human being.

I know this was supposed to be about Leo, this character that you idolize and get all worked up about like a teenage girl backstage a Hannah Montana concert, but c'mon. What about me, that guy who gives you all this fair and balanced information. Could you for once give me some God damn credit. Could you honor me, someone please. I'm sorry for ranting and rambling about myself, and we will return to his subject, but for now.....

Help me, Help me please....I have no core, no title.