Stacks of Money. This is a true-crime story that you most likely have never heard before.
I am going to go back in time and tell you my life’s story as far as I can remember. For you to look into the whole story, not just the one tragic event. It’s been a rough ride along a rocky road, which has me currently confined to a cell behind the walls and fences of an American prison. Though I am still breathing, I am serving a life without parole sentence.
The year was 1997, and I was 11years old, about to turn twelve in October. Up to this point, my endeavors still consisted of indulgence while dabbling experimentally. I was a miscreant, no doubt, but I had yet to cross the threshold of doing any serious dirt. It was only a matter of time at this point, however. This was when I was getting out of grade school and into middle school. I was never a really bad kid, and I’ve always had a good heart. I gravitated toward what was put in front of me and what seemed like a way out. I remember the day I first saw something that had me sprung like a boy who had just discovered the forbidden fruit.
I walked over to my cousin’s place, wanting to get blazed. It was just another day, nothing really special about it. Only on this particular day, I go to open the slider, and it was locked; the curtains were drawn, so I couldn’t see in. I tapped on the glass and waited, but nobody came. I could hear the low rumble of bass coming from inside the trailer, and his car was there along with another. I knocked louder this time, thinking perhaps he didn’t hear over the music playing. He cracked the door and told me to come back in a bit. So I walked around the loop in the park and came back. As I walked up to the trailer, the unknown dude approached the other car parked there. He was carrying a large black duffel bag. Something that looked like it was used to pack hockey gear or something. The man opened the trunk and put it in, hopped in his ride, and pulled off. I went to the door and knocked; this time, he opened it and let me in. The aroma immediately hit me as the smoky herbal haze permeated from the blunt as he passed it over. Hey, I need your help; he asked you are good with numbers. Laid out in a pile on the table were rubber-banded stacks of money. Underneath the table were three more of the black hockey Duffles. I had an idea of what was in there, but I was sort of in shock at how much was going on here. It seemed to me my cousin was like the white trash Pablo Escobar.
I helped count up a hundred grand, which was just one duffle. Listen here, he said to me, looking me in the eye, serious as could be. You don’t ever tell anybody about this; not a single soul, or it’s all bad. You can’t tell anybody you hear me, boy. He kept saying it, then ruffing me up, saying I ain’t playing boy. You don’t ever tell nobody; as he got me in a chokehold, I was getting light-headed, tapping out, but he wouldn’t let go. I woke up with a headache, and he was laughing. Just remember what I said, boy here, take this; it’s yours; it’s worth about 70 bucks. Be careful, though and listen; don’t get caught. If you do, you better remember what I said…
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