Vitali, beer, and school

Vitali and beer is what my life has consisted of over the last two weeks. I mean lots of it to. Unimaginable amounts of those two liquids have coursed this battered body during this drinking binge. Last night I crossed the line, not going to mention what that was, but it was defiantly crossed. I hope things get better, I hope they remain the same...but like I was saying, unreal amounts of alcohol. I've spent all my money, as have my drinking companions, and were not sure what approach we should take now. Do we steal beer? It's hilarious because we still find ways to rummage up a few dollars for a fresh, crisp, cold thirty pack, and the girls bring their citrus flavored Vitali. Throughout all the blackouts and endless amount of drinking, I have been able to accomplish much. I studied for my sociology test and got an A (unbelievable I know). I wrote three papers while pre-gaming to go to the Cactus Moon. I got work-shopped for that paper, and my entire class loved it, while I hated it. My teacher gave me a B+ and told me to revise and I would get an A. I was able to charm my teacher into allowing me to make up several missed assignments. Drinking and school go hand in hand!

My father is right! He says that I have always done what I wanted, even if it's not what he wants, but when I put my mind to something, I do it. Welcome to the life of Kelley Wyman.

Inspired by a fellow blogger/friend

A friend of mine, "rob-bot," inspired me to continue writing in this blog. It's been a while, but now I'm excited to write in this silly internet journal.

I am currently in "twin city" Minnesota for the 2011 NCAA Men's Swimming and Diving competition that will begin in roughly 36 hours. Am I excited? Fuck yea I am, along with the other fourteen guys on the Arizona Swimming team. I think we are all uncertain of what we can do, but extremely itchy to see what that uncertainty brings us.

My roommate, Adam "Small Balls" Small, and I are chilling in our room bored outta are minds. We were contemplating stealing the oxygen tank in the hallway to escape from our boredom, but decided against it. This probably isn't the time or the place to do such things. Our conversations consist of swimming, post-swimming, what a terrible state Minnesota is, then followed with moments of absolute silence.

It's been cold, rainy, and windy in this god-forsaken land. Our room is right next to a wind tunnel that is creepy and annoying. A continuous howl heard in PG-13 horror movies.

P.S. - My socks don't match. I have a Puma white sock on my left, and a Starter black sock on my right. Love me for who I am, not for my fashion deficiencies.

Finished (kinda)

A Killer Instinct

My name is Mickey Duhon and I was born and raised in Hill City, Kansas. I am currently a host in one of the 104 rooms in Menninger Clinic. Menninger Clinic is a psychiatric hospital based in Houston, Texas and I have lived the last one hundred and sixty three days here. I don’t consider myself insane, but for the crimes I have committed, most fail to see me as anything but a monster. I am here awaiting my execution for the murder of 137 innocent Vietnamese, 16 marines, rape, and smuggling a thousand pounds of heroin into Cambodia and Laos. During my time in the service I became a notorious drug lord, completely disregarding my duty as a United States Marine Officer. I was a fucking genius, but also a selfish bastard. I regret everything about my life. I am a wasted life form.

            As I have grown into an old man, I have learned a lot more about myself. With my last fifteen hours slowly ticking down, I feel the need to express that I have suddenly learned more about myself in the last five days than I have in my entire life. Self-knowledge some call it. Maybe I am seeking forgiveness for the crimes I have committed. Maybe I fear God's judgment. Whatever it is, I am not proud of the murder, the rape, or the drug addiction. Like I said, I am a waste of human life.

I was not always an insensitive killer. When the United States entered the Vietnam War in 1963 I was only 20 and in my third year at Texas A&M. I was desperate to join the Marines and join my two older brothers in the United States Military. However, my father was an educated man, and refused to give me permission to join the military while I was so young. He required that I finish my degree in engineering before I make a decision. I entered Texas A&M a young virgin boy with an education in basic math, english, and science. I graduated a man with an education in women, booze, and drugs. They immediately made their way to my three most prized possessions. I was a rebel at heart, but I had the resume of a responsible, well-educated man with a bright future ahead of himself.

After graduating I still felt the urge to join the military, and sure enough within six months my mother was kissing and crying ferociously as the bus picked up the recruits from the local greyhound station. After the completion of boot camp, I would be headed to officer training because the Marines labeled me as an “educated man.” I laughed and accepted the responsibility. At the time it hadn’t dawned on me that I would be responsible for the men that were killed under my command. If I had thought about it then, I wouldn’t have accepted such a great responsibility with a brush of my hand.

Boot camp was a piece of cake; at least for the semi-athletic bunch. There were numerous men that were overweight that came into boot camp with the mindset that it actually was a piece of cake. They expected something completely different, so whenever Drill Sargent Harrison started kicking their faces in the dirt, the fatties didn’t last long. Sargent Harrison was a giant black man with a heavy build. His chest was the size of a wooden barrel, and he had legs the size of fence posts. His head was disproportional to his entire body, but no one dared to tell him. If anyone challenged the Sargent they usually learned their lesson in a matter of short seconds.

I quickly became the top of my platoon and was assigned platoon leader.  I was one arrogant son of a bitch, and I liked to show people that. I was a showboater. Three times a week we were called out to the obstacle course. I tiptoed down the logs that were suspended fifteen feet above the ground without a second thought. At the end of each log I would turn around, check my balance, and tease my fellow teammates as they struggled across the beams. Drill Sargent Harrison would yell at me: “You know you would make one hell of an officer if you would just support your god damn teammates Private Duhon!” he’d yell.

There was one time in particular I was thrown into a blind rage after such an incident. A rage that showed itself later in Vietnam. I had left my entire squad behind only to set a new company record on the obstacle course. I was boasting of the achievement when Harrison grabbed the back of my head and placed his knee into my stomach with the force of a thousand stampeding elephants. I curled into the fetal position and threw up violently. I gasped for breath as Harrison stood over me and yelled: “Ah God damn it Duhon. A platoon leader never leaves his men behind! What the fuck do you not understand about that Private? Are you a fucking retarded Private?” He then leaned so close to my face that I could smell the menthol from his cheap cigarettes, and said. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again Private, I will literally take your spinal cord and remove it from your rectum.” With that my body burned with blind rage, and I answered his anger with my own. “Fuck you Sarge! Within three weeks of completion I will be a rank that is far from attainable for a worthless piece of shit like you. You mindless ape.” Harrison gave me a left that put my lights out.

We were being flown into the la Drang, which was a small valley along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We had been flown into the country more than three months ago and were just now being deployed after we had enough time to adapt to this shit hole. Vietnam was something I had never imagined it to be. I expected Vietnam to be a tropical, mystical place of many wonders. Vietnam was a place of many wonders, but none of which were expected. The place was littered with disease and psychotic soldiers that had spent too much time in the brush. It was March 4^th and on that flight into the la Drang I witnessed my first glimpse of heroin in the military. Another platoon leader, a Capt. Sokolowski relieved himself of the present reality, and inserted the syringe into his ankle. He explained that it was the only way to conceal the use of the drugs from the uppers.

Learning the ropes of Vietnam was not easy. Yes, I was an officer in the United States Marine Corp, but because I was green I was treated like a piece of dog shit. I had to earn respect, and that’s exactly what I did on my first patrol through the la Drang. My orders were given by Col. Jacob Miller, to take a patrol into the la Drang jungle until we cleared a perimeter around headquarters. After we patrolled a fifty miles perimeter around the US headquarters we would be permitted to return back.  We were carried by a convoy for several miles throughout the thick terrain until the jungle became too thick to continue. We unloaded there, collected our gear, and enjoyed our last meal before heading into the brush. My platoon was comprised of three rifle squads of thirteen men each. Squad one was led by Sgt. Jefferson, squad two by Sgt. Eichelberger, and squad three by 1^st Sgt. Duvnjak. Ssgt. Nowak was the platoon sergeant, and I, Capt. Duhon, was the platoon commander. We were comprised of forty one men.

It was approximately twenty-one hundred hours when rain started to pour down on us. The rain was thick and heavy, humid enough to make a man suffocate. We carried on throughout the jungle until twenty-four hundred hours. The men were weary, and as the night continued with its uneventful manner, Ssgt. Nowak pleaded with me to allow the men to rest. Making camp was a difficult task under the present conditions; in the middle of night with such hellish rain. I had given the order for no man to start a fire, or cook meat so the men were munching their cold rations down unhappily. There had been no major battles for the United States in early 1965, so whenever the first illumination flare was launched into the air the entire platoon stared at it like it was some sort of mythical creature. My men failed to see the numerous NVA troops closely encircling us until they opened fire.

Pvt. Jackson and Pfc. O’Sullivan were killed within the first seconds of the flare. One took a bullet to the brain, the other a bayonet to the back that punctured through his left lung. The first gunshot startled the men, but they quickly realized the grave danger we were in. Sgt. Eichelberger was the first to open up on the NVA with his M-14, dropping two instantly. I quickly snapped out of my trance and began firing off orders to my Sargent’s. The illumination flare had sizzled out by now, so I quickly ordered another into the air, and to keep them up until we “slayed the savage bastards.” The loud cracks of automatic rifles continuous filled the night and several of our men were quickly mopped up. There was an opening in the enemies’ defenses on the southwest corner of our perimeter. I rang up my sergeants on the PRC-25: “Eichelberger, Duvnjack, Jefferson? I need you and your men to the southwest corner of our position now!” I received no response, but I saw three squads of men making haste to the southwest.

Once my men were in position, less than two minutes after I had given the order, we started to mow the Charlie down. The automatic machine guns, the M-60s, were in place and letting lead flight through the dark night. Another flare was put into the air, and from there Charlie was cut down in a matter of minutes. Within minutes the night resumed its normal course; dark, silent, mysterious. As I shouted the order to hold position, the rain began falling harder now. I anticipated another attack from the enemy, and sure enough within an hour another flare was thrown into the air. Our M-60s, M-16s, and M-14s popped off throughout the rest of the morning, cutting any piece of shit that stepped into our line of sight to be cut in half with lead. At zero six hundred hours the suicidal attacks came to a halt.

As we searched for our wounded and dead we marveled at the amount of NVA we had downed. However, it was also most discouraging to see how many of our men had been killed, and injured beyond repair. Pvt. Jackson was found wheezing after taking a bayonet through his left lung. Somehow he had managed to live on one lung and losing pints of blood. We pleaded for medevac, but we were denied repeatedly. I became enraged. I did not understand why the United States Military would leave its fighting men out in a rotten jungle to die. We gave Jackson enough morphine to pass easily. We had lost eight men, and we now carried six injured; one of which that would be carried by stretcher. I collected their tags, and told the men to prepare to move within the hour. To my estimation we had killed at least one hundred NVA troops.

We stayed on that patrol for over two weeks, and the sun shown twice. I no longer found any excitement in the military. I lost over half my men on that first patrol, but I was still rewarded with metals and a battlefield commission. Three of my men were sent to the psychotic ward including Ssgt. Nowak. The jungle had a grasp on a man’s mind, and could take control of it in a matter of days.

It was now 1968. We had been in the A Shau Valley for what seemed like years, and we were making slow progress towards Khe Sanh. All of my Sargent’s had been replaced except for Eichelberger who was now my platoon Sargent. Eichelberger was a good friend of mine, and we both had begun to dapple with heroin in late 1967. It was a better high then the LSD, which gave horrific vibrations and hallucinations of Charlie peering through the jungle. A man could go insane on such strong hallucinations, and I saw many that did. Heroin was readily available wherever a patrol would venture. For the last three months Eichelberger and I had been moving heroin from Charlie’s poppy huts to the Marine’s HQ. We were usually in the brush for two weeks out of each month, so whenever on patrol we would gather what we found. As we sold the heroin, we began making quite the reputation for ourselves. An officer that sold and accepted the powder was a rare thing indeed.

We had lost focus on the war. We had gathered focus on making money and getting high. On patrol we usually stayed sober, but after so much use my veins started itching for the drug. Pleading “only one more Mick, only one more.” Eichelberger was worst. He had less responsibility, so he was using almost constantly. As if we were zombies walking through the jungle if there were nothing to fear. The drug came to control us, and it began to use us.

On a patrol through the A Shau Valley we ran across a Charlie poppy field. The Vietnamese were unarmed and were not hostile. We searched each individual building to find hundreds of pounds of the yellow powder, already wrapped and ready for distribution. I ordered my men to confiscate the drug, and to pack the bags with it. The majority of the men already knew that I was smuggling into HQ, so when ordered, the men “woopt” knowing that they would get a cut of my profits. The greenhorns were on their first patrol so they were caught by surprise.

A new Sargent in our platoon confronted me. “Sir, Col. Jacob Miller did not order us to confiscate any materials of this kind.” I was annoyed and responded by saying. “Sargent, you will listen to my orders whether the fuck you want to or not. I personally don’t give a damn about Colonel Miller, and I guarantee he doesn’t give two shits about us. This war has turned into a pointless political blood bath, and I’m not gonna sit on the side line and be used as a damn pawn.” He informed me that he was going to call HQ on the PRC-25, and I warned him not to. He continued on his path to the radio, so I did what was necessary. I shot Sgt. Anderson in the back of the head while he was walking away. Two of my Marines raised their assault rifles directly at me. The Corporal began to yell something when Eichelberger raised his pistol and stopped the two with a bullet to each brain. They fell limp. I ordered each of the forty three Vietnamese to be assassinated. Not one of the Marines questioned me.

When we were three miles outside of HQ I stopped all of my men and lined them up. We were going to be carrying over seven hundred pounds of pure heroin into the United States Marine Headquarters, and that was a nerve-racking task. Then once in, I needed a way into Laos to sell and distribute. I was going across the border because the US troops bought the shit for so cheap that it was not worth the risk. I faced every single one of my thirty-seven men and asked if they could be trusted. I assured each and every one of them a very large pension for their troubles. If they answered no, I shot them on the spot. Five men were killed then and there.

Once in HQ, I was very paranoid. I kept one eye on the uppers, and another on the men I had taken out on patrol. I was a nervous wreck and I needed a way to transport the goods to Laos. A week later, after I was sure things had cooled down about the murder of US Marines, and of the innocent Vietnamese, I confronted my superiors. “Sir, I need to take a small group of Marines back up to la Drang to gather medical supplies.” I said. “Capt. Duhon, sending you up to la Drang is the last thing we need at this particular moment. We need to keep our experienced officers out in the field.” Col. Jacob Miller said. “Yes sir, well when will my next patrol be dispatched? I will lead the next possible patrol out into the field with my platoon.”

The Colonel allowed me to lead my platoon back into the jungle. My troops were anything but thrilled, but they knew in time they would have pockets full of cash. We gathered all of our supplies, including our dope, and loaded into the convoy that would take us far into the jungle only to drop us off. From there, I planned to take the convoy over and transport the dope to Laos myself; with or without the drivers.

I only had to kill three of them. Once my platoon was loaded into the convoy I explained to them our plan: “Ok boys, we are going to be traveling deep through enemy territory towards Ban Cang. Ban Cang is in Laos about one hundred and fifty miles from our present position. In Ban, we will meet up with a Bi’nh. He will offload our cargo and pay us with Vietnamese currency that we will be able to convert to American dollars once we return to HQ. Anyone that is nervous about this trip will die here. Who is with me?” The response from every man; an eager “WHO RA.” We moved out within the next hour.

The first fifty miles were uneventful, but took the majority of the day because of the thick underbrush. All of my men had rifles ready as they leaned over the rail of the halftracks. Everyone that wasn’t green had the same feeling that I did; that Charlie was prowling on our position. The first of the gunshots ricocheted off of my helmet. I was stunned and time seemed to stop. I was amazed that the thin piece of Kevlar had stopped my brain from becoming a slop of mush. Once I came to, I halted the convoy for the conflict. We would begin moving the ACPs and halftracks again once Charlie started dropping mortars on our heads.

Every weapon available opened up into the brush with full force. The fifty caliber machine gun began cutting humans and trees in half as it sprayed back and forth. My men were pouring out of the vehicles to find better cover than the bullet magnets. Zdunczyk, a man I favored on the fifty, was cut down with a burst of gunfire. Pfc. Qualls quickly took his place and continued hammering the jungle with lead. An RPG was launched through the air from the east, clipping the back right of an APC sending it up into the air and back down where it had been; still functional. Cpl. Hawking’s torso was thrown from the explosion, while his legs remained behind. Another RPG from the east flew by harmless finding its mark in a tree fifty feet from our position. “Load up, move out.” I yelled. 

The next three hours last an eternity. Charlie was on both sides of us clapping the Kevlar armor with gunfire for miles. While escaping the ambush we were forced to turn around multiple times. In many places the brush was so thick we would turn around and try a different route. One time in particular, we found what seemed to be a highway. After traveling on the dirt road for over ten minutes we were forced to turn around because the road was unfinished with gaping holes in the way. These delays caused significant damage. We had lost one of our ACPs, ten men were killed, and three were missing. Charlie was swarming around us for three horrifying hours, until finally the firing just stopped. The silence was awkward, almost scary. We had made it to Laos.

After another day of heavy terrain, and broken vehicles we finally rolled into Ben Cang. We were to meet Bi’nh ten miles south of Ben Cang, so once our translator got directions from some locals we headed out. Within twenty minutes we were greeted by a tall black man that led us into a small encampment. I was surprised to learn that Bi’nh was actually a white man that spoke fluent English: “Ah, Captain Duhon the infamous drug smuggler that has corrupted the entire United States Military single handily.” I took offense to his words because I did not have the slightest clue to how much damage I had actually caused the military in Vietnam. However, I did not want to ruin relations with my new counterpart so I grinned at the man and greeted him. “Hello Bi’nh, I must say I did not expect to see a fellow American.”

To be continued…

Halfway through my short story about Mickey Duhon. Enjoy. Feedback welcome.

Mickey Duhon

My name is Mickey Duhon and I was born and raised in Hill City, Kansas. I am currently a host in one of the 104 rooms in Menninger Clinic. Menninger Clinic is a psychiatric hospital based in Houston, Texas and I have lived the last one hundred and sixty three days here. I am here awaiting my execution for the murder of 137 innocent Vietnamese, 16 marines, rape, and smuggling thousands of pounds of heroin into Cambodia and Laos. During my time in the service I became a notorious drug lord, completely disregarding my duty as a United States Marine Officer. I was a fucking genius, but also a selfish bastard. I regret everything about my life. I am a wasted life form.

            As I have grown into an old man, I have learned a lot more about myself. With my last fifteen hours slowly ticking down, I feel the need to express that I have suddenly learned more about myself in the last five days than I have in my entire life. Self-knowledge some call it. Maybe I am seeking forgiveness for the crimes I have committed. Maybe I fear God's judgment. Whatever it is, I am not proud of the murder, the rape, or the drug addiction. Like I said, I am a waste of human life.

I was not always an insensitive killer. When the United States entered the Vietnam War in 1964 I was only 20 and in my third year at Texas A&M. I was desperate to join the Marines and join the fighting with my two older brothers. However, my father was an educated man, and refused to give me permission to join the military while I was so young. He required that I finish my degree in engineering before I make a decision. I entered Texas A&M a young virgin boy with an education in basic math, English, and science. I graduated a man from with an education in women, booze, and drugs. They immediately made their way to my three most prized possessions. I was a rebel at heart, but I had the resume of a responsible, well-educated man with a bright future ahead of himself.

After graduating I still felt the urge to join the military, and sure enough within six months my mother was kissing and crying ferociously as the bus picked up the recruits from the local greyhound station. After the completion of boot camp, I would be headed to officer training because the Marines labeled me as an “educated man.” I laughed and accepted the responsibility. At the time it hadn’t dawned on me that I would be responsible for the men that were killed under my command. If I had thought about it then, I wouldn’t have accepted such a great responsibility with a brush of my hand.

Boot camp was a piece of cake; at least for the semi-athletic bunch. There were numerous men that were overweight that came into boot camp with the mindset that it actually was a piece of cake. They expected something completely different, so whenever Drill Sargent Harrison started kicking their faces in the dirt the fatties didn’t last long. Sargent Harrison was a giant black man with a very heavy build. His chest was the size of a wooden barrel, and he had legs the size of fence posts. His head was disproportional to his entire body, but no one dared to tell him. If anyone dared to challenge the Sargent they usually learned their lesson in a matter of seconds.

I quickly became the top of my platoon and was assigned platoon leader.  I was one arrogant son of a bitch, and I liked to show people that. I was a showboater. Three times a week we were called out to the obstacle course. I tiptoed down the logs that were suspended fifteen feet above the ground without a second thought. At the end of each log I would turn around, check my balance, and tease my fellow teammates as they struggled across the beams. Drill Sargent Harrison would yell at me: “You know you would make one hell of an officer if you would just support your god damn teammates Private Duhon!” he’d yell.

There was one time in particular I was thrown into a blind rage after such an incident. A rage that would show later in Vietnam. I had left my entire squad behind only to set a new company record on the obstacle course. I was boasting of the achievement when Harrison grabbed the back of my head and placed his knee into my stomach with the force of a thousand stampeding elephants. I curled into the fetal position and threw up violently. I was gasping for breath as Harrison stood over me yelling: “Ah God damn it Duhon. A Platoon leader never leaves his men behind! What the fuck do you not understand about that Private? Are you a fucking retarded Private?” He then leaned so close to my face that I could smell the menthol from his cheap cigarettes, and said. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again Private, I will literally take your spinal cord and remove it from your rectum.” With that my body burned with blind rage, and I answered his anger with my own. “Fuck you Sarge! Within three weeks of completion I will be a rank that is far from attainable for a worthless piece of shit like you. You mindless ape.” Harrison gave me a left that put my lights out.

We were being flown into the A Shau Valley, which was a small valley along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We had been flown into the country more than three months ago and were just now being deployed after we had enough time to adapt to this shit hole. Vietnam was something I had never imagined it to be. I expected Vietnam to be a tropical, mystical place of many wonders. Vietnam was a place of many wonders, but none of which were expected. The place was littered with disease and psychotic soldiers that had spent too much time in the brush. It was March 4^th and on that flight into the A Shau Valley I witnessed my first glimpse of heroin in the military. Another platoon leader, a Capt. Sokolowski relieved himself of the present reality, and inserted the syringe into his ankle. He explained that it was the only way to conceal the use of the drug from the uppers.

Learning the ropes of Vietnam was not easy. Yes, I was an officer in the United States Marine Corp, but because I was new I was treated like a piece of dog shit from everyone.
           

Time to change. Thanks Ozzy Osborne

I feel unhappy
I feel so sad
I'v lost the best friend
That I ever had
She was my woman
I loved her so
But it's too late now
I've let her go
I'm going through changes
I'm going through changes
We shared the years
We shared each day
In love together
We found a way
But soon the world
Had its evil way
My heart was blinded
Love went astray
I'm going through changes
I'm going through changes
It took so long
To realize
That I can still hear
Her last goodbyes
Now all my days
Are filled with tears
Wish I could go back
And change these years
I'm going through changes
I'm going through changes

ZMA gives me weird dreams. (ACN Rage Dream)

ZMA (Zinc, Magnesium, Vitamin B6) is a nighttime recovery supplement. Lets just say this combination of vitamins and minerals causes one to dream of strange things...

On the night of January 27th (my sister's birthday) I popped three of these dreamworld pills. At approximately 2:31a.m. I woke up to Zachary Hojnacki speaking obscenities to himself while he was sleeping. I was confused and tried to gather what exactly had just happened in my subconscious. I just had the weirdest dream. This is the most I could interpret a few hours after the dream happened...

It all started as a normal Sunday in Tucson. I was with Jenny Forester, Dana Christ, A.J. Tipton, and Jordan Slaughter. The typical crew for a Sunday Funday. We drank hard the night before and as usual I ended up sleeping at Champs on a couch. I was awaken to A.J. screaming something like "I hate my fucccking lifee, lets take some shots you chodes!" I couldn't refuse the proposal so at 8:30 in the morning we began taking shots of Vodka.

After several hours things began to get strange. At some point Adam Small and Matt Barber had shown up and brought food for us to grill and to join in on our Sunday ritual. I remember everyone eating except for Jordan. Maybe this is why he reached a level unachievable for the others.

When we came back inside from eating, Jordan had downed the next handle of Vodka by himself. When Slaughter saw us he screamed "LET'S GO!" We was very excited about something. I don't remember what, but he began chanting "ACN, ACN, ACN." (Slaughter's company that he works for). Apparently he had just landed a huge deal with them and wanted to celebrate. Individual party some call it. He started throwing handles against the wall and continued yelling "Let's go." Slaughter then disappeared to his room and brought out a huge piece of steel. How he carried it I have no idea. He started to spin in circles with the huge beam and it destroyed everything in its path. Matt Barber was instantly decapitated. There was blood sprayed all over the walls and everyone started to scramble. Dana picked up Barbie's (Matt Barber) head and ran with it. I ran into AJ's room, and AJ was taking a dumb with his door open. I am not sure where everyone else went, but I am guessing they died in Slaughter's ACN rage.

This is all I remember. I love these people.

Story Plot (just a draft)

My name is Mickey Duhon and I was born and raised in Hill City, Kansas. I am currently a host in one of the 104 rooms in Menninger Clinic. Menninger Clinic is a psychiatric hospital based in Houston, Texas and I have lived the last one hundred and sixty three days here. I am here awaiting my execution for the murder of 137 innocent Vietnamese, 16 marines, the rape of 12 Vietnamese women, and smuggling thousands of pounds of heroin into Cambodia and Laos. During my time in the service I became a notorious drug lord, completely disregarding my duty as an United States Army Officer. I was a fucking genius, and this is my representation of what happened in Vietnam from 1967-1973.

As I have grown into an old man, I began to learn a lot more about myself. With my last fifteen hours slowly ticking down, I feel the need to express that I have suddenly learned more about myself in the last five days than I have in my entire life. Self-knowledge some call it. Maybe I am seeking forgiveness for the crimes I have committed. Maybe I fear God's judgment. Whatever it is, I am not proud of the things I have done. Nor am I disappointed. I did the things I did to survive. The number one human instinct.

I was not always an insensitive killer. When the United States entered the Vietnam War in 1964 I was only 17. I was desperate to join the Army and join the fighting with my two older brothers. My father was an educated man, and refused to sign my permission papers. He sent me to Texas A&M to study, but I eventually dropped out and entered the Army in '66. I shipped in 1967..............



I don't know this is just something I thought up of in like 5 mins at the end of class. It is very jumbled right now, but I think I will continue to work on this peice. I believe I have the ability to turn it into something special. I don't know why I put that middle paragraph in. I'm sure I'll end up moving it near the end once I conclude this bitch.

Defining Creative Non-fiction

In my class today (Creative Non-fiction) we were to partner up with another random classmate, and define creative non fiction. Once we agreed on our definition of creative non fiction we were to compare our commonalities and write a creative non fiction essay on them. These were the instructions of the assignment exactly as they were written on the board.

- Talk about yourselves
- Define creative non fiction
- Write an "essay"

This is what me and Hank Murry came up with.

Definition of creative non fiction: Taking factual information, and transforming that information into an interesting and engaging essay.

Here is our essay:

Hank Murry and Kelley Wyman have a variety of commonalities except that they were born and raised on opposite sides of the country. Whether Pacific or Atlantic they both share a love for the beach. While Hanks competitive days are behind him, Kelley is developing into a threat to breaststrokers across the nation. Both Hank and Kelley share an interest in Creative Fiction, but what really bonds the two together is their desire to go out and have a good time. While Hank has his fraternity brotherhood, Kelley shares a close brotherhood with the members of the Arizona Swimming and Diving team. Kelley's vehicle of choice is a 99' Honda Shadow motorcycle, while Hank occasionally cruises down the boardwalks of California on his Vespa Scooter. Kelley and Hank both left their luxurious beach lifestyles to come to the Wild West of America for an education.


The End.

Thoughts on Non-Fiction?

Comparing Tragedies

First blog entry. Not sure how much I'll attend to this blog, but I just want to get some extra practice for my writing classes. 

Today in my ENGL 210 (Creative Fiction) class we were told to write somethings that stuck out to us in this article. The article is about the tragic events of January 8th, 2011. The shooting that took place in a Safeway in Tucson, Arizona.

While reading the article I immediately thought that it was ironic that the shooting took place in a grocery story called SAFEway. Nothing of importance there, but perhaps interesting? Something that was interesting to me was how every individual is effected differently by a tragedy. I remember what I was doing when I heard about the shooting, and it sort of stunned me to think that everyone has their own story about where they were and what they were doing when a tragedy falls upon us. I'm sure all of you remember where you were when the first plane struck the first tower on September 11th, 2001. I was in the 6th grade, sitting in Mrs. Castollie's (spelling?) classroom watching the morning announcements. Suddenly, the anchor of the announcements directed all the teachers to change the channel to the local news station. For that entire day, my classmates and I sat around watching the events unfold before our very eyes. Similar to 9/11, I remember exactly what I was doing, and what I did after I received news of the Tucson Tragedy.


Agree/Disagree? Do you remember what you were doing and when?