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Just as my freshman year began, I made a bold decision and dropped out of high school. Instead of subjecting myself to more state-funded indoctrination and the inevitable hazing that awaited me as the new kid in town, I sought refuge on the street–where I would continue my education in becoming an outlaw.
My dad, who was murdered when I was 10, and my stepdad, who was serving 10-to-20 in state prison, had both been big-time drug dealers. So, I had inherited a genetic predisposition as well as an environmental one in becoming somewhat of a drug lord in my own right.
It wasn't hard to find a good connection amongst friends of the family in the San Francisco Bay Area. I was fronted my first pound of pot and kicked off selling quarter ounces, which sold out fast.
Left with no parental supervision, my house became a hang-out for juvenile delinquents and a few "good" kids when they skipped class. On select weekends, I’d pimp a couple of kegs of beer and have a big blow-out party, making even more peers aware of the fun to be had at "Kinyon's Place," as everyone called it.
"I should have shot that fucker!" Tom suddenly shouted out. "I can't believe I didn't fucking shoot him! That useless piece of shit old man!"
The uncool thing about having the coolest house in town is that some of the riff-raff had no scruples; things would mysteriously disappear, and random acts of vandalism became routine. It was also a bitch having to clean up after the crowds cleared. But the worst part was when some dumb ass would commit a crime somewhere and think my place would make the perfect hideout.
The first such incident involved three stooges named Ricky, Steve, and Darnell, who stole a Camero from the train station and drove directly to my place. They didn't tell me the car was stolen until they were in my office purchasing three bindles of cocaine. They thought I’d be impressed, and boy, was I.
“Why would you steal a car and park it right outside of my house?!” I yelled at them. “I don’t want the cops busting in here!” I quickly shoved their money back in Ricky's hand and told them to get the fuck out.
Within minutes, the car thieves were boxed in by squad cars at the park around the corner. All three made a run for it but were quickly apprehended. One was dramatically tackled in the middle of the football field. Thankfully, no cops showed up asking questions.
Another time, two dumb fucks robbed an old man on the sidewalk outside of a nursing home downtown. The tall one, named Francis, stood in front of the poor guy and held a knife to his throat, while the short one, named Tom (who happened to be my cousin), held a .45 automatic to a kidney with his left hand and pulled the man’s wallet from his back pocket with his right.
They made off with 11 dollars.
Of course, Tom and Francis showed up at my place. Tom pulled out the .45 he had stolen from his dad and slapped it down on my desk. Both of them were stoked and pumped full of adrenaline as they gleefully recounted the incident.
They were so fucking happy with themselves and proud of their work. And I was absolutely horrified. Even more so when Tom's utter joy and soaring pride in himself quickly turned, in an instant, to self-loathing and psychopathic rage.
"I should have shot that fucker!" Tom suddenly shouted out. "I can't believe I didn't fucking shoot him! That useless piece of shit old man!"
My eyes must have doubled in size. I was already having a hard enough time absorbing the shock of what I was listening to and the disgust I had for these two assholes sitting across from me was overwhelming.
Tom started verbally beating on himself, "I'm such a fucking pussy! A fucking loser! Why didn't I do it?! Why?!! Goddamn it!!! I should have shot that piece of shit geezer! Fuck me!!!”
He took a short breath and then yelled, “I just want to know what it feels like to kill someone! That was my chance, and I fucking blew it!"
I never looked at my cousin quite the same after that.
Being raised the way I was, I knew what not to do. I had it drilled into my head for more than half of my life up to that point: Never snitch on anyone! No matter what they did. You keep your mouth shut. Because no one is lower than a snitch. You never talk to the police. You never turn anyone in.
I never did.
And it has gnawed at me ever since.
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⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I am an avid reader of mob and true crime novels. This is one of the best I have ever read." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "What a page turner! This story is an amazing piece of investigative work—both compelling and heartbreaking." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “I’d seen the author’s work in OZY but was blown away by this book. It’s SUCH a great read, written from the heart! Full of interest for those historians of the hippie generation, North Beach, corrupt cops, mobbed up pols, and San Francisco in general. Very well written and paced up to the last pages. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Buy this book now!" - Amazon review