[warning, show can be quite offensive at times]. But that's how I found the Liberal Crime Squad.
The day I was born in 1984 was the day the Sandanista Front won the elections in Nicaragua.
My parents named me: Nigger Innis.
My first memory was my father burning my back with a cigarette. He used to wear an old electrical chord from a box fan for a belt and to this day I have faded scars from the prongs in odd places all over my body, like the two... thin lines you see above my right eyebrow.
When he was really into the sauce he'd grab me by the neck and added to the burn from that first cigarette. If I broke a plate: he'd burn me with a cigarette. If I cried when he beat me: he'd burn me with a cigarette. If he couldn't steal or beg enough money for booze I hid, but he always found me, and there was always a lit cigarette waiting.
By the time I went to elementary school there were over one-hundred burns on my back. In the shape of a modeled swastika. Our house was right down the road from the YMCA pool, but I never went. He said that if I ever showed the scars to anyone he'd kill my mother and make me watch, then kill me. Then he laughed, and said he might do it anyway. And then he burned me again.
I was his canvas.
The Social workers came, but they didn't take me away from him. They saw the bottles all over the house, they saw the track marks on my mother's arm. The bruises on her face. They saw that I was filthy and cut up all over, and they told my father that I had to go to elementary school. I still don't remember what happened after they left. I don't want to.
They tested me and they were surprised to find that I could read, and write, and do math, though I'd never been to school. I wasn't. He made my mother teach me to read. And had me read out of Mein Kampf to him and his Nazi friends and hate leaflets. And God help me if I ever stumbled. I had a little Hitler Youth (??) Uniform that he said was priceless. But it was a tattered wreck and too small. And I was terrified that a seam would burst or a button would pop in front of his cronies and they'd beat me to death. Once the armpit of the shirt tore when I made the Nazi salute at the end of `Nation and Race', but he didn't notice; they were too busy cheering. Sometimes he'd point his old Luger at me and order me to make a speech right there if I wasn't a race traitor. It's no surprise that I've always been able to speak off the cuff, and that I give all my speeches from memory.
Thanks Dad.
I learned math from counting change. He'd send me out to get his liquor, and the only place that would let me buy it would try to Jew me every single time. If I came back from a store with a cent less than the price of his swill, the swastika would grow. Later, I learned that if I stole the liquor instead, I could use the money to eat. And when my mother finally got too strung out to stand in the welfare line, that was all I could get.
It was never enough.
They put me in school. The other kids laughed at me because my clothes were torn and I stank. After class, I beat the living shit out of them. Nobody laughed then. I took their money, their clothes, everything. Some of the kids were bigger than me but none of them were hungrier.
On my tenth birthday my mother died. I got beaten for it, him screaming, his stale liquor breath in my face, it was all my fault, pistol whipping me with the Luger and threatening to kill me. I remember him pointing the gun at me. Cocking it. And as I watched his hand shake, realizing for the first time that my father was a coward.
He still beat the living shit out of me.
In high school, I pilfered lockers, organized walkouts, punk rock shows, shoplifted, anything. I spent more time in Juvie than out. I was 14 years old when I stole my first car, and it took every cop in this shitstain of a town to bring me back. I sold weed, broke into houses, anything to keep myself fed.
This went on for six years. Until I met Rodriguez, and I learned that I could have more.
Much more.