Stories From My Past Life As A Criminal

Our hero continues down a dark path, but with a new purpose — to repay his debts and get out the game, for good. Intro and Part One is here

(That’s a heart, blue. ❤️)

Songs from an inspired by Black to Orange and Back can be found here.

I’ve heard some people can quit this shit without snitching. But I haven’t met any. — me

RED

Part Two

I’m behind the wheel of a Monte Carlo. It’s an SS whatever. I don’t care. It’s red. My whole crew is with me, a blur of deep crimson red smoke swerving through traffic like a game of Tron at 93 mph somewhere in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s dark.

It’s the worst snow storm of the year. I’m the only one without a license or insurance. They asked me to drive because I did some shit last time we got into a jam. Today we’re going to Chicago.

“One love from a thug nigga, rollin with a posse full of paranoid drug dealers” — Tupac Shakur, Staring Through My Rearview

Craig passes me a dutch. I didn’t see him peel or roll it, but I can smell the tangy citrus of Lemon Haze permeating the red interior.

I keep tabs on people when I’m with them. Most people stare off into space or talk a lot. Both have gotten me in trouble.

Left mirror. Front horizon. Rearview horizon. Right mirror. Passenger. Rearview. Forward horizon. Switch lanes. Eye ball snoop dogg looking driver in a lacville 79. I signal for him to slow down. He nods forward and decelerates.

Swerving in front, I catch N in the rearview. He’s a funny guy. Always in trouble, but randomly pulls the most colorful rabbits out of his ass.

And by that I mean to say that he randomly brings back some ecstasy to the crib. That shit makes me freestyle just like slim shady and the first time I did it I swear I grew up a little bit. I wish I could be a rapper. Fuck. Back to the drive. How far is it to Chicago?

Wide open road now, I am leading traffic. Like a single fiery comet barreling through space towards…freedom, I hope. For now, I feel relaxed.

Passenger. Grab blunt with middle finger and thumb. Forward Horizon. Back rear — Doug takes a line of the finest blow I’ve ever seen.

He’s doing lines off of A’s bee sting titties. A was my best friend in high school. Then she grew a booty and we fooled around. Wasn’t awful. Not too bright, though.

Finally. My whole team is here in the right colors, on a mission to get out of the game. Like a fucking movie.

Well, I am getting out. I don’t think they will.

They don’t know I’m done. They don’t know I’m having a baby. I have to stay focused.


If we were going to the Step It Up grand finals to compete against Justin Timberlake and “NSYNC The Younger”, we would have been the sickest, cleanest looking pack of brothers in the place.

It would have also been perfect for the psychedelic drive to and induced by a performance of any kind.

I’m in black and white singing DJ Got Us Falling in Love. Bahamas Bar & Grill, Steven’s Point, WI. Video here — it’s on my friend’s facebook and I dunno how to get it to youtube or something else. He’s technologically challenged. Tim the Younger would call him retarded.

But we weren’t. Those things happened with different people, before and after this.

(it was a talent competition at school. But I swear to god I’ll go toe to toe with Timberlake on the dance floor. JT, I’m at 18873 Hein St. Oregon City, OR. Bring a guitar too.)

We are going to Jay’s house. He buys a lot of marijuana from me. I suspect he sells it because who smokes 2lbs a week? We never talk about it though. I never talk about it.

Yesterday, Jay got caught with a couple ounces of blow and an eighth of White Widow. My [group redacted] family in ATL got me that drow. Unforgivable.

He was pulled over in the car I’m driving.

He’s going away for awhile.

He won’t miss it.

I gotta get some money fast.

“These food stamps and WIC shit won’t buy diapers.” — Eminem

8 Months until he or she is born.

I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but if I don’t stop this shit right fucking now… the road is running out, I’m going too fast to stop and… that’s a steep cliff.

To be continued…

Part three is here.

P.S. — If you dig this, send me an email. I need motivation to continue, so in return I’ll send you drafts. The writing is coming pretty fast, so hurry. timschwab@me.com

I love suggestions and comments and I promise I’m not actually this mean or reckless any more.

…Well, not AS mean or reckless.

All the love,

-Tim