I tell
you truly — it's a good thing
for me that they've got a library
with a computer in this bughouse.
Because, for a person like myself
whose very life depends on her
well-honed narrative skills,
it's essential to have an audience
to try her material on before
she uses it at The Gig. That
audience would be you, gentle
readers of this so-called "Dirtblog".
It's thanks to you, however numerous
or few you may be, and to the
internet, glorious forever wild
WestWorld of crackpot notions
and tall tales, that I get an
opportunity to "open out
of town", so to speak, and
thus increase my chances of buying
myself enough time, day by day,
to figure a way out of the mess
I'm in. Thanks to you and also,
needless to say, to Walter Becker,
whose website I am hacking in
order to put up this little page
without leaving a trace on the
piece'o'shit Windows machine
here at the hospital. Aloha,
Walt! Love ya, man!
It's
like this — I am, and shall
continue to be, a committed patient
here at the Makapu'u Community
Mental Health Center for Ladies
for as long as it takes for me
to be evaluated and found either
fit or unfit to stand trial for
my so-called "crime".
It's up to a certain Dr. Clayton "Sonny" Kanaka
to assess my mental condition
so as to determine whether, in
the matter of State of Hawaii
vs. Daley, I was motivated by
my own "free will" — a
ludicrous concept — or
by some pathological compulsion
— now you're talking! — when
I allegedly broke the law by
amputating the right thumb and
index finger of Detective Earl "Buddy" Gomes,
Jr. The notion of whether or
not I was able to distinguish
between "right" and "wrong" may
also come into play at some point.
I certainly hope that it does,
because I believe that, with
a little luck, I will have no
trouble whatsoever convincing
a fair-minded mental health professional
such as Doc Kanaka that what
I did was not only utterly just
but absolutely necessary, under
the circumstances. Certainly
Buddy knows and acknowledges
that I did the right thing, and
I am convinced that this would
or should count for something,
except for the fact that he is
in a heap of legal trouble too.
But
it's not the court or the law
that I am most afraid of right
now. The real danger for me is
that I will be transferred back
over to the Women's Community
Correctional Center in Kailua.
Buddy's old lady is also incarcerated
there and, should I go back into
Population over where she is
at, my life won't be worth a
nickel bag of Maui Meadows Green.
She's not particularly smart,
mind you, nor is she particularly
dumb. She's certainly no beauty,
at least not by any esthetic
standard I am aware of or can
even imagine. But she is strong
as an ox, vindictive as hell,
and has absolutely no sense of
humor, about herself or Buddy
or anything else. Also, she moves
pretty fast, for a big woman.
And she's got lots of friends.
Rest
assured, on the very day they
send me back to the slammer,
I will be done for. They're sure
as shit gonna throw a nice homecoming
party for me — kind of
a rough and ready Bachelorette
Party, if you get my drift, with
me as the guest of honor and the entertainment. Normally I
would not necessarily be opposed
to that sort of thing — they
don't call me "Any Kine
Sista" for
nothing — but, for the
finale of this particular shindig,
I will be carved up like a Balinese
decorative pineapple. No question,
if Big Luli and her crew ever
get another shot at me, I'm history.
So
at whatever point Doc Kanaka
loses interest in my case and
has me transferred out, I am
finished. Kaput. Pau. You can
tell the whole tribe back at
Ulu that they'll never see their
beloved Cher (or "Little
Diz",
as I'm known to some) and her
mop of curly red hair, laughing
eyes, easy smile, perfect tits,
spectacular ass, and good-enough
legs, again. Did I mention freckles?
Freckles, allover freckles and
no mistake. They can take my
clothes down to the Goodwill
in Kahului, they can divvy up
my patch and all my lab gear
and even my beloved gas chromatograph
— they can paint my whole
damn place red white and blue,
if they want to. If they dare. |