Tuesday, March 4, 2008

A Proposal For A Totally, Completely True Non-Fiction Autobiographical Book That I'm Hoping to Sell For a 6-Figure Advance

I awaken on the bus. There is a hole in the side of my guts, where the rival gang members shot me six times. Actually, there are six holes. They were mad because Big Turbo stiffed them on the crystal, but I didn't have anything to do with that. I was just the messenger. I'd been off dope for four years. Totally clean. Oh sure, I did a line now and then, just to show the others I wasn't no narc, but otherwise, I was clean.

I'm 10 years old. The holes in my side are bleeding. Liquid life oozes out of my body.

The bus is full of middle class white people who are on their way to Vegas, to play slot machines and craps and whatever else it is that middle class white people do to dull the pain. But I wouldn't know anything about that, since I'm half black, about 1/4 Hispanic, and call it 1/8 Native American. I was raised on the mean streets of Brentwood. I was born without feet.

I was born addicted to crystal. And cocaine. And meth. And uppers. And downers. I was born addicted to everything my biological mother was addicted to, which was just about every drug you can think of, including heroin. Which is why they put me in the foster home.

My first foster mother abused me so bad that I had to develop 38 different personalities to deal with it all. One time, she dug a big hole in the backyard and put me in the hole, then she filled the hole with snakes. I was covered with snakes, then she filled the hole with about 5,000 gallons of water, and then she threw a tiger shark in with me. She threw in rabbits with slit throats, and the blood in the water made the sharks crazy.

But I was crazier. I'd been reared on the mean streets. I was a hard little boy of five, and I bit the sharks in the neck, severing their carotid arteries. They couldn't hurt me if I hurt them first. I'd learned that as soon as I got out of my mother's womb, and the doctor slapped my ass.

They decided they didn't want me anymore, so I went back into the system, and I ended up with Moms Johnson. She was hard and she took care of me. She gave me my first gun as a present as soon as social services delivered me. The woman from social services just shook her head and said, "Keep that gun, you'll need it to survive on these mean streets." She left me there because the whole system is messed up, and there was nowhere else to take me. Then she just walked away, walked to her big giant brand new Lexus, and drove off, leaving me to survive on my own.

The other foster kids joined crips, but I joined the bloods. I became harder and more deadly. I'd killed 32 people, all of them accidentally, by the time I was 9.

But now I'm ten, and I'm on a bus to Vegas that's full of middle aged white people, and I know that in order to survive this I'm going to have to prostitute myself to them, and I'm wondering how I, a mixed race gangbanger with six bullet holes in him, managed to get to this place.

The above is the opening page of my compelling autobiography, The Power of Journeying Through Terribleness. It tells the absolutely 100% true story of my life as a gangbanger and drug addict, and male prostitute with multiple personalities. It tells the story with compassion, but unflinchingly. Unfortunately, my story is all too common on the mean streets of Brentwood, and I feel that publishing my book, and giving me a seven figure advance, will help to get their horrible stories told, so that maybe, finally, people will actually do something about it, instead of doing nothing, and just letting the shame and terror continue unabated. Thank you for considering this, my proposal for what is sure to be a #1 non-fiction bestseller.

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