Wackenhut SS :: Personal Narrative Writing

Wackenhut SSIt was a warm spring day. I turned down the communicate as I drove across the bridge at Hoover dam, water and cement connected the state line separating Arizona from Nevada. Crossing the dam then bygone the tourist information center r to each oneed two huge stone angel monuments with arms and wings stretched toward the sky. The sight of them invoked religious desperation from me as if a I was lacking from divine intervention. Parked on either side of the two towering angels sat two highway patrol cars. One on each side of the statues like vultures ordered by the sherif of Nottingham to victimize taxpayers. I felt desperate and uneasy as I stared into the troopers eyes as I passed by and they stared back. I am not paranoid but that doesnt mean they are not after me. Everyone is a suspect and victim for harassment and possible revenue. My moxie of privacy dissolved with the irreverent mix. Psychically connected and hoping to break the troopers attention, I turned up Bla ck Sabbath on the radio and sang along. They tell you desolate is really white, the moon is just the sun at night and when you walk through golden halls, you get to keep the gold that falls, its heaven and hell. The patrol cars await put as I wind up the mountain road let on of sight. I keep the heavy metal tunes blaring to give me that free boost of primal fire that leads one to believe that enough vrihl energy omnisciently moves away adversaries. My attention shot through their hollow headslike a laser out of the screaming skulls of hell. Aggressive aesthetic attention, makes things move quicker with a lottery of victims. I drop my vigil as I drive through Henderson Nevada. From the clouds, mountains and dwarfish skyscrapers, the twilight cast a weird silhouette around the city. I felt safe, as if the ratio of civilians had the police outnumbered. I turn off the radio to sense the silence that Lake Mead evoked in the sunset. Winding up the highway, the sky pulled like a magne t, my hair stood on end, the roof of the car like quiet electricity. I head north-west towards Vegas into the orange twilight. I light a joint and savor the powerful ringing in my ears as I centralize my attention on the electric silence, invisibly driving me into Las Vegas.