Sunday, January 31, 2016

#SundayBlogShare





Prologue


                      As a ten year veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Rhonda Banks was accustomed to, but not desensitized by the amount of death she was exposed to in the field as a special agent.  There she stood on the edge of a grassy marsh in Middleburg, Florida.  The weather was muggy, but not near the unbearable extremes one can come to experience at the end of a summer in North Florida.  Yet another corpse lay before Rhonda.  The decomposition of the dead body was obviously advanced by the humidity of the First Coast Region.  Rhonda stood in silence for a moment.  The initial phases of a murder investigation always put her in a tantric trance.  Even at this early stage, she could sense that this case would be of the atypical variety.  Her partner Gary Black’s sudden and curt remark snapped Rhonda out of her mesmeric daze.
            “This is a new one for me, a disemboweled gimp in a swamp with a severed penis,” Gary said.  “Damn, Agent Banks, it smells like day-old cabbage stewed with rancid roadkill out here.”
            “I won’t ask how you know what that smells like, Agent Black,” Rhonda commented.
            Gary and Rhonda worked closely as partners for five years.  Gary was strapping and brawny man with a thick southern drawl.  He was raised in Moultrie, a small rural town in Georgia.  His humble upbringing on a farm was a stark contrast to the way Rhonda was raised.  She got used to that ephemeral and transplanting lifestyle that came along with being in a military family.  She couldn’t count how many times she was uprooted and had to pack up to move when her father was transferred to another Naval Base.  More times than not, they were coastal cities, so Rhonda grew up loving the beach.  Still, the country boy Gary and the beach girl Rhonda, although and odd pair, worked well and as a cohesive investigational unit.  They got on each other’s nerves and clashed on occasion, but they truly trusted and respected one another.
            The crime scene in Middleburg was cordoned off.  It was a muddy and wooded area not far from the northern flowing St. John’s River south of Jacksonville off US Highway 17.  The Clay County Sherriff’s Office, the local authorities, alerted the FBI.  Gary and Rhonda weren’t too far away in Daytona Beach investigating a high profile missing person’s case, so they were immediately summoned to the crime scene.  A week prior, Blake Adams, the eldest son of a prominent US Congressman named Bill Adams from Miami, vanished without a trace.  Blake had travel led to Jacksonville to attend the first road game of the Miami Dolphins’ 2014 NFL season versus the Jaguars at Ever Bank Stadium.  Bill happened to also be in town at the time accompanying his wife Linda Adams, a published and renowned self-help author that had a scheduled speaking arrangement at a conference at the Morocco Shrine Auditorium in downtown Jacksonville.  Reportedly, Blake hade made his way to Daytona after the football game to celebrate the Dolphins’ thrilling overtime victory over the Jaguars with some of the players he was acquainted with.  Blake was last seen leaving an upscale gentlemen’s club called Emperors’ off the strip in Daytona Beach with an unidentified woman.
            Back in Middleburg, Agent Banks and Agent Black surveyed the area with local cops and crime scene technicians.  They examined the dead body which was dressed up in a full-body leather BDSM gimp suit, complete with mask and ball-gag strapped in his mouth.  A large gash in his abdomen exposed his intestines.  The ankles were bound with chains, and the wrists were handcuffed behind his back.  There was a lot of blood, but it wasn’t immediately evident whether or not part of the attack occurred on the scene, or elsewhere, or if the man was assaulted, gutted, and dumped alive to bleed out.
            “Can somebody please remove that ball-gag from his mouth and take off that mask?” Rhonda asked.
            One of the CSI’s obliged Rhonda’s request, then Gary said, “Holy honeycombs!  That’s our guy.  That’s Blake Adams.”
            This is was no longer a missing person’s case for Rhonda and Gary.  It was a homicide, and a gory one at that.  The overkill was evident.
            “Who discovered the body?” Rhonda asked.
            One of the police officers answered, “A man was walking his dog on a nearby trail when his dog got loose from the leash and ran into the woods.  The man gave chase then stumbled across this.  He phoned us right away.”
            “Where is this man now?” Rhonda asked.
            “Right over there,” the cop pointed.
            “Officer, we are gonna need you to escort that man to the station to get a detailed statement from him,” Gary said.  “Have your people finish securing the scene and take as many pictures as possible.  Collect and document as much trace evidence as you can.  Then, carefully bag up the body, and take it to the coroner, so they can conduct a detailed medical examination and autopsy.”
            “Officer Williams,” Rhonda read the name above his badge.  “We appreciate the assistance and cooperation of the Clay County Sheriffs’ Office.  Now, my partner and I must go to Jacksonville to give the victim’s parents the bad news.  Try to keep the press suppressed, and don’t give any official statements to the media until tomorrow.  We may handle that.”
            “Alerting the next of kin: this was always a difficult and uncomfortable undertaking.  Bill and Linda Adams were still checked in at the Hyatt in downtown Jacksonville.  Needless to say, they were absolutely distraught and grief stricken when Agent Black and Agent Banks delivered the about their son’s death in person.  Gary and Rhonda expressed their sympathies and assured the Adams family that the FBI would find whoever was responsible for such horrible atrocities and bring them to justice.  After delivering the devastatingly horrible bad news, Gary and Rhonda stood on the Riverwalk outside the Hyatt.  Gary could see the anguish in Rhonda’s face.
            “Ronnie, we are going to catch this guy,” Gary assured her.  “We always do.”
            “I know, Gary,” Rhonda replied.
            Then, Gary made a suggestion, “Let me tell you what I like to do once I get to the meat and potatoes of a big case like this one here.”
            Rhonda asked him, “What’s that, Gary?”
            He explained, “I like to get a deep tissue massage to decompress.  I vacationed in Jacksonville with my family once.  I’m going to take you to Massage Soleil at the St. John’s Town Center on the south side of town, my treat.”

            Rhonda just nodded.  She had learned long ago not to reject Gary’s insistences.  He was very persistent and persuasive person, and sometimes he knew what was best for Rhonda.  That’s why they worked so well together… 

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Team Clean Extremes poem

When outlooks are bleak and I'm feeling weak
Understanding is the only thing I seek
Even though I was expelled from college
I always thrive off knowledge

Catastrophes happen and i stay composed
This trait is a gift and curse I suppose
I'm glad I'm a king with a my queen, a pillar of strength
Don't think I'm cocky, that's not what I meant

She keeps me standing when everything around me crumbles
I always remember to make sure I stay humble
That pays homage to the way I was raised to be
I owe all i am to Roberta Lee Peay

I experience life in extremes
Famine, feast, kind, mean
Dirty, clean, red, green, manic, serene
This is one hell of a ride with Team Clean
I try my best not to be hindered by pride and things

I find it difficult asking for help'
I feel like I can handle anything by myself
I am a martyr, I am a menace
I am a sinner that prays for forgiveness

I will not lose
Prepare for war if my ego gets bruised
Are you confused
I am too

Friday, January 29, 2016

Fetishes Fantasies Fatalities (Romance Novel Synopsis)

I just started working on a new erotic romance novel from the perspective of a man.  This should be challenging and interesting to the say the very least.  Enjoy this synopsis and comment with feedback please...

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 Benjamin Hudson, a recently laid off massage therapist falls on hard times financially and finds himself facing a perplexing proposal from and older woman named Cynthia Stone, a potential benefactor who promises to pay off his debts and help him open his own business, as long as Ben upholds his end of the bargain.  Cynthia doesn't mind investing in Ben financially by being his sugar momma as long as he can satisfy her every waking need sexually.  It is initially awkward, but the arrangement becomes erotically enticing and beneficial for both parties.  Eventually, feelings get involved, which complicates the whole deal, not to mention the fact that Cynthia is a recovering sex addict and retired dominatrix.  When Ben begins to suspect her ulterior motives, bizarre events trigger a relapse, so Cynthia struggles as she regresses to her old ways.  This, in turn, tortures Ben throughout the whole exotic ordeal.   Benjamin is so conflicted.  While the experiences escalate exponentially, and he endures the madness and punishment, Ben enjoys the eroticism.  His torture is arduous mentally, yet erotically extreme physically.  Ben knew having a demanding and dominating sugar momma as a madame or mistress wouldn't be simple.  He is
astounded and frightened, however, after he discovers Cynthia is not only a wild sex fiend who's into all sorts of kinks, but also a serial killer in hiding and secretly on the run from an overzealous FBI agent by the name of Rhonda Banks.  Benjamin is unimaginably confounded and astounded as he encounters conflicts with Cynthia and Rhonda.  Benjamin is a very confused man.  He doesn't know whether to be aroused, afraid, or both...

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Another Excerpt from my old spy novel manuscript.

I'll likely be making major modifications to this spy novel manuscript i worked on years ago.  Mainly I'm considering switching it from first person POV from the perspective of the 4 main characters to third person omnipotent POV.  I had originally intended on posting it as a series on JukePop.com but now I'm thinking it may be a better idea to publish it self publish it directly to Kindle via Amazon.com

Enjoy this free sneak peek....


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November 1, 2005-D.J.


            My new burgundy Mitsubishi Galante was in cruise control zipping down I-95 towards Miami.  I used my knees to steer he car while rolling the third blunt of my short road trip from Okechobee.  An instrumental version of Cypress Hill’s Insane in the Membrane chimed out on my cell phone.  I looked a he caller ID.  I read Black.  He was one of my friends from Okechobee.  I turned down my classical music to answer the phone.
            “Yo, Black.  What’s poppin’?” I asked.
            “Hey, DJ.  Wassup?  I stopped by your place earlier, but you wasn’t there,” Black said.
            “I told you last week I’d be outta town in Miami for a couple days on the firs of the month.  Black, you smoke too much homes.”
            “Word, but you’re one to talk.  I be you’re burnin’ right now.”
            “Ha ha.  Of course.”
            “What you got going on in the MIA?  You hittin’ up a party?”
            “Bad, I might hit a few clubs as well, but I’m really here for that casting call they’re doing for the new season of the Real World.  I sent in an audition tape, and they called back.”
            “Bad, say word?  You’d be perfect for that show.  You’re quite an interesting character.  You might be too real for the show though.”
            “We’ll see.”
            “I called ‘cause I was hopin’ to cop some reefer, but you ain’t around so….”
            “Well, you can call Doc.  He’s usually holdin’.”
            “Man, his shit is garbage.  I can’t smoke that Bobby Brown.  It gives me a headache.”
            “I guess you’ll have to make due.  Try C-Money.  His green is aiight even though his sacks always weigh out light.”
            “Bad, you’re right.”
            “Imma let you go.  I’m a little behind schedule.  I gotta get to this hotel before they close auditions.”
            “Okay, I’ll holla.  Peace.”
            “War.”
            I arrived at the Holiday Inn near South Beach in the nick of time.  I introduced myself to Bruce Copeland and Nicole Bush, two of the show’s producers.  They escorted me to a conference room where a camera crew was waiting to film my interview.  I sat in a comfortable chair in front of the camera.  Bruce and Nicole gave me my cues.
            “Okay, we’re rolling,” Nicole said.  “Don’t be nervous.  Speak clearly, and look into the camera.  Don’t worry about making mistakes.  We can edit the footage later.”
            “Start by introducing yourself and telling us a bit about yourself,” Bruce said.
            “My name is Dewaun Jenkins, and I’m eighteen years old,” I said.  “I’m from Okechobee, Florida.  It’s a small town, but I ain’t your typical small town guy.  I’m kind of a modern-day transcendentalist.  Don’t let the big word fool ya.  That’s just a little something I picked up in a humanities class I took in high school.  I’m a real nonconformist, but I can relate and mingle with folks from all walks of life.”
            “Very interesting.  What do you do for a living?” Nicole asked.
            “I, uhhh…..” I hesitated.  Drug dealer didn’t seem like a plausible answer.  “I’m currently unemployed.”
            “That’s fine.  Just tell us an ideal career you invision for someone like yourself,” Nicole said.
            “Okay, I’ve always been intrigued by the private investigation profession,” I admitted.  “I think that’d be cool, but……”
            “But what?” Nicole asked.
            “I’m a real thrill seeker.  I’d want to do it on a grander scale,” I answered.
            “What do you mean?” questioned Bruce.
            “You’re going to think I’m a silly goon, but I was really into James Bond movies as a kid,” I started to explain.  “I always thought it’d be cool to somehow combine private investigation with the field of espionage.  It could be like a spies-for-hire firm that handles controversial cases the other Alphabet Boys won’t touch.”
            “That’s a unique idea,” Bruce commented.
            “I think it’s a stupid idea, but a boy can dream, right?” I added.
            “That’s true,” Nicole agreed.  “Dewaun, why don’t you share one of your most embarrassing experiences with us?”
            “Sure.  I actually spent some time in a mental hospital recently,” I told them.
            “Really?  How did that happen?  Are you crazy?” Nicole inquired.
            “Do I look crazy?” I laughed.  “It’s a long story.  To make is short, my big brother had me committed.  The doctors tried to analyze me and mentioned something about a chemical imbalance in my brain, but there were not enough symptoms for a legitimate diagnosis.  I was released with a fairly clean bill of mental health.”
            “Alrighty then.  One more question, Mr. Jenkins.  Why do you think we should pick you to be on the Real World?” Bruce asked.
            “I’ll keep it short,” I promised.  “I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’m the shit.  Enough said.”
            “Okay, we have all we need, Mr. Jenkins.  Now, we need you to sign a release form.  Even if we don’t pick you, we might use footage of you for a casting special that will air before the season premier,” Bruce explained.
            “That’s fine,” I consented.

            I left the audition feeling relatively confident.  When meeting someone new, I was always mindful of the last first impression.  That basically means you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Team Clean 2016

   This year has gotten off to a very stellar start.  Coming into the New Year, I anticipated 2016 would be a breakthrough year for me professionally and personally.  I rang in the New Year by signing a contract with the serialized literature website www.channillo.com to produce a MMA web series thriller titled Worth The Fight.  That alone was great news to kick off things.  Then I completed and submitted my Must Be Nice 2: Defining Moments of a Maniac manuscript and submitted it to my publisher.  America Star Books accepted my manuscript, and I signed the contract to have it published today. I'm guessing it'll be on book shelves and on Kindle in 3-4 months.  That's two big reasons I feel blessed in 2016.  Also, a little over 6 months ago I met a wonderful women named Brandi who has been a real pillar of strength for more.  As your love unfurls and grows, I thank God to have someone so caring and supportive by my side to affirm my ambitions and inspire me to be a better man and father.  She has played a big role in my sobriety from hard drugs.  It hasn't been easy, and I still encounter challenges as my sobriety is only in its infancy, but I'm proud to say I've had 45 days clean which I never imagined could be possible for me.  I used to party pretty hard if you don't know.  After a dozen years of going as hard as I did, it feels good to embrace things in life to be grateful for, mainly a good family woman like Brandi. Without her, none of this would be possible.
   Other projects I'm working on this year include a spy novel entitled The Smartest Phone which will be available as a series on jukepop.com in a about a week.  And once my Channillo web series Worth The Fight is complete in a couple months I will submit a Red Reaper web series to channillo.com  I'm also actively seeking out artist to illustrate Worth The Fight and Red Reaper, and I've only had minimal success with that thus far.  I found one interested party whom I haven't heard from in regards to illustration in about a week, but I'm being patient.  I'm very excited about doing a sports talk podcast which will be available starting February 2016.  I'm hoping The Patrick Peay Show will also be available and aired on ShoutBoxRadio.com assuming negotiations with their CEO don't stall.  I'm pretty sure I'll be interviewed for a second time on JP Explains It All via Shout Box Radio in the next couple weeks.  The next daunting endeavor I plan on tackling in 2016 is starting my on DJ business.  That's right.  You heard it here first.  DJ Queasy is making a comeback in 2016.  I hope I can get a few gigs hear and there, maybe an event or two with Shout Box, something at a small venue in Jacksonville Beach would be nice  I'm tentatively planning on producing a mix tape in conjunction with local artist to be released in the Summer or Fall of 2016.  I may even get on the microphone and record a few new original tracks myself, who knows.  So that's what I got on my plate this year.  Be Blessed...


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Saturday, January 23, 2016

It Feels Good To Be Patrick...

I don't think my peers understand where I'm coming from
The coldness within me makes me feel so numb
Restless nights are filled with racing thoughts
Battles are fought daily to avoid being distraught

On thing is for sure, I'm not typical
The rumors of my trials and tribulations are a but mythical
W hen i look in the face of death, I'm not scared
I've been critically conditioned by burdens I've beared
dUnjust convictions must be appealed
I might be my own worse critic
I don't want this world to make me a cynic

I don't own slaves, but I feel like the Master
Kids these days are growing up faster
90's Babies still have no sense
They may be the death of us all in the end

My burning desire is hotter than plasma
These words should take your breath away like asthma
I'm the antithesis of status quo
When you swim against the tide, why go with the flow

I am unique, I am not practical
I often enjoy a reclusive sabbatical
So sit back and watch me work my magic
Right now it feels so good to be Patrick

Friday, January 22, 2016

The Death of Me


The risks that I take make statements
Trials and tribulations test my patience
I don’t want to stress as I digress
I might be blessed to be in the mess  
Grandiose schemes aren’t just pipe dreams
Justified means ensure I will be redeemed
Delusional delinquency may be the death of me
Half of me is sane; I don’t know about the rest of me
This may be the recipe; work then rest
I don’t let the work work me nonetheless
Maniacally laid plans just might work
I will rest in peace when I’m in the dirt
I don’t want to go to sleep; I don’t want to rest
I’m not stressed when I’m at my best
The company I keep keeps me encouraged
I always eat, so I’m never malnourished
I’m in another realm of feeling overwhelmed
I’ve been beyond the brink of how low a man can sink
I’ve been higher than the stars in the sky
Sometimes I want to die, and I don’t know why
Highs and lows, that’s just how it goes
I just take notes and get lost in my prose
Pros and cons are weighed on the regular
This world is full of prey for predators
I am a predator, I pray for my competitors
I mince metaphors, I don’t mince words
I’m my own editor, I rework words and move forward


Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Surreal World #writerslife

Back on the grid, back in commission
Though my last mission nearly beat me into submission
So much ridicule, it’s quite ridiculous
I can reach my pinnacle if I am meticulous

Prejudices are perpetrated against the mentally ill
With all this fake shit in the world, it’s so hard to keep it real
Yet I strive and crusade for the revolution still
My allies are maniacs, and my secret weapon is will

I know not the purpose of this daunting endeavor
I don’t know if I seek to innovate, motivate, cause shock and awe or whatever
I’m not sure if this is stupid or if it’s really, really clever
I’ll keep things light, light like a feather

Mom says I’m a rebel and self-saboteur
When it comes to this writing craft, I’m no amateur
The truth is I’m ruthless

My true friends already knew this

Sunday, January 17, 2016

My Spy Novel (sneak peek)

     I've blown the dust off an old spy novel manuscript and am considering submitting  it to jukepop.com as a series to get some feedback and help finding a traditional publisher for it.  I've got a lot going on this year thus far  with Worth The Fight, Red Reaper the web series, and Must Be Nice 2, but when it comes to writing, to me it's the more the merrier  Originally I intended the story to be told in first person from the perspective of 4 different characters.  Now I'm thinking 1st omnipotent POV may work better. IDK   Check it out...



December 31, 2005-Dewaun Jenkins



“Could somebody please tell Frank to put some fucking clothes on?  Just ‘cause he’s blind and can’t see his own naked body, it don’t mean the rest of us wanna look at his balls all day!”
“Language, Mr. Jenkins.” Bubba, one of the larger orderlies, gave me a menacing glare, but he knew I was right.
Bubba approached Frank with a robe.  He reminded Frank that even though he was currently in the male quarters of the mental health facility, his indecent exposure was visible to females from the adjacent common area.  I held back a smartass remark about Frank spoiling my appetite so close to snack time.  I did not want to seem unruly because Bubba had a reputation as one of the more trigger-happy orderlies.  He seemed to enjoy administering that infamous shot that could put a grown man down for hours.  I once watched him inject a dozen guys in one day, so I kept my mouth shut.  I always hated needles.
I’d been cooped up for four days and never thought a mental health facility could be so damn crazy.  No pun intended.  I knew I didn’t belong here.  Naked Frank was crazy.  The chick that went by the name T-seven-minute was nuts, and the rest of the patients were just fucking loony.  I, on the other hand, wound up in the Mental Health Resource Center on Edgewood Avenue in Jacksonville, FL, because my older brother Jermaine was the crazy one.
Insanus omnis fuere credit cetero.  In Latin, that means Every madman thinks everyone else is mad.  I red that once in the Encyclopedia of Super Villains, but don’t hold that against me.  I believe it was Eminem who said, “I ain’t crazy.  I say shit crazy to crazy people to make ‘em believe I’m crazy so they can relate to me.”  This explained how I ended up in such a wacky predicament, well kind of anyway.  Here’s the condensed story of how I got myself in this mess.
I actually grew up in Okechobee, which is about forty-five minutes north of Miami.  My big brother, Jermaine, and I were raised by our happily-married pediatrician parents.  We made the most of living in such a small town.  In 1997, when I enrolled in middle school, Jermaine went off to the University of North Florida in Jacksonville.  He intended to follow in the family business of medicine.
With big bro’ outta the house, I started to blossom into my own individual during my adolescent years.  Some would say I became a little troublemaker.  Sure, when I was in the seventh grade, me and my pals planted leftover dissection specimens in the girls’ bathrooms and locker room, but that went down in history as a classic prank.  I also picked up a knack for graffiti my freshmen year of high school, and the mural of The Simpsons I did outside the gymnasium wall was a work of art.  Principal Payne didn’t see it as art, and I was permanently on his shit list.  Of course, getting busted smoking weed in the bathroom sophomore year didn’t help.  It was actually my first time tasting the sweet cannabis, but Mom and Dad were disappointed by the news that I was experimenting with drugs.  I got the, “You should be more like your big brother….” Speech.
I thought my parents’ lectures were lame and clich├ęd.  They were always busy with work, and nothing could tame my rebel heart.  I was a wild child, a class clown, the life of the party.  My life was a party, but in November of 2001, my party was pooped.  I came home late from school one day stoned out of my face.  I tried to play it off, but I sensed that Mom and Dad knew.  They were in a good mood though.  They told me they were leaving on a flight that night to celebrate their silver anniversary in Rome.  I drove them to the airport in Miami.
“I hope my baby will be okay in the house by yourself,” Mom said.
“Baby?  I’m a man now, Momma.” I jokingly deepened my voice of few octaves.
“Of course.  Just don’t party too hard, sport,” Dad winked.
“Party?  I’m really not the type to throw a big house party when both my parents are outta town,” I lied.  I had three kegs on order for the weekend.
“We love you, Dewaun,” Mom said.
“Be careful, and don’t forget to feed the fish,” Dad reminded me as they entered the terminal.  “Take care, son.”
I awoke in a daze the following Sunday.  The house was trashed.  I had only the faintest recollection of the wild party I hosted.  It was mess, but there was no structural damage to the house.  That meant things didn’t get too far out of hand.  Starsky and Hutch, our two goldfish, were floating belly-up in their tank.  I thought I remembered to feed them.  Then, I saw two empty Grey Goose vodka bottles floating inside their tank.  So much for drinking like a fish.  I knew cleaning this up by Monday would be a bitch, but the doorbell rang, and I discovered that irony was the biggest bitch of them all.  I opened the door to a cop on my doorstep.
“Are you Dewaun Jenkins?” he asked.
I nodded and braced myself for the brunt of a reprimand for my outrageous party.  The house still reeked of bud and booze.  I should have known better than to throw such an outrageously grand party in such a small town.  The sorrow on the police officer’s face was all too telling though.  He removed his hat out of respect and delivered the bad news.  My parents died in a plane crash on their way back from Italy.  Needless to say, I was very devastated.
We received a life insurance policy settlement and a generous inheritance from our parents that left us fairly well-off.  I mourned as best I could.  After the funeral, I moved to Jacksonville with Jermaine.  It didn’t take long to figure out that our personalities and lifestyles really clashed.  I was a party animal, and he was a med school nerd.  I coasted through my senior year and graduated in Sandalwood’s Class of 2002.  Miraculously, Jermaine convinced me to pursue post-secondary education.  He even pulled a few strings to get me admitted to UNF.  If I only knew this wouldn’t be the first time he’d have me admitted.
Within a few days at the beginning of the Fall 2002 semester, I had a reputation for being one of the biggest potheads on campus.  I decided to smoke out one day and take a trip to Jacksonville Beach on a Sunday following my first week of classes.  That’s where I met G.  He was a laid back cat from Mississippi who currently resided in Orange Park just south of Jacksonville.  His eyes were as glazed and bloodshot as mine, and it wasn’t from the salt water.  After an engaging conversation, I unearthed that he also saw it through the eyes of Warren Sapp.
G was a mid-level drug dealer with aspirations to expand his business and capitalize on profits by making his products available on a college campus.  We talked, and after convincing G I was not an undercover cop, we set up a business arrangement.  He fronted me a quarter pound to test the waters on campus.  It went well.  I was a natural weed man, but when I was down to my last dime sack, my fortunes turned.  A not-so-random dorm search was conducted, and thanks to some snitch, I got busted by campus security.
I was whisked away to the Duval County Detention Facility downtown and booked for possession of marijuana.  Luckily, I wasn’t caught with enough weight to be nailed with an intent to distribute charge because I had less than twenty grams on me, but the infraction was enough to get me expelled from UNF.  Jermaine bailed me out of jail three days later.  He chastised me for my poor decision-making skills and was amazed by how I got expelled so early in my first semester of college.
Jermaine had already gone to my dorm to pack my belongings.  We got into a heated argument in the car on our way to our apartment.  I was pretty pissed.  I said some things I should not have said.  He was just riding my ass so hard about doing drugs and being irresponsible.  He told me he wanted me out of his apartment in two weeks.  Since I was 18, he said I could us my share of the inheritance to find my own place.  I mentioned something about wishing I was dead as he pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex.
Jermaine dropped me off because he had classes later.  I stormed out of the car slamming the door viciously on my way out.  I entered the two bedroom apartment.  I phoned G to let him know what went down.  I assured him that there was now way to trace anything back to him.  He was very understanding, and we mad an arrangement for me to pay him what I owed in a week.  I found a secret stash of emergency herb I had hidden in my bedroom.  It was enough for a descent spliff.  After my blunt session concluded, the doorbell rang.
“Are you Dewaun Jenkins?” the police officer asked when I opened the door.  After I nodded with a not-this-shit-again look on my face, he said, “You’re going to have to come with me.”
“What?” I was confused.
“You’re not in trouble, but you’re going to have to come with me.”
That’s how I ended up in the loony bin.  Apparently, thanks to a law called the Baker Act, if a family member thinks that a relative is in danger of harming themselves or others, they can report it, and that person will be escorted to a nearby mental hospital by police for evaluation and treatment.  My big brother Jermaine pulled a fast one on me.
This was my fourth day in the mental hospital.  The psychological evaluation I received proved I had some symptoms of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, but there was not enough evidence for an official diagnosis.  Blood tests obviously proved I had high amounts of THC in my system.  There was something else interesting about my blood test.  The doctors indicated there was evidence of a minor chemical imbalance in my brain.  They fed me a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo about a hyperactive brain and something about compounding symptoms of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder in my early twenties.
“But I’m not crazy, right?” I kept asking.
They could not give me a definitive answer, so I started lobbying for a discharge.  It only took a few threats to call my lawyer for them to arrange my release.  Much to my chagrin, Jermain was waiting for me outside.  I reluctantly walked up to his car and st in the passenger seat.
“What he hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but I thought this was he best way to get you the help you needed,” he answered.
Help?  I’m no a damn junkie, and I ain’ suicidal!  By the way, didn’t you kick me out, or something?”
“I’ve been rethinking what I said.  I want you to stay.  I can help you get into a community college.”
“Here you go with that help shit again, Jermaine.  I’m not a little kid no more.  Jus take me to the crib so I can pack my shit.”
“Well, what are you going to do?  Where are you going to go?”
“Imma take my share of the money Mom and Dad left us to buy a car.  Then, I guess I’ll go back to Okechobee.”
“That money won’t last forever, Dewaun.”
“Whatever the fuck ever, man.  I’ll figure somethin’ out.  Don’t worry.”










Saturday, January 16, 2016

Must Be Nice 2-- The Official Forward plus another exclusive sneak...

Forward


            Roughly a dozen or so years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar mania.  I like to say mania and not disorder because my brain isn’t out of order.  It’s been quite a rollercoaster ride.  The heights of the highest highs and the depths of the lowest lows are hard to relate to.  These poems are meant to provide insight into the mind of a bipolar maniac.  They are in no way meant to make light of the plight of the mentally ill.  Rather they are meant to shed light on mental illness awareness and the stigma that goes along with living with a mental illness in America.  Do not suffer in silence and if you know someone with a mental illness, reach out and be there for them.  Add me on facebook: Patrick Peay.  Follow me on twitter: @patrickpeay.



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XXIV. Off With His Head


Take me to the guillotine
Off with my head
No more madness
No more tears shed
Forget about the struggles
We all have bled
No one needs to starve
We always break bread
Wandering a dark path
What a life I have led
I never did exist
I’m way past dead
Why do I go downhill
In this black bobsled
I’m at the bottom of the slopes
To the black moped
Riding in the snow
But all I see is red
This is my voice
You heard what I said
Don’t praise what I did
But remember what I said
When I saunter up the steps
Chant “Off with his head!”

Thursday, January 14, 2016

A little bit about me, my background, and how I roll... (from one of my publishers' author bio section)

     Patrick was born on a Wednesday afternoon on August 22, 1984, to K.A. Peay and Tracey Lee Bethel.  He was raised in the ghettos of Columbia, South Carolina by his loving grandmother Roberta L. Peay.  Patrick always considered himself a grandmama's boy, but was grateful for his grandmother's many sacrifices and insistence that he focus on academics.  Patrick discovered his pension with a pen as a creative writer at the age of 11 in 1995 when he and a classmate collaborated on a series of short stories entitled The Junior Detectives.  They wrote and illustrated several short stories in this series up until 1998 when Patrick's grandmother passed away suddenly.
     Following the tragic death of his beloved grandmother, Patrick moved to Jacksonville, FL.  After overcoming a crippling depression, he continued to hone his writing craft by working on a sci-fi novella.  He also wrote for his high school newspaper for four years. Patrick graduated valedictorian from Robert E. Lee Senior High School on the west side of Jacksonville in 2002.  The following fall he enrolled at Jacksonville University as a communications major.  That's when trouble found this ever-rebellious young man.  Legal issues led to Patrick's suspension and subsequent expulsion from JU following his sophomore year while he was in the midst of compiling his first manuscript.
     After a tumultuous bunch of years when Patrick struggled to survive and cope with addictions and a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, he finally completed his first manuscript.  The Red Reaper: Volume 1 was published in the summer of 2006.  Patrick's next published title was in 2011 when Must Be Nice: The Patrick Peay Story, an autobiographical journal, was released.
     These days, Patrick is focused on producing his Worth The Fight web series on channillo.com as well as putting the finishing touches on Must Be Nice 2: Defining Moments of a Maniac, a compilation of autobiographical poems,  for his publisher America Star Books.  He also is working on a highly anticipated illustrated comic-style Red Reaper web series for Channillo that will be released in 2016 after Worth The Fight.  Patrick is looking forward to upcoming and ongoing DJ-ing gigs for a small business he recently launched in Jacksonville, and he hopes to do a sports-talk themed podcast in conjunction with Shoutboxradio.com.  Patrick is even considering releasing a mix tape in the summer of 2016 under his stage name, Queasy. When Patrick isn't writing, he's focused on addiction recovery, and he enjoys music, the beach, napping, traveling, tweeting, booze, blunts, watching football, and spending time with his supportive girlfriend Brandi.  His life has been wayward, but Patrick appreciates how writing has impacted his life in a positively uplifting way.

Follow Patrick on Twitter: @patrickpeay
Follow Patrick on Instagram: @patrickpeay
Add Patrick on Soundcloud:  @patrickpeay
Search for Patrick Peay's channel on Youtube

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Must Be Nice 2: Defining Moments of a Maniac (sneak preview)

IX. The Pear

While I sit in my lair with a painting of a pair
I sit and stare off into thin air and wonder why live isn’t fair
I wouldn’t dare compare my flare to that of another player
I’m just a man in his lair with a painting of a pear
I swear I won’t get stressed out and pull out all my hair
These burdens I bear make me aware that people like are rare
I’m just a man in his lair with a painting of a pear
I’m not square, so don’t give me that glare
It’s not like I’m running for mayor
I’ve got a prayer my soul is spared
I’m not a hero, but don’t say I didn’t care
I’m just a man in his lair with a painting of a pear

Let me plant my bitter seed, and we can make a better breed
They’ll know not to complain about the rain
The rain is like good therapy
It is food for the pear tree
So we can live a life that is carefree
There is no partridge in this tree
This isn’t for the industry
The fruits of my loom are for my enemies
I’m just a man in his lair with a painting of a pair
There’s something on my mind I would like to share
This is not a facebook status
This could come without practice
Practice, we’re talking about practice, practice
Muscle memory should make this automatic
Why not burn to the core like acid that is muratic
The blood I shed is hydrochloric
There should be a warning for it
There’s passion in my veins, I can’t ignore it
I seek to do something that is historic
I’m just a man in his lair with a painting of a pear
Sometimes I give myself quite a scare

That’s right sometimes I scare myself, but I’ve learned to prepare myself
There will always be a call when you need my help
So just keep picking at my pears
Soon enough the traps I’ve set will ensnare
Then you will be the one that’s in despair
I’m just a man in his lair with a painting of a pear
I deal with shades that are fifty times grayer