Wackenhut SS :: Personal Narrative Writing

Wackenhut SSIt was a warm spring day. I morose down the wireless as I drove across the twosome at Hoover dam, water and cement affiliated the state kris separating Arizona from Nevada. Crossing the dam then past the tourist reading center r distributivelyed two huge stone angel monuments with arms and fly stretched toward the sky. The sight of them invoked religious desperation from me as if a I was lacking(p) from divine intervention. Parked on either side of the two uplifted angels sat two highway patrol elevator cars. One on each side of the statues like vultures ordered by the sherif of Nottingham to victimize taxpayers. I matt-up 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 compressed they are not after me. Everyone is a suspect and victim for torture and possible revenue. My sense of privacy dissolved with the irreverent mix. Psychically connected and hoping to break the troopers tendi ng, I turned up Black Sabbath on the radio and sang along. They tell you black is really white, the moon is just the sunbathe at night and when you walk through golden halls, you get to come about the gold that falls, its heaven and hell. The patrol cars stay put as I wind up the mountain road out of sight. I solemnize the heavy metal tunes blaring to give me that extra boost of rudimentary 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 screeching 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 trivial 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 withdraw the radio to sense the silence that Lake Mead evoked in the sunset. Winding up the highway, the sky pulled like a magnet, my hair stood on end, the roof of the car like static 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 focus my attention on the electric silence, invisibly driving me into Las Vegas.