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Blinded by the Sight
Uber Joe on the Unseemly Road

Just north of D.C. while I was coming back from Arlington this morning, I pulled up behind a Porsche, a new nine-elven four-door. I don’t remember what color it was. I was trying to get up beside it to see who was driving the car. I’m doing research for the Harm City Project and must make sacrifices.

It had a vanity plate that was spelled in all caps ISCKDCK.

I did get up beside her, I was curious if it was male or female—down in D.C. it could be either one.

Mid Thirties-early forties, woman brown hair, sunglasses—Caucasian, a seven on a one-to-ten scale.

The author then asked Uber Joe, a veteran who served in Iraq, if he had heard anything about heroin coming in through military channels from any of his friends around Aberdeen and the Edgewood Arsenal.

That’s not the kind of thing I talk about with old military friends. Besides, while most of the Harford County Boys go into the army, I joined the navy. After the hostilities, my MOS changed and I had to fly back to Norfolk. I shipped out but flew back. These Iraqis had tons of dope—the country was just awash in it. Myself and any other service man that was shipping out—at least the people I knew—would get offers to have heroin loaded into their duffle bag. I didn’t go for it, but some guys did. You just walk back into the states without going through customs. You have a contact number, you go to the address and you get paid.

Good Lord, what a world.

White in the Savage Night: A Politically Incorrect Life In Words: 2016

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