Forced Entry 1 - The Unravelling Read online

  Forced Entry

  Steve M

  Yeah I wrote this. Blame no one else.

  London 2015

  Stevemauthor.com

  Mail to: [email protected]

  Dedications

  Personal: this is for my best friend and love of my life. Yes, you.

  Political: dedicated to every oppressed woman and man that ever came up off their knees with their fist clenched. Respect.

  Pot-litical: to all of those who grow da herb. Whether for profit, for medicine or recreational…thank you.

  Contents

  Dedications

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Shameless Self Promotion and Other Books

  Who the Fuck?

  Forced Entry

  Part 1

  Oh fuck!

  The text message arrived while I was driving home to Florida. Not on my regular phone but on the little clamshell disposable that I hoped would never make a sound. Today it did. I drove a few miles further to the exit, then pulled over into the parking lot of a large, big-box convenience store off of Interstate 10. It was the only thing at that exit; they couldn’t attract any other civilization around it. Some places just look better through a rear view mirror.

  Burgers, pizza, freshly made sandwiches (or so they say), frozen yogurts and fruit smoothies, gasoline, junk food, beer and cigarettes – all presented before us from multiple vendors with large, plastic logo signs everywhere. Hours of effort in expensive meetings where they discuss how to have the best eye-catching and noticeable signage. But finally, it is all provided in such large numbers as to be reduced to visual noise that begs to be ignored like the hum of a florescent light. The only difference between this big multi-acre commercial oasis in the U.S. and a similar one in Europe is the noticeable absence of prostitution here. The flesh trade is apparently less open and probably less safe here. But then, 25% of the population of the nation is bat-shit crazy for Jesus and live concentrated in parts of the country – these parts. So the flesh trade is frowned upon round here. This is a place where the cops are just well armed thugs ... all rules, no justice. Welcome to Mississippi.

  I pulled my other phone from my pocket and opened the mobile browser, then went to my special bookmarks and a secure browser session. I usually checked my rooms three or four times per day, then made any adjustments to the environment remotely in the evening, after dinner.

  Wireless micro valves connecting to an IP-enabled controller was the last piece of my dream puzzle ... this is cool, technical, geeky shit, folks. It was originally intended for lawn and landscape watering systems. The online description promised, ‘Make your grass grow from any computer in the world.’ Yes please, I’ll have one of those. It took about three days of fucking around with it and in particular an afternoon taking over 50 measurements of the flow rates, before it was ready to go. It had been final tested ten times to ensure that it was accurate, easy to control and any variances in the process eliminated. Eighteen seconds of flow from the ‘bloom’ reservoir, 12 seconds from the ‘micro’ reservoir every three days. Finish with 20 seconds of reverse-osmosis filtered water injected with enough force to stir everything up. Then 30 minutes later, a pan and zoom from the camera, onto the tri-level meter showing EC, PH and temperature to ensure everything is fine. I am a Lucas formula grower (Google it, I’ll wait).

  No, you are going to have to find this one on your own. It is out there to be found though. Yes, on the internet. You will know when you hit the model because you will be forced to buy one entire system before they will sell you the IP controlled valves as a replacement for a failure. That is the only part you really want.

  Wireless technology has presented options which have never been available before. And it is finally affordable to almost everyone. Before, I had to go to all four houses every two days to check the equipment and replenish the reservoirs. Now I only go by them twice a week and cover them all in four days. I drop by each with a bag of garbage for the waste management truck. There are timers on appliances like a television, a stereo and the house lights in non-productive rooms like the living room, the bathroom, kitchen, etc. There is even a recorded dog bark for the night set for different times each night.

  Never had an alert before, except while testing the setup of the wireless IP cameras. A sense of panic tightened in my stomach. I am a planner by nature and was for years by profession. This was not planned.

  Worst case, it would be the cops. I would get to watch them rip everything apart until they find the last camera in the house, listening to them congratulate themselves and slap each other’s back as they wildly overestimate the street value of the cannabis, numbers thrown about like third graders trying to estimate the size of The Incredible Hulk.

  I have considered that having an untraceable conversation with pigs could be entertaining. A taunting conversation at first, enjoying the sight of frustrated cops unable to do what they do best, beating up suspects, arresting those who do not submit to their authority and rules. After a few minutes of teasing and verbal abuse, I would then mention explosives and end the conversation using the line: ‘Now Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.’ Then sit back and watch a room full of cops climbing over each other. They would scramble for the door and the safety of outside, as if they were inside Dunkin Donuts when Al Qaeda attacked it. Charging towards the door they forget civility and pig camaraderie as they shove each other aside in the mistaken belief that their lives will end in the next nanosecond. Save that shit to a memory stick and anonymously post to YouTube – definitely LMFAO.

  Best case, it is some sort of repairman standing there with a dumb-fuck look on his face. Better take a look, but be sure to turn off my microphone first.

  Whether fortunately or un, it was a teenage kid, about five foot six inches tall, skinny, wearing a dark grey zip-up hooded sweat shirt, baseball cap and blue jeans. His clothes were dirty. Hair was closely cut, all the miss-cuts evident when someone cuts their own hair with regular scissors and has never done it before. No understanding of the geometry of cutting hair. Except at the front where it still hung long, over his forehead and eyes, like the drawbridge of a castle, the final protective barrier. There was evidence of a good solid smack to the left jaw within the last two weeks, new white flesh rows rid of the scabs, lighter skin. His face was one of those that you have seen before, that soft gentle flesh that won’t need a razor until his mid-twenties, if even then. This is the kid in school who is constantly accused of being gay whether he is or not, just because of the gentleness of his features. They are the kind of kids we were fortunate enough not to have been.

  A huge sense of relief came over me. No pigs, just some kid who had stumbled into more bad shit than he would be able to handle. It seemed a better outcome … but I was not sure how. Assess circumstances, generate options, assign probabilities of success to them and identify milestone actions during implementation, measure success. The habits from the decades on the corporate plantation kicked in.

  There were three cameras in each room; one in each corner, on the top shelf of rack shelving, nestled between boxes. The third camera was located in the middle of a stack of plastic milk crates, looking like hauling containers ready for use in a quick escape. However, in fact, their only purpose is to hide the camera. Nothing leaves the house except in taped and fully sealed cardboard boxes. A crate where you can see the contents inside? Fucking worthless for transporting anything from a grow house, but still good to sit on … and conceal a camera.

  The cameras are capable of 320 degree horizontal rotation and 100 degrees vertical tilt rotation.
The entire room is viewable. It was the same setup in every room in the house, except for the bathroom. There were two weather-proof, wireless cameras hidden in the front garden shrubs and two in the backyard. They are inexpensive and I figured that this security was a good investment. I bought them in boxes of three.

  Here take a look: Cool shit, huh? And not too expensive, really, not when considering what is at stake. I turned on the microphone and adjusted the car seat slightly.

  Narrator: We have a problem

  The kid on the screen of my mobile phone leapt nearly a foot to the left when he heard my voice. He spun around in anticipation of seeing me standing behind him.

  Kid: What the fuck?!

  Narrator: Don’t panic ... and don’t touch anything! I can see you and hear you. You will not be able to see me.

  It took a second before he connected that I was not really physically present in the room and his whirling dervish routine stopped. He then turned towards the source of my voice and bent forward to see the camera and the small speakers. He closely examined it.

  Kid: Fuck me. Cool.

  The panic response seemed to quickly leave him. His young mind was racing, trying to understand all the possibilities of the deep, shit hole he had fallen into. It was like playing an entire chess match in his head from opening to checkmate, a staggering assembly of possible moves but only three basic outcomes. Over the next minute, the belligerent attitude he always showed the world returned. This attitude was always betrayed too soon by a keen sense of curiosity about everything.

  Narrator: Our conversation cannot continue until you expand your vocabulary a little. Please go have a seat in the chair over at the table so we can have a discussion.

  Kid: I ain’t ever seen so much fucking weed in my whole life! Never.

  He shuffled over to the chair, stupid gangsta walk style. He sat down in the chair, legs crossed one over the other as if he were being interviewed by MTV about his new album and the stylish essentials of necessary bling. He looked at the square machine which took up a large part of the right side of the stainless steel table. He read the knobs and raised the cover.

  Kid: What is this?

  Narrator: A vacuum sealing machine. Seals the herb in airtight bags so it doesn’t smell when it leaves here.

  Kid: How much weed is here?

  Narrator: This room produces between 10 and 12 pounds per harvest, depending on the strain grown. THIS IS NOT A TOUR. We need to focus on the problem we have and how it is going to be resolved. You are not supposed to be here.

  Kid: Yeah well ... you are not supposed to be growin’ fuckin’ weed.

  Cocky little bastard had returned fully now, arms folded across his chest, chin raised arrogantly, like Mussolini in some old documentary.

  Narrator: Valid point. We have to decide what we are going to do about this.

  Kid: How about I just take all your weed and tell you to ‘Fuck Off’.

  He got up from the chair and began to examine the room. His gait betrayed the Living Large thoughts swimming in his head. He examined the two large plastic reservoirs, noticing the markings ‘Micro’ and ‘Bloom’on them. He stopped for a moment to think about the purpose of each. He closely examined the valves with the little antennae on them. He traced the lines from them down into the main reservoir.

  Narrator: Stealing my herb is not an option for you.

  Kid: Why not? You ain’t round to stop me.

  His eyes followed the supply lines from the reservoir to the tables. He walked over confidently to one of the plants. He pulled a large bud towards him and took a big whiff.

  Kid: Damn…this is some dank shit.

  He leaned over to examine the pots.

  Narrator: Stealing it would present you with two problems. Firstly, this herb has just started the final flush to get the chemical fertilizers out of it. If you take it right now you will lose 15 to 20% of its value because it will taste like shit and is not cured. And I doubt you would know the right people to be able to get market value for it.

  Kid: I know some people, asshole.

  Narrator: Your second problem is that you would never make it out of there alive. You would just be the charred remains, your bones found by the fire department. You don’t really want to die running face first into a series of gas line explosions, trying to see if you are faster than the internet. I can assure you that you are not. You will just be another grower who died in a fire, although the youngest in a long time. This will be your fate about half a second from now. Is that your final answer?

  His knees weakened and he reached out to steady himself against the grow table. His sense of panic returned. He looked towards the door as if he wanted to run out through it so badly. But his brain screamed to him that it would be certain death to do so. His body tensed, on the verge of running.

  Kid: No! NO! That is NOT my final answer! Fuck, fuck, fuck, damn, shit, FUCK!

  There were no incendiary devices. It was just the break-in protocol shit I had developed one late stoner night. At the time it seemed that it would either work or it wouldn’t – but worth a try. When starting from the assumption that the entire house is lost, then any activities that may change that outcome should be considered.

  Kid: No, no, no please don’t. Just give me a minute to think.

  Narrator: Why should I do that?

  Kid: Gimme a minute, for fuck’s sake.

  Narrator: You broke in here and have just threatened to rip me off of tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of ganja. Seems to me I would be better off to cut my losses and torch it all, including you.

  Kid: No!

  Narrator: It is a loss for me, but not a big one and less aggravation than trying to figure a way out of this mess that leaves you alive. I walk away, you don’t.

  Kid: No, no, no ... fuck. NO WAY! Damn it, why do I always fall into the shit!

  Narrator: (Calmly) Perhaps you should sit down.

  He returned to the chair, gansta gone, shoulders slumped, death-camp inmate walk.

  Kid: I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am. Really, really sorry. I was just looking for a place to sleep. That’s all, honest. Fuck, fuck, fuck, damn, shit, FUCK!

  His frustration was caused by his lack of options. He leaned forward and let his head slump forward into his hands like a grief victim trying to come to grips withatragedy in a hospital waiting room.

  Narrator: Why don’t you sleep at home?

  Kid: I don’t live there no more.

  Narrator: Why?

  Kid: They foreclosed. Mom lost her teaching job and can’t pay for it no more.

  Narrator: What about your dad?

  Kid: That asshole? He ain’t been around for years. He can’t even remember my birthday or Christmas. He is just a worthless motherfuckin’ piece of shit and I hate him.

  His face showed both the anger and the remorse for the father that didn’t care about him.

  Narrator: So you needed a place to stay, fair enough.

  He looked directly into the camera located near the speakers.

  Kid: C’mon,I won’t tell a soul. Promise.

  Narrator: What is your name?

  Kid: Taylor. (A second after he spoke his name he wished he hadn’t.)

  Narrator: Taylor, today will either be the luckiest day of your life or the last. It all depends on you. For the next few minutes, I want you to concentrate carefully. Forget your tough guy attitude for now, that results in an outcome you don’t want. Do you understand me perfectly?

  He nodded his understanding.

  Narrator: Taylor, you have broken into one of my houses. This is not supposed to happen. But despite all the planning, sometimes things like this happen. In this business there are no outsiders, only us and the cops. We observe simple rules. RuleOne is simple: TELL NO ONE. Rule Two: You talk, you die. Rule Three: Only the paranoid survive. Do you understand?

  Taylor: I ain’t never snitched on anyone since I was 7
years old and the kid I told on beat the shit outta me afterwards.

  Taylor: What rules do the cops follow?

  Narrator: None

  Narrator: I have invested a considerable amount of time building this. Grow systems, security. This entire house costs money to setup, but the time it took is the investment that I most want to protect. This was my first house ever (a lie) and it means something to me.

  Taylor moved around in the seat. His curiosity had regained the upper hand in its battle with his panic response.

  Behind me another big 18-wheeler pulled into the parking lot of the roadside oasis. I watched it in the rear-view mirror then looked back at my phone. There were more important matters at the moment.

  Taylor: Can I smoke a joint of this shit?

  Narrator:If you want. Look in the box on the third shelf of the rack to your left. Choose the one marked Satori. You will find some rolling papers in the box.

  He got up from the chair, removed the box from the rack, placed it on the floor and opened it.

  Taylor: What is Satori?

  Narrator:It is a sativa strain that enhances creativity and thought processes but without the sativa paranoia.

  Taylor: Fuck me. OK.

  He removed a mason jar containing just under a half ounce of buds. It is my personal stash for when I am working in the house and want to get a buzz but still be functional and get my work done.

  Satori is the kind of strain that will give the smoker an excellent, strong and thorough buzz, yet with complete functionality retained. This is the herb to smoke before class because you will enjoy it more. It is the herb you smoke before going to the art museum. It the herb you smoke before you try painting or drawing or writing poetry. It has been my daytime smoke of choice for the lastyear and it is easy to grow. Out and about going through the daily routines, trip to the bank, the big-box hardware stores, interactions with others, not a problem – Satori is your strain. Totally baked and no one ever knows. Even driving, something I never advise others to do while high, is a pleasant and easy task after smoking Satori. There is an Iolite portable vaporizer full of Satori in my coat pocket most days, and right now.