BigJimsWornOutTires
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Sometimes, when emotions are so overwhelmed, a person might do the unthinkable. Some would cross the point of no return. Spiteful, fulminated, passionate determination to injure the other party emotionally, mentally, and everlastingly. But there are a few who fight. Though not always does a winner walk away. Then there is Super Girl. Courageous, naive, and congested with perils.
May 28, 2020
A 20-year-old college student had a benevolent heart for victims. After George Floyd was murdered by China’s fentanyl and an arrogant cop, Kara Zorelstein wept tears for the unfortunate departure. She watched the tragic event a dozen times. “That poor man, bless his heart,” she said to her Apple and patted her eye with a tissue.
Later that week, at her university, an agitated crowd shouted a powerful message. A larger event was ongoing ten minutes away at the intersection of East 38th Street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis. Recruiters from that event threatened the students that if they didn’t show up by tomorrow, they would be seen as racists and their future would be ruined. A black woman with a CNN badge hanging from a pocket of her black slacks told Kara cops are out to get innocent black people. She grabbed her hands and said, “Will you help us end white privilege and begin black superiority?” The naive girl nodded and accepted the fight.
The next day, the university allowed students to leave campus and join the larger crowd. I was there that day holding my sign. Though other spectators raised an eyebrow at me. A blue-haired chubby-cubby approached. She read my sign out loud with bewilderment, “Go home, ICE?”
I nodded.
“Sir, how does immigration have anything to do with George Floyd?”
“Oh, shit,” I reacted. It seemed I had grabbed the wrong sign from the protest warehouse. I apologized. “Too soon,” like a ninja, I vanished into the crowd.
“Black Lives Matter! Black Lives Matter! Black Lives Matter!” Kara joined the dynamic protest.
A 39-year-old guy spotted her waving her sign, That Poor Man, Bless His Heart. Ugh, this feller was a shady motherfucker. Not gonna lie. If I had stayed and seen his suspicious behavior, I would have whipped his black fucking ass into oblivion. And justice would have been served because last week, he finished his three-year prison stay for sexual assault on a minor as well as robbery. He had violated a 12-year-old wheelchair girl and stolen her medication. That piece of shit should never have been allowed freedom.
The convict approached Kara and applauded her commitment to the cause. She introduced herself and assured him, “You’re not alone, sir.” He asked for an embrace while pretending to cry. She obliged the friendly gesture. Hanging his head over her shoulder, he looked down her back. He licked his lips. Inconspicuously, he smelled her hair. His eyes went white. This was the first time she hugged a black person.
During two hours of protesting, he stayed by her side like a cat next to a bird cage. He told her lie after lie. He used other people’s deaths as his loss of loved ones. “Poe poe tried to merk me before,” he added. Kara’s eyes welled with tears.
Later that evening, the protest ended. She headed back to her car. He walked with her and told her his SUV was stolen, and when he called the cops, they arrived and immediately beat the living fuck out of him while calling him a dirty nigger. “Can a brotha get a lift, fam?” He asked her for a ride. She said sure.
He had her drive to a vacant house he had been squatting in. Once again, another lie, “Yo, just low-key relocated 'round here, still tryin' to get settled and stash my gear.” After he got out of the car, he went to her side, and crocodile cried about losing an imaginary daughter. She got out and hugged him.
“I am so sorry the cops hate black people so much,” said Kara. He pushed her off. Without much of a pause, he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. He put her into a chokehold. He dragged her into the house and locked the door behind him.
Thirty minutes later, as the quiet busted lip, bruised-neck-Kara reached for her ripped underwear, he snagged them from her. Still naked, the black man pressed them into his nose. His eyelids gently closed.
Her hands and knees shook as she got dressed. She felt that he would soon kill her. Instead, he threatened her not to tell anyone. If she did, the black community would see her as a hypocrite who doesn’t like niggers. And besides, he would deny it anyway. He also said, “No one will believe a stupid white whore.”
That son of bitch knew she was far from being a republican. He was her first.
Instead of going to the hospital for a rape kit, she went back to her apartment and buried herself under her covers. She stayed inside there for close to a week and missed all of her classes. When she ran out of tears and sleep medication, she returned to school. She quietly packed her belongings and dropped out.
One month later, she had one abortion.
One year later, she told one person.
One week later, on January 1st, she flew out of an eleven-story window to her death.
At the morgue, the coroner found a note stuffed inside a back pocket in her jeans. There was a message that read, “Political manipulation was my kryptonite.”
I learned about this from that one person. Grasping her hips, I rocked into Lois as she told me the story.
Kara went back to that house a day before her abortion, using the location history from her navigation system. The house had a for sale sign posted in the yard. An elder coupl—Lois came. “Oh, Jim.”
“Wowwie, mowwie!" I said as I watched her quiver. “You are one fast cummer, not gonna lie.”
“That’s because you hit the right spot.”
“Indeed,” I reacted. “What happened next?”
Lois said an elderly couple was painting the outside of the house. Kara asked them about the fellow who lived there a month ago. The old man showed her a mugshot on his phone. She verified that it was him. He told her he’s wanted for trespassing and damage to their property. This was when she learned he was in prison for sexual assault.
Last week, I changed the flavor of this story to the Super Girl theme. Originally, I selected Kryptonite from 3 Doors Down for the ending. It’s been playing in my head ever since. But after carefully reading the lyrics, four days ago, it didn’t suit this story. But Five For Fighting did.
In loving memory of Kara Zorelstein:
May 28, 2020
A 20-year-old college student had a benevolent heart for victims. After George Floyd was murdered by China’s fentanyl and an arrogant cop, Kara Zorelstein wept tears for the unfortunate departure. She watched the tragic event a dozen times. “That poor man, bless his heart,” she said to her Apple and patted her eye with a tissue.
Later that week, at her university, an agitated crowd shouted a powerful message. A larger event was ongoing ten minutes away at the intersection of East 38th Street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis. Recruiters from that event threatened the students that if they didn’t show up by tomorrow, they would be seen as racists and their future would be ruined. A black woman with a CNN badge hanging from a pocket of her black slacks told Kara cops are out to get innocent black people. She grabbed her hands and said, “Will you help us end white privilege and begin black superiority?” The naive girl nodded and accepted the fight.
The next day, the university allowed students to leave campus and join the larger crowd. I was there that day holding my sign. Though other spectators raised an eyebrow at me. A blue-haired chubby-cubby approached. She read my sign out loud with bewilderment, “Go home, ICE?”
I nodded.
“Sir, how does immigration have anything to do with George Floyd?”
“Oh, shit,” I reacted. It seemed I had grabbed the wrong sign from the protest warehouse. I apologized. “Too soon,” like a ninja, I vanished into the crowd.
“Black Lives Matter! Black Lives Matter! Black Lives Matter!” Kara joined the dynamic protest.
A 39-year-old guy spotted her waving her sign, That Poor Man, Bless His Heart. Ugh, this feller was a shady motherfucker. Not gonna lie. If I had stayed and seen his suspicious behavior, I would have whipped his black fucking ass into oblivion. And justice would have been served because last week, he finished his three-year prison stay for sexual assault on a minor as well as robbery. He had violated a 12-year-old wheelchair girl and stolen her medication. That piece of shit should never have been allowed freedom.
The convict approached Kara and applauded her commitment to the cause. She introduced herself and assured him, “You’re not alone, sir.” He asked for an embrace while pretending to cry. She obliged the friendly gesture. Hanging his head over her shoulder, he looked down her back. He licked his lips. Inconspicuously, he smelled her hair. His eyes went white. This was the first time she hugged a black person.
During two hours of protesting, he stayed by her side like a cat next to a bird cage. He told her lie after lie. He used other people’s deaths as his loss of loved ones. “Poe poe tried to merk me before,” he added. Kara’s eyes welled with tears.
Later that evening, the protest ended. She headed back to her car. He walked with her and told her his SUV was stolen, and when he called the cops, they arrived and immediately beat the living fuck out of him while calling him a dirty nigger. “Can a brotha get a lift, fam?” He asked her for a ride. She said sure.
He had her drive to a vacant house he had been squatting in. Once again, another lie, “Yo, just low-key relocated 'round here, still tryin' to get settled and stash my gear.” After he got out of the car, he went to her side, and crocodile cried about losing an imaginary daughter. She got out and hugged him.
“I am so sorry the cops hate black people so much,” said Kara. He pushed her off. Without much of a pause, he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. He put her into a chokehold. He dragged her into the house and locked the door behind him.
Thirty minutes later, as the quiet busted lip, bruised-neck-Kara reached for her ripped underwear, he snagged them from her. Still naked, the black man pressed them into his nose. His eyelids gently closed.
Her hands and knees shook as she got dressed. She felt that he would soon kill her. Instead, he threatened her not to tell anyone. If she did, the black community would see her as a hypocrite who doesn’t like niggers. And besides, he would deny it anyway. He also said, “No one will believe a stupid white whore.”
That son of bitch knew she was far from being a republican. He was her first.
Instead of going to the hospital for a rape kit, she went back to her apartment and buried herself under her covers. She stayed inside there for close to a week and missed all of her classes. When she ran out of tears and sleep medication, she returned to school. She quietly packed her belongings and dropped out.
One month later, she had one abortion.
One year later, she told one person.
One week later, on January 1st, she flew out of an eleven-story window to her death.
At the morgue, the coroner found a note stuffed inside a back pocket in her jeans. There was a message that read, “Political manipulation was my kryptonite.”
I learned about this from that one person. Grasping her hips, I rocked into Lois as she told me the story.
Kara went back to that house a day before her abortion, using the location history from her navigation system. The house had a for sale sign posted in the yard. An elder coupl—Lois came. “Oh, Jim.”
“Wowwie, mowwie!" I said as I watched her quiver. “You are one fast cummer, not gonna lie.”
“That’s because you hit the right spot.”
“Indeed,” I reacted. “What happened next?”
Lois said an elderly couple was painting the outside of the house. Kara asked them about the fellow who lived there a month ago. The old man showed her a mugshot on his phone. She verified that it was him. He told her he’s wanted for trespassing and damage to their property. This was when she learned he was in prison for sexual assault.
Last week, I changed the flavor of this story to the Super Girl theme. Originally, I selected Kryptonite from 3 Doors Down for the ending. It’s been playing in my head ever since. But after carefully reading the lyrics, four days ago, it didn’t suit this story. But Five For Fighting did.
In loving memory of Kara Zorelstein:
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