No Fucking Cornflakes

  It was 2:20 am when I looked at the clock. My body was paralyzed. The only thing that I could move were my eyes. Lying on my left side my back was pointed toward the bedroom door. The noise that woke me from a hard sleep was loud. I know it was close. What seemed like minutes, when I looked back at the clock it read 3:05. Had fear gripped my mind causing me to lose time?
  The night was clear with a half moon. While I was in my trance, if that's what it was, my vision became cat-liked. I could see the stings on the blinds.My hearing had been sharp since I woke up.I began to feel I just did a big shot of cocaine. All of my senses were alert. My legs were fine. I had heard nothing the whole time. I slowly turned over bringing my Glock from under my pillow. There was not anyone around, now. What was the source of the loud noise? This is not the first time this has happened. This shit has been going on since my brother died. Hell, it may be originating from my own brain. I have never found the source. Maybe it is my bro trying to tell me something. I need to make some drastic changes. I have already started something new. I forgot to buy some cornflakes leaving me without something I did every morning, afternoon, whenever I got up, that is. This is when I changed my life. A drastic one.
  I joined the US Air Force. I started out as a load master on a KC-135. I worked my way up to that, anyway. I went to college and received a BS in Aeronautics. I had to have at least a BS to enter flight school. After being accepted and finishing Officers Training School I was shipped off to Randolf AFB in San Antone. Introductory was 25 hours of flying a prop plane and learning in the classroom. Undergraduate was a little more exciting. One year of flying 10-12 hours a day flying a T-38 Talon which happened to be supersonic. As was the case in most everything I became real good at skills needed to be a successful fighter pilot. I was finally shipped to my permanent party base, Eglin AFB, Ft. Walton Beach, Fl. Eglin was an armament development and test center. It also had a new fleet of F-15 Eagle's in their SAC. I learned to fly with another set of eyes. The F-15 was a two seater. A weapons officer rode behind me and we quickly became the hunters. Flying missions out over the Gulf, training. That is all we did. Scramble, get airborne in 20 minutes. Train, Train. I never new how all this training would make me a very, very, wealthy man. I enjoyed serving my country and had planned on staying until I retired. Plans changed. What a change it was!

I was a fearless young man. An adrenaline junkie. I guess that is why I chose to be a fighter pilot. Whether it was rappelling from 140 ft. cliffs, diving my dirt bike like a man possessed. As long as I got scared doing something that was what I wanted to do.
  My brother was a couple years older and wired the same. When we were still in high school there was nothing we would not do. We tried to out do each other. Man, he was my hero. We were known to fight anywhere, anytime. There were not very many people that would fuck with us. In those days foosball was popular. We would go to a game room, put our quarter on the table and play for hours. As long as we won the next pair would try to unseat us. There would be a dozen quarters on the table from people trying to make a name for themselves by beating us. I played back and Earl played front. I swear, he had the fastest pull shot I had ever seen. That was not his only shot, either. He could handle the ball with such ease. The toe shot was his second best shot. He did most of the scoring because I would pass him the ball. I would smoke a long shot every now and then but my forte was a blocker. We would travel to tournaments and win a couple hundred bucks then come back home to school the locals. We were awesome! The only problem we had was his drinking. He drank beer all day, every day. Then one day he was on his KZ 1000 when a truck pulled out in front of him. He had no where to go. Ended up in a coma for 11 days. When he woke up and got well enough to go home he brought something with him; seizures. He had to take Dilantin to control his seizures. He would not stop drinking. The doctor told him that drinking alcohol would induce seizures. Didn't listen. In 1989 he had a seizure while diving and hit a duely loaded down with horse feed head on. Killed him instantly. This was, by far, the toughest thing I had ever tried. It took a long time for me to get over his death. I still think of him, daily. Oh well, I promise this is it for the sad shit. We are about to get into the crazy shit.
   I wake up somewhere in the Hudson River.Every time this happen,I have no clue where I will be swimming to the top to get that fresh air I need so badley. I am naked and will have to call on my ex-wife to get me someplace where I cannot be seem. I have figured out that when these water problems happen it means that I have died and are re-born. Not as a child but as myself with all knowing what will happen.I have to figure out what the hell is going on with me.

  I became an independent cocaine supplier soon after being discharged from the US Air Force. With my military training in an F-15 Eagle, my services were ideal for the Cuban that had cut off J.D.'s balls so we became partners.I did the flying while Pedro handled the local Bolivians. The D.E.A was spending their time with Pablo and we were flying in and out of Bolivia in a 29 million dollar Falcon 7x. A beautiful jet and a lot of fun to fly. The money was incredible. I could not spend it fast enough. I had attorneys handling everything for me. Hell, I did not know all the properties I owned. Didn't care. All I did was fly like an eagle, round the sea, fly like an eagle letting Pedro show the way.
  We stayed busy until the rainy season. Pedro let me keep the jet to go back to my musician buddies. The ones that loved the coke and the ludes, anyway. You know what time it was; Party Time! I picked up Stephen Tyler in Boston, stopped in New York to get Sammy Hagar and some friends of the female variety. It was very important that I maintain the perception that I was operating a legitimate transportation choice for the wealthy. That meant no drugs at least 12 hours before getting in the cockpit. While flying to Vegas a beautiful brunette took care of my cockpit.
  Landing at McCarran is when all my fun began. First, we had to help Tyler out of the jet and pour him into the limo. I would have to make a final search of the cabin to make sure there were no more 714's passed out. We made it to our suites on a Monday and by the time Friday came I had sold 34 Birds, or kilos, as us old schoolers called them. Pedro would let me have on front everything for $10,000/kilo and I would sell 35 at $25,000/key. You do the math. It was a fucking lot.
  I spent the days playing golf, betting ridiculous amounts for shit like closest to the hole, longest drive. I made sure I passed around the Rorers, not taking any myself giving me a better shot at hanging onto my money. This went on for several years and all I was doing was flying a beautiful jet making millions. Until I met a guy named Joker. What he did was not in the least funny.