Emmanuel Sheafe

Email: emmanuelsheafe@gmail.com

WANTED: PUBLISHER AND AGENT IN NEED OF A BEST SELLER!!!
CALL IMMEDIATELY:757-291-5057 OR EMAIL:emmanuelsheafe@gmail.com

BOOK REVIEWS FOLLOW...

WHAT THE EXPERTS HAVE TO SAY ABOUT EMMANUEL SHEAFE’S
"Preacher's Kid!"

“BRAVURA…A TOUR DE FORCE…IMPOSSIBLE TO PUT DOWN! PREACHER'S KID… IS AN ASTONISHINGLY BRILLIANT QUALIFIED PAGE-TURNER…IT LOCKS YOU IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT AND CONDUCTS A CAVITY SEARCH OF YOUR FUNNY BONE. Emmanuel Sheafe in this masterful debut offering sets a trap for the readers and then captures them like the FBI captures a wanted felon. His writing packs a wallop like a policeman’s nightstick to the base of the skull…the prose controls like handcuffs and leg shackles. SHAKESPEARE, HEMINGWAY, TWAIN, THOREAU, NONE OF THEM NON-RIGHTIN’ CRACKERS IS WORTHY OF HOLDIN’ THIS NIGGA’S LITERARY DICK! Some of these stories are almost as funny as when a new prisoner shows up thinking he’s a bad ass then starts squealing like a gutted pig when he gets gang banged by the entire cellblock! “NOW THAT IS REALLY SOME FUNNY SHIT! I was completely incarcerated by this timeless true-life masterpiece.

WILLIE “MUHAMMAD OSAMA HUSSEIN” JACKSON III
Inmate # 1190967517A,
Marion State Penitentiary, Marion Illinois
Maximum Security Wing
(Lifer) Cell Block D
The Author’s Childhood Scout Leader.
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“…SO NIGGA, ALL OF A SUDDEN YOU FEEL LIKE WRITING? WELL YOU BETTER WRITE A DAMN CHECK FOR YOUR BACK CHILD SUPPORT!”


AUTHORS EX-WIFE AND CERTIFIED CARD-CARRYING $#@^&(!%#

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“BADA BING, BADA BOOM, FAGITABOUTIT…TWO MUDDERFUCKIN’ THUMBS UP AND FOUR FUCKING STARS! I especially likes da chapter called “New Fucking York…,” I particularly likes the part about da fuckin’ thieves. I knows soma dem guys personally…but as I was just telling Freddy “Ice Pick” Tutura, my business associate and the newly elected Vice President of our venture capital investment firm, dis fuckin’ book betta sell so I can get my fuckin’ money back from dis mamaluke. If not…well…If not I’m gonna have ta break dis fuckin’ Moonyan’s procrastinatin’ head! I can pretty much guarantee dat he’ll be seeing more than four stars when I’m finished!!!”


FRANKIE “THE VIG” LOBIANCO
The Author’s Investment Counselor.

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“…I DON’T BELIEVE THAT HE WROTE IT! Frankly I don’t believe he knows how to read or write. I didn’t even know the little Negro was registered in my class until we had a graduation party on the last day of school and he showed up with a thermos of Ripple, a marijuana joint, some munchies, a sex magazine and some Cliff Notes in his Batman and Robin lunch box, but he scribbled through the word Batman with a red crayon and instead wrote Black Man and Robbing along the side!”

ANN RABINOWITZ, BA, ME
The Author’s Second Grade English Teacher
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“Well I am actually bound to the patient doctor confidentiality agreement, however in this instance I can divulge a very small portion of what I have uncovered while treating Emmanuel for the last forty-seven years. Actually most of this is public knowledge anyway. Mister Sheafe suffers from a rare condition know as agraphia. This is the loss of a pre-existing ability to express one's self through the act of writing. Subsequently he expresses his thoughts through the frequent use of derogatory terms such as Nigga, Sand-Nigga, Coon, Spade, Uncle Tom, Cow-Worshipping-Dot-Head, Cracker, Ofay, Honky, Redneck, Drunk Ass Redskin, Guinea, Dago, Greaseball, Dyke, Faggot, Queer, Homo, Lesbo, Heimy, Kike, J.A.P., Mike, Kraut, Spick, Slant-Eyed Midget and Rice Eatin’ Chink. Mister Sheafe further demonstrates an underlying obsessive-compulsive disorder, which manifests itself through the psychotic symptoms of bi-polar, manic depression and schizophrenia. His often-catatonic behavior is due to a history of excessive prolonged abuse of top-shelf alcohol, high-quality drugs and perverted call girls. Additionally, his acculturation difficulty is due in part to pre-existing post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) associated with his birth. This is an anxiety disorder that can develop in some people after exposure to a terrifying event. For Mr. Sheafe that event was being born. In layman’s terms I guess one would say that this was one fucked up motherfucker from the git-go!”


DR. BAJIT SINGH SINGH M.D.
The Authors Psychiatrist.

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“…As a three time loser I am glad that you, Mr. Sheafe, have finally taken a constructive step in rebuilding your otherwise meaningless life by attempting to become an author, however, after reading about certain unsolved episodes the NYPD might be forced to reopen a number of your cases that we had considered closed. In the meantime don’t forget that you have a piss test every Friday at 10am sharp in my office. And please spare me the bullshit. Stop saying stuff like, “But I don’t have to Pee.” And definitely stop pleading with the female nurse. ”Come on turn around I want you to watch!”

DET. COLIN O’REILLY
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“THANK GOD HIS MOTHER IS NOT ALIVE TO READ THIS DISGRACEFUL DRIVEL. IF WE HAD KNOWN THAT HIS MOUTH WOULD BECOME SO FILTHY, WE WOULD HAVE SMOTHERED HIM AT BIRTH!”

REV. T. R. SHEAFE, Th.d
The Author’s Father.
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“…NOW THAT WE HAVE TALKED FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES I AM STARTING TO FEEL IT COMING. OH YES…YES…HERE IT IS…IT IS BEING REVEALED...YOUR FUTURE IS COMING INTO VIEW…The name “SHEAFE” will have it’s place next to names like Hughes, Picasso, Warhol, OJ, Socrates, Tito Jackson, Einstein, King, Charles Manson, Van Gogh, Dubois, Burchhardt, Thoreau, Vanilla Ice, Banneker, Motherwell, Chaucer, Melville, Millie Vanilli, Matisse, Plato, Emerson, Dunbar, Kline,Wheatley, Chagall, Shakespeare, Freud, Bobby Brown, Pollock, Diego, Angelou, Eliot, Baldwin, Run DMC, Pound, Hemingway, Twain and Booker T. Washington. I also see a Chinese theater on Hollywood Boulevard in LA in your future. I can’t quite make out the sign but it looks like it starts with a G. Maybe Grum…Grumma, I can’t be sure but there is some kind of star in the ground with your name engraved close by…I see an elegantly groomed Poodle standing over it with his back leg hiked up!”

MOTHER “ELEVEN FIFTY A MINUTE” PONZI
The Author’s Spiritual Guide and Psychic Advisor

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Below is the link to view the cover of this book:
http://www.themousetamer.com/clients.html

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At little about me!

I was born in 1955 and I grew up in the Bedford Stuyvesant Section of Brooklyn, New York. I attended PS 161 on Crown Street, Lefferts Junior High School on Empire Boulevard. (I only attended for 1 week only, my parents got me out of there quickly. I went to Boys High School on Marcy Avenue, Brooklyn College at the Flatbush Junction near Nostrand Avenue, Vincennes University, Brown Institue and Berean in Ontario Canada.

I am the only son of a Pentecostal Minister. My family was exceptionally religious. As many ministers’ kids turn out, my parents thought I was the devil. This book is about the devilish experiences I encountered and the friends that I experienced those devilish experiences with. Originally it started as an art book and developed into a comedy with pictures. The saying on the back of the cover is, "Because life is more dramatic than fiction-there are eight million dramas in the Big Apple. Here's one of them..." Every story in this book is 100% true. Many times I look at a movie on TV and the disclaimer says, “based on a true story” ‘Based’ being the operative word. Which I guess means that part of the story is true and then the rest is embellished to make it exciting, Well, I did not have to embellish a damn thing. I actually did all of this crazy shit! Now that I’m 51 years old with kids and grand kids, I ask myself, what the fuck was I thinking?
I wrote this book because my wife has a doctorate in clinical sexology and psychoanalysis and has worked with crazy people all of her life. She is convinced that I was slightly crazy when she met me and now since being with her I’m almost cured. See, she grew up in the country and I’m talkin’ deep, deep, deep country down in Georgia. Trust me, her hometown is not Atlanta; anyway she found all of my childhood stories inconceivable. I guess if I grew up and my best friend was a chicken or a goat I would not believe me also. Anyway, she and her doctor friends kept bugging me until I finally decided to put these stories on paper. They told me it would be good therapy. Fuck them! I don’t need therapy. Anyway, I started to make an art book since I have a lot of doodles in my collection. Now…In light of what I’ve told you concerning my wife n’ all I know what you’re thinking but doodling is therapeutic. Anyway, this doodle book became a confession minus the priest. It became, “Good Head From Brooklyn, Looking At Life Through Doodles!”

If you are unaware of the impact that "Bed Stuy" and Brooklyn has had on creative talent, here is a partial list of the people who originally come from Brooklyn, many grew up in my neighborhood: Biggie Smalls- (The Notorious Big) He grew up around the corner, Lauren Bacall, Chris Rock he grew almost around the corner, F. Murry Abraham, Richard Dreyfuss, Mike Tyson, Mel Brooks, Rudy Guiliani, Michael Jordan, Eddie Murphy, Adam Sandler, Lenny Wilkens- Basketball Coach (went to my High School-Boys High) Gilbert Gottfried-we went to elementary school together-PS 161, Abe Vigoda, Judge Judy, Paul Sorvino, Ben Verren, John Tutorro, Jerry Seinfield, Jay-Z he grew up on the same block as my ex-wife, Al Capone, Woody Allen, Howard Cossell, Kim Coles, Tony Danza, Edie Falco, Bobby Fischer…the list is endless but you get the point.

Now, now to say that this creative talent is in just the air and the water in Brooklyn because some of the other Boros of New York have done quite well also, but Brooklyn is my home town and I’m proud of it and all of the folks who have contributed to creativity in this world.

I self-published through Trafford publishing and as of today, 3/14/07, am in need of both an agent and a publisher. HEEELLLP!!! Hey if you are a publisher, give me a shot…trust me anyone from New York will buy this book because most of us are called crazy behind our backs by the rest of America, so they can relate to my stories!

I am including below a couple of things on this page. One, a few book reviews above. Two, quotes from the book below. Three, the table of contents and four, an excerpt, called “Amish country.”

I can be reached at 757-291-5057 or
Email: emmanuelsheafe@gmail.com
Emmanuel R. Sheafe
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BELOW ARE QUOTES FROM “PREACHER'S KID”

---(She had)…the kind of lips that one would think could be instrumental in sucking a watermelon through a plastic straw…a desirable attribute in, and lucrative commodity for, any first-rate whore.

· ---For an instant, I was fearful. I suddenly had a vision of hauling ass of the (school) building with fifteen hundred Black and Hispanic students running after me and my (Black Power) outfit trying to kick my “wanabe a militant ass.”

· ---From (introduction) to lip-lock took …five minutes. She was a lay down…a players dream but a husband’s nightmare!

· ---I went to a Special Ed college, the University of Marijuana Ville…I majored in Miller Time and minored in Colt 45.

· ---Between the (75 different apartments)… almost every family has bought the same 19-inch color TV at least twice. I heard the last person that bought it has had it for a while because he crazy glued it to the kitchen counter and wrapped it in barbed wire.

· ---…This tramp had truly found her calling…her skillfulness with regard to that dildo was both brilliant and astoundingly remarkable. If an employer were ever in need of a professional ass opener, they would be hard pressed to find a more qualified and enthusiastic employee…

· ---(The crack head told him) “There’s eight million people in this town, you tryin’ ta tell me you can’t find a fucking stereo with a six-CD changer that ain’t strapped down…where’s ya work ethic?”

· ---“In a late breaking story there was another vicious roll by whipping up in Harlem earlier today. When police arrived on the scene there were, four dead hardheaded teenagers apparently whipped to death by yet another group of… whipping octogenarians.”

· ---There was an allied summit being convened by a group of winos standing outside the entrance to the building. (He said) “Now sir, how many times have I asked you not to wear them designer draws in this neighborhood…Niggas round here got x-ray vision …

· ---We tried to exhale the (Marijuana) out of the back window of my room, which overlooks a large yard. Our neighbor saw the plumes cascading from the window (and) called the fire department.

· ---He was not a real mugger. He didn’t have his I D card from the Brooklyn Mugger’s local 712. He hadn’t passed the hoodlums and gangsters bar exam.

· ---On my first day, (in High School) I asked the guidance counselor… what kind of animals would be dissected in the biology lab. (He Said) “I’ve been trying to find that biology lab for the last ten years…check the boys bathroom on the third floor…I think the science laboratory is in the third stall…the one with the large steel chain and deadbolt wrapped around the door…there is definitely something biological growing in there…but it sure ain’t microscopic!

· ---(Abdullah said) the ulterior reason the white ball in the game of billiards knocked the colored balls in the holes was a subliminal message designed to depict the dominance of the White man… I made the mistake of asking him…(if that was the case) would he explain the reason why the white ball is slapped around by the colored paddles in the game of Ping-Pong.

· ---I am black, or so I thought. I spent so much time at the ocean that year…that when I flew home for Christmas, I went into the rest room on the plane, looked in the mirror, and ran back out…I told (the flight attendant) that the door was broken because there was this handsome brother in there getting ready to pull out his obviously massive penis and he was admiring me.

· --Elevator shitting, unlike elevator screwing, which can be quite exhilarating, is either an act of extreme bravery or enormous desperation; but in either case, acute idiocy.

· In my opinion, The Jerry Springer Show has single handedly been the single greatest contributing factor in unifying the diverse races in this country. It clearly demonstrates that idiots, morons, buffoons, imbeciles, and niggas come in all races, sizes, gender, religions, and nationalities.

·The humanist doctrines perpetrated by the Ivy League were not exactly the tenets of Boys High School in Brooklyn in the early 1970’s!

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I can be reached at 757-291-5057 or email: emmanuelsheafe@gmail.com. Emmanuel R. Sheafe

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BELOW IS THE TABLE OF CONTENTS FROM “PREACHER'S KID”

Chapter One,

Circa 1960!
I Ponder therefore I deduce
Fast forward
The Hook

Chapter Two,
Ministers Kid!
Sampson and Delilah
Sidney, Bernie, and Moses
The forbidden Fruit
Skinny Space Men Straight Outa Brooklyn
Genius or Imbecile
Picasso? Picasso Who?

Chapter Three,
Roots Mon!
The Whipping Octogenarians
Barbadoes? Panama? Brazil? Okay, Okay Brooklyn

Chapter Four,
Escape From New York!
Liberace, Tight Buns and Mexican Pinatas

Chapter Five,
Freaky Deaky At the O.K. Corral!
The Riff Raff Club
Fashion Police and The Stylish Nig-gra
Wrestling Auditions For Morons
Face Sitting 101
Black Folks and Haunted Houses Don’t Mix
K.A. Works Just Like A.A. (Killer Asses)

Chapter Six,
No Vagabonds Allowed!
Rebels, Ruffians and Nine P.M. Curfews
Elmer Fudd, Cheap Wine, and Spinning Dogs
Saved By The Bell

Chapter Seven,
It Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun!
The Un-Kosher Elevator
Just Scream Like A Bitch
Unsympathetic Steel
Dick For Brains
Jaws
Death By Dick
Kindergarten Criminals

Chapter Eight,
Culture Shock: “The High!”
Bourgeoisie, Proletariat and Saddle Shoes
Slide Rules, Dead Teachers, and The Wizard of Oz
Political Aspirations and The Hair Cut from Hell
By Any Means Necessary
Buppies, Black Wasps, and Uncle Tom’s Cabana
Dead Negroes Can’t Swim, Incantations and The U.S.S. Enterprise
Dirty Draws, Spike Heels, and Spit Balls
Call 911
Oh, Oh Sheafe, You’re Next
Ad Hoc Plants, Props, and Nitwits
Fish Sticks, French Fries, and Milk
Narrow Margin

Chapter Nine,
Abdullah!
Nincompoop Hoodlum In The Hood
Intoxicated Saints
Amish Country and Thy Brethren’s Life
Fool, You Done Killed Grandma
Gangbang at Sixteen-Hundred
Ping Pong Ball, Green Stool, and Whitey
Duck Suits and Proper Bank Etiquette
Rebel Without A Clue

Chapter Ten,
Volunteers, Shakedowns, Arrogance, and Super-Seniors!
Great Danes In The Drug Store
Wasted Government Expenditures
Heroin and Kafka

Chapter Eleven,
Special Ed College!
Cheatin, Reedin, Rightin & Rithmatick
The God of Lethargic Originality
He Is Looking At Me

Chapter Twelve,
New Fucking York, Still…The Greatest City On Earth To Be From!
Dark Passage Moving company
Dinner, a Movie and Some Crack
Unofficial Midnight Commodities Retrieval Unit, or The Ali Baba Embezzlement Group
Vehicular Assault and High-Dollar Crimes Institute
Seven Hundred Dollar Per Square Foot Bathrooms

Chapter Thirteen,
Gin and Ginger Ale for the Lay-Down!
Boarding At Gate Twelve For The Crack Head Tour
That Collar Is Definitely You
Anacondas and Wide Open Mouths
Bartender, One Urine Please
Without A Doubt An Uncontested Divorce

Chapter Fourteen,
November Psychos, Therapist and Ugly Babies!

Chapter Fifteen,
Kung Fool, Fool!
Master Con
Bullet Punching Time
D-sigh-pa Ah Da Master
It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, and no, It’s Hallway Man
Revenge of The Killer White Belts
Ya Feelin It Master…Yes Disciple
Reading Is Fundamental

Chapter Sixteen,
There Are Eight Million Stories In The Naked City!
Intricate Visions Of Art or Of Doodlin’
Biases and Discoveries
Straight From The Horses Mouth
Drella and Preparation H
Please Tell Me You Are Kidding
Helping Hands
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The following is an excerpt: "Amish Country"

Although a highly accomplished and first-rate imbecile, a matter for debate as to either by genetic disposition or profession, Abdullah could, at times, become resourceful and innovative. The problem, however, was that, more often than not, his resourcefulness and innovation would eventually become a disaster. Take for example the time we drove to a church picnic.
My father’s church sponsored an outing each summer to Amish country in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania to the towns of Intercourse and Strasburg, the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country.
In my opinion, once you’ve been there once there was really no point in going back. I was about as enthusiastic about going as a slave at harvest time. After all, I was seventeen and the variety of hand crafted products, quilts, pottery, and hand-blown glass for sale at the various shops and flea markets was not exactly my idea of excitement, however, my father begged me to come so I agreed but under one condition. I did not feel like being confined for a total of six hours roundtrip with the church elders and the mothers of the church on a tour bus. They knew about my lifestyle, and, as the pastor’s son, would certainly make it a point to list all of the sins of their captive audience, while quoting enormous scripture to validate their case, in order to initiate a life altering change before the trip ended. This was a fate similar to becoming marooned on a South Pacific Island with a group of Jehovah’s witnesses, who are convinced that they will all die before help arrives. Although Abdullah was my last option, in my opinion, it was better than the alternative. I convinced him to drive two of my backsliding friends and myself in his fire engine red 1968 AMC Rambler station wagon with the stick-on German Shepherd dashboard ornament that nodded its head up and down every time we went over a bump. It was obviously made exceptionally well because with the condition of the New York City streets I was surprised his head remained attached.
Anyway, I noticed that whenever the imbecile went on a long trip he carried an ornamental 3-foot retractable walking cane, which could be shortened to a foot by pushing a switch on the side. The fancy stick was made of cherry wood with an 18 carat gold tip and marble and gold handle. The handle was sculpted into an elaborate face of a fire-breathing dragon. The dragon’s eyes were embedded with oval rubies and on the tip of its marble tongue; there was encrusted a large green circular emerald, about the size of a nickel. He told me he obtained it from, in his words, “A wanna be pimp” through coercion. The coercion was in the form of a twenty-five automatic to the side of the skull. I declined to know anymore.
I never understood why he never carried it around. My assumption was that he figured that in return someone else would “coerce” it from him. Instead, he would put the gaudy but high-priced stick in his car before taking a lengthy ride and when the ride ended, he left it in the vehicle. It just did not make any sense. What was the purpose of having an expensive walking cane that you never walked with? Unbeknownst to me the reason would become dreadfully apparent.
It was a beautiful New York summer day as we headed down Canal Street in lower Manhattan towards the Holland tunnel. I felt that somehow either my father or the Amish had a direct pipeline to God since it never rained on picnic day.
We merged onto I-95, went through the tollbooth, and onto the New Jersey Turnpike headed south. I was in the front seat, a precautionary position I’d never taken before, just incase one of Abdullah’s numerous associates decided to shoot at him as he drove by; we were leaving town so I felt relatively safe. I did however find myself ducking down slightly but I relaxed after I saw the sign, “WELCOME TO NEW JERSEY, THE GARDEN STATE.”
As the vehicle-entered the turnpike traffic, Abdullah accelerated to slightly above the speed limit and then reached under his seat to retrieve the cane. Then he placed the tip on the accelerator pedal and attempted to wedge the handle up against the front of the seat. In an instant, the car accelerated to about ninety miles an hour. I shouted, “What the hell are you doing?” He proudly informed me that the cane was his vehicles cruise control. “Cruise what…!”
“Relax Brother Man and watch the magic begin,’ italicizing it with a big grin.
I scratched my head in astonishment as my friends in the backseat began to laugh nervously. After accelerating up and down between 45 and 90 miles an hour for about two minutes as he fiddled with the cane he eventually managed to adjust the seat to the appropriate distance so that the car remained at the desired speed.
After this was complete, he reached into his duffle bag and pulled out what has to be, in my knowledgeable opinion, the largest joint ever rolled this side of the Caribbean, at least seven inches in length and the size of a fifty cents piece at the end. We all expressed amusement at both his ingenuity and his preparation. He said with a smile, “I figure this should last the four of us the entire trip until we can get a connect…I hear those Amish grow some serious shit back in dem hills!” I glanced over at him like he had totally gone crazy and he began laughing. “Only kiddin’ Bro!”
Cane securely in place, we exited onto the Pennsylvania turnpike towards Valley Forge and again exited at what was supposed to be a highway going towards Coatesville, Pennsylvania. Maybe it was the weed, maybe not, but we made a wrong turn and ended up on a long stretch of unpaved barren road bordered by wide-open fields with grazing horses and cattle. Someone made the suggestion that we stop at one of the farm houses and ask directions but Abdullah made a convincing argument that the road we were on ran parallel to the highway and would eventually lead back in the general vicinity.
The lush green, countryside was stunning beautiful. The embroidered, mosaic quilt made of emerald green rolling hills interweaved by large patches of rectangular shaped fertile earth, contrast the tropical blue sky above which loosely embraced angel shaped clouds. It resembled a painting direct from the works of Grandma Moses; one of Americas most noted folk artist. There was no doubt that this was truly God’s country …until we got there!
I took it all in as the smell of fresh Marijuana whiffed past my nose and then out through my open window. Glancing left, I noticed that he has lit another joint, even larger that the first, about the size of a megaphone, but the end was ablaze. You could get the same kind of effect by pouring a pint of lighter fluid on an unfolded newspaper and then lighting it. Almost instantly he shouted, “Oh Shit” and was pushing up on the ball of his toes while shoving his left hand in between his legs in an attempt to extinguish what looked like a burning rose bush under his ass. The problem was that in the chaos he forgot to release the seat belt, which now acted like a strap on the electric chair at Sing Sing Prison.
This always amazed me. Abdullah was constantly having his drivers license revoked, he never owned car insurance, the inspection sticker had expired over two years before, his tires were slick exposing the steel belts which protruded through the rubber, almost daily he often drove drunk and high but he insisted on wearing a seat beat.
Regardless, the entire end, almost three inches, of the gargantuan smoldering joint had fallen in-between his legs and had commenced to reduce to ashes the seat and its passenger who was held firmly in place. I could not tell if the fire was coming down, out of his ass or up from the cushion. The imbecile was trying to push his neck and skull through the roof of the vehicle and the farther up he moved his butt away from the seat, which due to the strap was only about an inch, the higher the flames rose. In no rush to place my hands between his crotch, I reached over in a lame attempt to smother the fire, which was now rapidly crawling up the back of his seat igniting his cotton t-shirt. While my hands were halfhearted swatting between his legs he began screaming, “My dick, my dick is burning.” I figured his prick was just going to have to burn because I had no intention of squeezing the front of his pants it in an effort to stifle the fire which I’m sure had heated up the metal zipper to somewhere around the temperature of molten lava.
While all of this was transpiring, the imbecile was trying to do four things at the same time. First, kick the wedged cane free with his right leg, which only increased our speed. Second, steer the car down the narrow dirt country road with his right hand, Third, plant his left foot firmly on the floor board to keep his ass off the engulfed seat and Finally, assist me in smothering the flames with his left hand; all, to no avail. My head abruptly hit the roof as the eighty-mile an hour vehicle ran off the road, hitting a ditch, careening through a wooden fence and into an open field and straight at a farmhouse about a quarter of a mile in the distance. To make matters worse, in an attempt to dislodge the homemade cruise control, he had successfully jammed it soundly in place. Because of kicking the cane, the dragon’s head had ripped through the cloth upholstery in the front of the seat and firmly embedded itself in the underbody of the chair. The marble tongue was hooked around one of the chairs springs and was hanging on for dear life. The car lurched up and down over uneven earth and because none of the passengers were wearing seat belts, the three of us were tossed around like dice on a crap table. I glanced up just in time to notice the hood ornaments head break off and hit the imbecile squarely in his right eye. We sped past a grazing cow that casually looked around but other than his tail, which was busy swatting flies, barely moved. I got a momentary look in its eyes and it seemed to be thinking, “These fools must not be from around here!” Maybe it was the weed, maybe not, but in all this pandemonium, it never crossed any of our minds to simply turn the ignition switch off.
We saw it coming but there was nothing we could do. In the middle of the field, about ten yards in front of the farm house was the only thing I had ever seen that was bigger than the joint that got us into this mess…an enormous oak tree approximately twice the width of the car. A child’s swing made of a truck tire hung invitingly under a huge branch. Under the circumstance, the circular rubber looked just like a bulls eye and we had successfully become the ammunition.
Thank God, we did not hit it head on, or I probably would not be telling this story. The impact sent both of the back seat passengers up front with me. Dwayne who was seated behind me ended up with his head between my legs. I guess to a spectator it looked like we were doing a 69. Only my outstretch arms and the imbecile’s seat belt saved him and me from going through the window. The engine compartment burst into flames as we scrambled onto the grass through the shattered windows and demolished doors, which had flown open on impact.
A group of chickens that were casually lounging in front of the house frantically scampered for cover. I glanced up from the turf just in time to see Abdullah with the remaining marijuana cigarette still stuck to his lips, running around in a figure eight, in an attempt to smother his scorched pants and shirt, which were still very much on fire.
In the distance, I heard what sounded like a cowbell and about a minute later dozens of Amish men, women and children were running towards us with wooden buckets that were apparently filled with water. Two men with long gray beards doused the imbecile who was now rolling around on his back in a perfect circle. He had shaped a patch of scorched earth about six feet in circumference. The others threw the water on the car.
The imbecile lay there for a moment and then hopped to his feet, dripping wet with a cloud of black smoke, that had a striking resemblance to a satanic tail, coming out of the butt crack of what little remained of his charred pants. Without further ado and from nowhere he commenced to shout at one of the older men in a fit of anger. “Who’s in charge here… who’s in charge?” The older of the two men replied, “Are you okay?” Abdullah shouted, “What a stupid fucking place to plant a fucking tree, in the middle of a field like that…I’m calling my lawyer, you got this whole fucking lawn, at least ten miles wide, and you plant a fucking tree right in the middle. -I want your name, your address, your fucking lawyers name, and everything else I need to know because most of this yard is going to be mine when my lawyer gets through with you. I got a greedy, big-beak, Jew lawyer in the Bronx and a pasta eatin,’ greaseball judge on the take, that loves negligent shit like this…now if you want to hand over a couple of acres right now we can settle this out of court!” I could not believe my ears. Abdullah looked over at me and said, “We gone be some horse back riding niggas when my lawyer get ah hole ah dis shit.” I just stared at him with my mouth very, very wide open. What a fool! Astonished, the older man calmly relied, “It was God what put the tree there as God doth spare thou and thy brethrens life.” To which the imbecile sarcastically replied, “Look Lil’ Abner or Farmer-In-The-Dell, whatever thou name be, tell it to mine Judge and mine brethrens judge!” I looked over at the assembled audience who just stood there, eyes wide and gaped mouth, staring at us as though we were aliens from another planet. To them, I think we were.
After the Pennsylvania state troopers arrived, the imbecile, who had already acquired an in depth relationship with the law enforcement officers in most states on the East Coast, immediately calmed down. The officer took a report and then gave us a ride to a small town and some person with a pick up truck had pity on us and drove us into Strasburg. We failed to mention the cruise control or the weed to the cops and instead blamed it on failed brakes. Luckily, the impact had dislodged the dragon’s head and the wooden portion of the cane was smoldering on the floorboard so no one could tell that there was a homemade cruise control involved. Ironically, both the head of the dragon and the German Shepherd lay on the floor of the vehicle staring at each other. They seemed to be asking, “Do you believe these dumb motherfuckers?”
The same fate I had tried to avoid in the first place had befallen me anyway. On the return trip, the saints surrounded me in the back of the bus, not only to remind me of my numerous transgressions but also how divine intervention had led me to them.
Abdullah declined medical attention but for the ride home, he was forced to lie across the back seat of the bus on his stomach after one of the church mothers convinced him to allow her to rub some kind of Aloe Vera crème on his scorched ass, which now protruded through the new jeans someone bought for him. To avoid the material sticking to the burn, they cut the fabric, exposing his cheeks. Ass stinging, Abdullah quipped, “That ain’t no damn cruise control, that cane is a demonically possessed REAL dragon that spews REAL fucking fire. Maybe he was upset that we didn’t give him a tote…know what, I should go beat the shit out of the guy I got it from!” I was so pissed I could not even laugh; more pissed at myself for recruiting this fool than at him.
A few days later when the trauma began to diminish, it dawned on me how lucky we were to be alive. Essentially, a few inches to the right would have meant a head on collision with the large oak that we conceivably would not have won. I called the imbecile to remind him to count his blessings. During the conversation, I commented on how stupid the “…plant the tree…” comment was and he became instantly heated. “ Look Sheafe, shut up if you don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about. You need to stop cutting class and read ya damn history before you open your big mouth. Why do you think Hitler killed them people in WWII? Instantly I knew that this was going be a classic. I responded, “I didn't know that they fought the Germans in WWII...Tell me Abdullah why did Hitler kill them, I don’t have a clue!”
“For doing stupid shit like that.”
“Planting trees?”
“Not just planting trees, strategically planting trees…Hitler could fight conventional weaponry but a misplaced tree can really fuck up a tank or an armored vehicle…The Amish were experts at unconventional warfare…I bet you didn’t know that the greatest pitchfork killers in WWII were Amish. In addition, they would make things like poison cheese or toxic blueberry pancakes and slip them through the enemy lines. Hitler was losing more men to Amish cooking than to the Russian bullets. Do you have any idea how many German soldiers were found strangled to death with colorful quilts. Then he added, very matter-of-fact, “Them straw hat wearing, bearded killers and their innocent looking wives had to go!”
Under normal circumstances, in normal conversation with a normal person, I would have laughed, but I knew that in this imbecile’s mind he had created a deadly Amish battalion, running around the woods by cover of darkness reigning terror into the German Army by shoving poison food down their throats before skewing them. It was no use. I simply said, “Really!” and hung up the phone.

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Emmanuel Sheafe
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