"OJ at?": Chapter 1: June 17, 1994

My name is OJ Simpson, and today is the worst day of my life ...

I did my best ... just five days ago ... I did a great job, I thought. Sure, I left some blood behind, a glove, my alibi sucked, but I took that bitch out - killed her. Killed her good because she deserved to die. She mocked my black power and my negro prowess - she questioned my Nubian rule over her pale ass white girl existence - Nicole thought she was special ... Ha!

"Ain't nobody special in LA, we all just making fun and playing parts ...", is what I whispered over her, as the blood flowed from her body.

"OJ, shit ... what we gonna do?" - Al Cowling, my best friend, was driving HIS white FORD Bronco. He was nervous, twitchy, concerned ... but I knew, I knew deep inside, that we needed to ditch this Bronco and get a Toyota Corolla, later model, something that will blend. I was too conspicuous, too many people would identify me - I almost made a mistake, I almost went to the cemetery where Nicole was buried. Instead, there was a nasty wreck, and we ended up on the freeway.

"AC ... get the fuck off the freeway, I want you to head to Clipper's place ..."

"Clipper? Isn't he in jail?"

"Nah, Clipper has been out for 3 months."

'Clipper' was the nickname of my friend Harold Vance. Harold got the nickname during the Vietnam War, he was special ops, and a helicopter pilot. Harold would be used by the CIA to decapitate Vietcong operatives, captured as part of Operation Phoenix - Harold or 'Clipper' would fly his OH-58 Kiowa in such a way that his propeller blades could cut the heads off of men tied to plastic poles, on stands ...

"Clipper scares me OJ ... he has shaky hands and is real mean."

Mean? AC doesn't know what mean looks like. Al has always been a pussy, weak, crying when his mom died and shit. I learned a LONG time ago that you need to keep that shit stowed, deep inside, buried underneath all the horrible memories of this nightmare called life. There's nothing in this life but the satisfaction that your enemies died before you, and that you are feared ... better to be feared than loved, is what I always say.

"AC ... we're going."

I called Harold using a secure burner phone he'd given me a few years ago - "use just in case of emergencies!", that is what he told me ... emergencies. I let Harold know that I had to switch out cars and that I'd need a late model Toyota Corolla, something inconspicuous, ubiquitous.

Al got the Bronco off the highway, and we made our way to the Long Beach, a bad part of that place, old abandoned storage buildings, factories rusting away, urban and industrial decay. Harold owned a building in that area - no great feat, given how crime ridden and dilapidated the place was. Al had been there with me, a few years ago, before Harold was arrested for felony burglary and extortion. Harold pleaded guilty to a lesser offense and was given 24 months in prison.

"Jesus ... I hate this street ... that's Harold's place, up there, ain't it?", Al asked.

"Yep, just pull up to the gate and I'll get out and call up."

Al pulled out in front of the gate, there was a power opening and a call box. The gate was heavy, reinforced, galvanized, with concertina wire on the top in a triple strand. The call box was rusty, worn, but it still worked. I went ahead and let Harold know we were here and then I got back in the Bronco as the electric gate opened. We drove through the gate and parked in the garage. Harold was there, smiling, in a red leather jacket.

"You fucks, what the fuck have you done?"

"Now listen Clipper!" - said AC.

"Hey, guys, I don't have a lot of time", I interjected.

"Ok, I got the Corolla, YOU GOT THE MONEY?"

I handed Harold a small pouch filled with 50 grand, Harold opened it, took a quick look, and continued ...

"That'll work ... but the car won't be here till tomorrow. I got my guy for passports coming in a couple days. You guys can stay here, it's off the grid ... nobody knows me or knows how we're connected. I have some disguise ideas, we can talk about later. For now, let me show you guys to your rooms and then we can talk about next steps over dinner, in 3 hours ..."

"That sounds great Harold, we're done ... we need rest, food ... I could use a drink."

"Well, OJ ... let's do that ... let's go crack open a nice bottle of aged single malt scotch ..."

I nodded, and AC followed. AC didn't know what he'd gotten himself into. He was going underground, like me, and we would die before we ever went to jail.

AC took his go-bag, through it into the closet in his room, and passed out ..

Harold poured me some of that fine whiskey ...

I went out, into one of his open storage rooms, not observable from any direction, and smoked ... I had only a few cigs left, but I smoked and thought about how I'd ended up here? In this place?

A week ago, I was the other "me", the one the world knew ...

Now, with Nicole's death? Now I was the the dark-hunter, the onyx-assassin, seeking out young, busty, female, white flesh to ravage and then "harvest".

"Yep, I know what I must do now ...", I muttered to myself in that dark warehouse ...

I needed to be remembered for the "other me" ...

(the other me needs some me time)