Moments in Time from my Life Chapter 3 The Campgrounds
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Stand Your Ground?!?!? free porn video
The sirens and flashing lights jolted Clara Mangum from her slumber. She reached for her glasses on the nightstand. The digital clock read 12:09. Shocked by the uncommon activity outside, she shook her husband. “Lesley,” she said. “Wake up!”
“Huh,” grunted the 78 year-old, light-skinned man.
“Wake up,” she admonished him. “Something’s going on outside.”
“Hang on,” he sat up slowly.
Lesley put his feet on the floor and felt around for his fleece-lined, suede slippers. He eased them on and affixed his spectacles to his face. He went to the master bedroom window and peered through the blinds. He was shocked by what he saw - four patrol cars, two ambulances, and a multitude of people milling about. “It looks serious, hun!”
“It’s these renters moving in,” Clara sneered.
“Actually, they’re at Renae Clement’s house,” he informed her.
“What,” she clutched imaginary pearls. “Renae?!?”
“That’s what I said, Clara,” he stressed.
“Excuse me then! I’m gonna make some tea. You want some?”
“May as well.”
The retired electrician put on his red, terrycloth robe. He walked downstairs and opened the front door. He went to the curb and waved over a uniformed officer. “What’s going on?”
“We’re responding a shooting,” the young, trim patrolman explained.
“Oh my,” Lesley gasped. “I never would’ve expected this.”
“I know. This neighborhood is pretty well-established.”
“Yep,” the old man concurred. “Most of us here still own. Half baby boomers. A few families with k**s in high school or college. Working middle class folks,” he described the enclave of ranch-style & split-level homes that sat on small, well-maintained lawns and a variety of premium and luxury vehicles parked in their driveways. “But there’s been some folks who’ve sold to property management companies that rent them houses out.”
“Yeah. My grandparents used to live here,” the officer said.
“Who,” Lesley quizzed.
“Joe and Ruth Blair.”
“You don’t say,” beamed Lesley and extended his hand in camaraderie. “Nice folks. Joe could grill a steak,” he reminisced.
“He sure could,” the guy co-signed the statement. “I’m Terrance.”
“Which one’s your dad?”
“Reggie.”
“Good ol’ Reggie Blair. That boy had an arm on him,” recalled Lesley.
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“But, they weren’t giving Black quarterbacks any love back then.”
“I know. Where you already awake?”
“No. I could sleep through a bomb thanks to Nam. My wife is brewing a pot of tea. Would you like a cup or maybe some water?”
Terrance chuckled. “Yeah. Give me a sec to clear it with my captain. I’ll be right there.”
Lesley saw a handcuffed Renae Clement being put in the backseat of a cruiser. He went inside to share his notes with his wife of 56 years.
What the Mangums and Cpl. Blair didn’t know yet was that it all started about 12 hours earlier.
Renae, a single mother of two, owned a catering and event planning service that she started 13 years ago using a $15,000 minority entrepreneur grant. She’d worked in food service management for a number of years at educational and healthcare institutions and wanted to strike out on her own. Her company was solid now. She had three full-time and seven part-time employees. Plus there was a roster of contractors she kept to staff up for events. Her top line revenue was $875,000 the year before with an 11% gross margin.
The 49 year-old business owner’s adult c***dren were biologically half-siblings. She and Monica’s dad never wed. On the other hand, she was married to Keven’s father for 10 years. She split with him because he wasn’t driven enough. He was happy toiling away in low-paid menial labor. She wanted more and she had gotten it. She wasn’t rich by any means, but she was able to pay the bills and save & invest.
Keven, aged 24, moved back in with her about two years ago. He did some gig work as a helpdesk technician.
Also, staying in the house was Angel Correia - a medium-height, bull-necked brown-skinned man. He was 33 years old and had done a couple of stints in jail for misdemeanor convictions such as driving while license suspended and possession of marijuana. Angel and Renae met when he was referred to by his aunt for a job. At first, he was just another employee. Eventually, Renae fell for his charms. He moved in seven months ago.
Earlier that day, Renae was at the Township Arboretum for the Skelton-Whitaker wedding. The menu was a staffed buffet consisting of sliced beef tenderloin, coq au vin, and goat cheese ravioli plus two salads, two starches, two veggies, & two desserts. The guest list was for 75. Renae was milling about making sure everything was perfect and communicating with the wedding planner nonstop.
Angel was working setup and takedown so he was on the premises too. He schlepped equipment into place and stepped away when he was done to smoke a joint. He was good and high when the ceremony concluded and the guests began to eat. When the dancing started he disappeared to inhale a few more puffs.
Collin, the bride’s brother, was one of the groomsmen. He decided to take a break from the action and headed towards the office which had one been a grand family manse. He smelled weed. He followed his nose. “Hey!”
“Yo,” Angel was startled.
“Can I take a pull,” smiled blue-eyed dude with buzzed hair.
“Uhhhh…”
“Come on, man. I can hook you up after we get outta here.”
“It’s all good,” Angel held out the blunt.
“Thanks! I’m Collin.”
“Angel.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“What’s up?”
“Don’t you think it’s pretentious and wildly irresponsible for people to spend so much on a wedding when there’s such huge poverty rates?”
“What?!?”
“My parents. They’ve written big checks for this monstrosity, but willingly ignore the plight of our inner cities.”
“What do you know about the inner city?”
“I’m a social worker. I engage with vulnerable populations daily.”
“Vulnerable is offensive. Maybe a little accurate, but we’re not all like that.”
“I didn’t say…”
“Relax, white boy. I ain’t finna hem you up or nuthin’.”
“Oh okay,” his flushed face returned to its normal color.
“Can I ask you a question,” Angel posited.
“Of course.”
“Why not just live your comfortable life in blissful ignorance.”
“I couldn’t do that. I’ve always been empathetic.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I’m a card carrying A.C.L.U. member ready to march for the cause of social justice.”
“Bet.”
“So where do you and your husband live?”
“I’m single. You interested,” winked the sassy dude
“Little bit,” remarked Angel.
“Oh wow!”
“Them slacks kinda tight on them cakes.”
“I know I gained a few pounds.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“Excellent.”
Collin sucked Angel’s 7-¾-inch cock then stood in front of the Blatino man.
“Fuck me,” begged Collin.
“Damn! This chunky booty...”
“You like it?”
“Yeah! Gimme dat pussy, boi!”
“That’s it, papi! Fuck my boipussy.”
“Shit, faggit. Squeeze them cheeks on my dick!”
“Do you like big booty faggots?”
“Hell yeah!”
Angel smacked Collin’s ample derriere as he pounded.
“Fuck me, Angel! Fuck me!”
“Take this big Black Rican dick, white boi!”
“Oh...Ooooh...Yeah! I’m your white faggot sissy boi!”
“Goddamn! I’m finna bust!”
The pair straightened up and eventually returned to the goings on.
Renae’s team broke down the setup after the conclusion of the reception. She headed directly home. Angel was going to unpack at the office and clean the dinnerware.
That evening back at home, Renae was lounging on the couch in the den. She was watching an episode of ‘Girlfriends’ and drinking a third glass of wine.” She saw the headlights pull up. Angel walked in and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Where you been,” she hissed.
“Nowhere, baby. Whatcha watching?”
“Stop lying, nigga!”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I saw you today.”
“Yeah. We worked together all day long.”
“No, motherfucker! I mean I saw you screwing that white boy!”
“Huh!”
“Don’t play dumb! I saw it with my own eyes. I can’t take this. I want you outta my house now.”
“Fuck this shit,” Angel barked. “Let me get some clothes and I’ll go.”
“So you’re just gonna go?!?!?”
“You told me to leave.”
“You’re not even going to fight for me.”
“I’m not about to argue and fight.”
“You’re an asshole!”
“Yeah! I am.”
“And a faggot! I’m not gonna pay your way while you screw anything with a fucking pulse.”
“I’m outta here,” he turned around and headed to the front door.
“Wait,” she called out.
“What,” Angel asked right before the bullet tore through his chest.
Renae fired twice more.
Keven was in his bedroom. He heard the shots and jumped out the window. He called 9-1-1.
Renae also called 9-1-1. She was crying and sobbing. “I think I...I shot him,” was all she could muster. She could not believe what she’d done.
“Huh,” grunted the 78 year-old, light-skinned man.
“Wake up,” she admonished him. “Something’s going on outside.”
“Hang on,” he sat up slowly.
Lesley put his feet on the floor and felt around for his fleece-lined, suede slippers. He eased them on and affixed his spectacles to his face. He went to the master bedroom window and peered through the blinds. He was shocked by what he saw - four patrol cars, two ambulances, and a multitude of people milling about. “It looks serious, hun!”
“It’s these renters moving in,” Clara sneered.
“Actually, they’re at Renae Clement’s house,” he informed her.
“What,” she clutched imaginary pearls. “Renae?!?”
“That’s what I said, Clara,” he stressed.
“Excuse me then! I’m gonna make some tea. You want some?”
“May as well.”
The retired electrician put on his red, terrycloth robe. He walked downstairs and opened the front door. He went to the curb and waved over a uniformed officer. “What’s going on?”
“We’re responding a shooting,” the young, trim patrolman explained.
“Oh my,” Lesley gasped. “I never would’ve expected this.”
“I know. This neighborhood is pretty well-established.”
“Yep,” the old man concurred. “Most of us here still own. Half baby boomers. A few families with k**s in high school or college. Working middle class folks,” he described the enclave of ranch-style & split-level homes that sat on small, well-maintained lawns and a variety of premium and luxury vehicles parked in their driveways. “But there’s been some folks who’ve sold to property management companies that rent them houses out.”
“Yeah. My grandparents used to live here,” the officer said.
“Who,” Lesley quizzed.
“Joe and Ruth Blair.”
“You don’t say,” beamed Lesley and extended his hand in camaraderie. “Nice folks. Joe could grill a steak,” he reminisced.
“He sure could,” the guy co-signed the statement. “I’m Terrance.”
“Which one’s your dad?”
“Reggie.”
“Good ol’ Reggie Blair. That boy had an arm on him,” recalled Lesley.
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“But, they weren’t giving Black quarterbacks any love back then.”
“I know. Where you already awake?”
“No. I could sleep through a bomb thanks to Nam. My wife is brewing a pot of tea. Would you like a cup or maybe some water?”
Terrance chuckled. “Yeah. Give me a sec to clear it with my captain. I’ll be right there.”
Lesley saw a handcuffed Renae Clement being put in the backseat of a cruiser. He went inside to share his notes with his wife of 56 years.
What the Mangums and Cpl. Blair didn’t know yet was that it all started about 12 hours earlier.
Renae, a single mother of two, owned a catering and event planning service that she started 13 years ago using a $15,000 minority entrepreneur grant. She’d worked in food service management for a number of years at educational and healthcare institutions and wanted to strike out on her own. Her company was solid now. She had three full-time and seven part-time employees. Plus there was a roster of contractors she kept to staff up for events. Her top line revenue was $875,000 the year before with an 11% gross margin.
The 49 year-old business owner’s adult c***dren were biologically half-siblings. She and Monica’s dad never wed. On the other hand, she was married to Keven’s father for 10 years. She split with him because he wasn’t driven enough. He was happy toiling away in low-paid menial labor. She wanted more and she had gotten it. She wasn’t rich by any means, but she was able to pay the bills and save & invest.
Keven, aged 24, moved back in with her about two years ago. He did some gig work as a helpdesk technician.
Also, staying in the house was Angel Correia - a medium-height, bull-necked brown-skinned man. He was 33 years old and had done a couple of stints in jail for misdemeanor convictions such as driving while license suspended and possession of marijuana. Angel and Renae met when he was referred to by his aunt for a job. At first, he was just another employee. Eventually, Renae fell for his charms. He moved in seven months ago.
Earlier that day, Renae was at the Township Arboretum for the Skelton-Whitaker wedding. The menu was a staffed buffet consisting of sliced beef tenderloin, coq au vin, and goat cheese ravioli plus two salads, two starches, two veggies, & two desserts. The guest list was for 75. Renae was milling about making sure everything was perfect and communicating with the wedding planner nonstop.
Angel was working setup and takedown so he was on the premises too. He schlepped equipment into place and stepped away when he was done to smoke a joint. He was good and high when the ceremony concluded and the guests began to eat. When the dancing started he disappeared to inhale a few more puffs.
Collin, the bride’s brother, was one of the groomsmen. He decided to take a break from the action and headed towards the office which had one been a grand family manse. He smelled weed. He followed his nose. “Hey!”
“Yo,” Angel was startled.
“Can I take a pull,” smiled blue-eyed dude with buzzed hair.
“Uhhhh…”
“Come on, man. I can hook you up after we get outta here.”
“It’s all good,” Angel held out the blunt.
“Thanks! I’m Collin.”
“Angel.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“What’s up?”
“Don’t you think it’s pretentious and wildly irresponsible for people to spend so much on a wedding when there’s such huge poverty rates?”
“What?!?”
“My parents. They’ve written big checks for this monstrosity, but willingly ignore the plight of our inner cities.”
“What do you know about the inner city?”
“I’m a social worker. I engage with vulnerable populations daily.”
“Vulnerable is offensive. Maybe a little accurate, but we’re not all like that.”
“I didn’t say…”
“Relax, white boy. I ain’t finna hem you up or nuthin’.”
“Oh okay,” his flushed face returned to its normal color.
“Can I ask you a question,” Angel posited.
“Of course.”
“Why not just live your comfortable life in blissful ignorance.”
“I couldn’t do that. I’ve always been empathetic.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I’m a card carrying A.C.L.U. member ready to march for the cause of social justice.”
“Bet.”
“So where do you and your husband live?”
“I’m single. You interested,” winked the sassy dude
“Little bit,” remarked Angel.
“Oh wow!”
“Them slacks kinda tight on them cakes.”
“I know I gained a few pounds.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“Excellent.”
Collin sucked Angel’s 7-¾-inch cock then stood in front of the Blatino man.
“Fuck me,” begged Collin.
“Damn! This chunky booty...”
“You like it?”
“Yeah! Gimme dat pussy, boi!”
“That’s it, papi! Fuck my boipussy.”
“Shit, faggit. Squeeze them cheeks on my dick!”
“Do you like big booty faggots?”
“Hell yeah!”
Angel smacked Collin’s ample derriere as he pounded.
“Fuck me, Angel! Fuck me!”
“Take this big Black Rican dick, white boi!”
“Oh...Ooooh...Yeah! I’m your white faggot sissy boi!”
“Goddamn! I’m finna bust!”
The pair straightened up and eventually returned to the goings on.
Renae’s team broke down the setup after the conclusion of the reception. She headed directly home. Angel was going to unpack at the office and clean the dinnerware.
That evening back at home, Renae was lounging on the couch in the den. She was watching an episode of ‘Girlfriends’ and drinking a third glass of wine.” She saw the headlights pull up. Angel walked in and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Where you been,” she hissed.
“Nowhere, baby. Whatcha watching?”
“Stop lying, nigga!”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I saw you today.”
“Yeah. We worked together all day long.”
“No, motherfucker! I mean I saw you screwing that white boy!”
“Huh!”
“Don’t play dumb! I saw it with my own eyes. I can’t take this. I want you outta my house now.”
“Fuck this shit,” Angel barked. “Let me get some clothes and I’ll go.”
“So you’re just gonna go?!?!?”
“You told me to leave.”
“You’re not even going to fight for me.”
“I’m not about to argue and fight.”
“You’re an asshole!”
“Yeah! I am.”
“And a faggot! I’m not gonna pay your way while you screw anything with a fucking pulse.”
“I’m outta here,” he turned around and headed to the front door.
“Wait,” she called out.
“What,” Angel asked right before the bullet tore through his chest.
Renae fired twice more.
Keven was in his bedroom. He heard the shots and jumped out the window. He called 9-1-1.
Renae also called 9-1-1. She was crying and sobbing. “I think I...I shot him,” was all she could muster. She could not believe what she’d done.
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