Morocco: Coming to America

He had a bottle of water. He was about to leave his country for the rest of his life and he had one bottle of water in a dirty backpack.

The Moroccan "police" drag him down the car ramp to the dock. They claimed they were police but who the fuck knows. Everybody's police. I had to bribe two sets of "police" just to be able to go into town. My smart ass "sea-partner" refused to bribe the police, he also gave them dirty looks and cursed at them, he hates cops. Here, and in America. He's a rebel.

This is not America, I have no interest in shitting in the same place I shower, while I spend the rest of my life in a Moroccan prison, my mother sitting at home crying every night. No thanks.

I digress.

The "police" drag the would-be stowaway down the car ramp to the dock. I am on "ramp duty", I have no choice but to watch what is about to happen. They don't use their sub-machine guns. Thank God. I wouldn't have been suprised if they had. They opt instead for their night-sticks. I watch as they beat this man bloody. This man, who only wanted to come to America. That was his crime. Two of the police drag him to their car and drive away. The third police officer who is on security duty comes over to talk to me.

"What is going to happen to him," I ask.

"He will go to jail, maybe one month..." says the cop, then, after a long pause, "listen my friend, you want to buy some hashish, very cheap."

Always with the hashish.

I look at the cop and then I look up the at the gangway, the Bosun, a big Harley-Davidson looking mother-fucker is coming towards me, probably to make sure there isn't any trouble. I'm glad, I may need him.

"Go fuck yourself," I say to the cop.


MOVIE LINE OF THE DAY:
"I haven't felt this good since I overthrew the government of Chile." -The Man With One Red Shoe