Reasons I Hate Drugs & Stew Young’s Apathy

Reasons I Hate Drugs & Stew Young's Apathy 4

I have written much in my blog about Stew Young’s apathy toward crime. I’ve written about the Devils Army and about the coming gang and drug problems for Langford. In fact, I have written so much about those things that I fear the stated reasons I started my criticism of Stew Young’s policies may have gotten lost in his antics and in my very postings.

I have even posted what I believe will become the ultimate policing solution in Langford. There are reasons I hate drugs & Stew Young’s apathy, and I want to reinforce those reasons today with two sad realities from the drug world.

Why did I start down this path of attacking Stew Young’s apathy?

Thus, it is time to refresh your memory, and mine, as to why I started down this path. It was because of my hatred for drugs that I started out attacking the ever growing drug problems in Langford. But soon I found myself at war with Stew Young’s policies which promote drugs and deny their existence.

Two reasons that I hate drugs

What follows are only two of the memories/reasons from my book that instilled a hatred of drugs in me. They are two of the reasons I feel compelled to attack Stew Young and his lies, denials and policies.

Swing Low Sweet Chariot

Khalil Gibran: “The wolves prey upon the lambs in the darkness of the night, but the blood stains remain upon the stones in the valley until the dawn comes, and the sun reveals the crime to all.”

wolf clipart copyThe death of Paul

It was 8:30 a.m. on April 9, 2009. The first strand of the morning sun was cutting through the gap in the flimsy drape covering his sliding patio door, slicing the air with a rivulet of light filled with dancing dust mites, and casting a beam of brightness on his pillow.

He covered his eyes trying to shield himself from the sun’s awakening effect. He hadn’t had enough time away from life’s pressures and he needed to escape longer.

Sleep, like drugs, can be an escape

When it comes to temporarily escaping realities that have become too unbearable to face, there is little difference between dope and sleep. One instinctively seizes the nearest escape. At this moment, sleep was closest at hand, so it was his magic carpet of choice.

He groaned, rolled over trying harder to block the offending light. He tugged the pillow tighter atop his head, and wished for more darkness so he could resume his dream and avoid another day of thinking about things that tortured his mind.toss and turn

When had he gone to bed last night? He didn’t remember and only gave the thought a fleeting recognition. His body was starved for sleep, for water and for food, but sleep was making the biggest demand on him and was also the most expedient. He pulled the pillow even tighter to his head and pushed himself harder into the mattress.

Three hours later he felt as though he had just dozed off. He looked at the clock twice to make sure he was reading the correct time.

Then it hit him. There had been several people here last night. Images of twenty dollar bills and twenty dollar rocks flashed through his mind. He vaguely remembered the last guy leaving, pulling the apartment door closed behind him.


He also remembered that today was payday. It was time for money and money could help him temporarily chase away his demons again. That thought started an almost reflexive chain reaction. He hurriedly got dressed, splashed some water on his face, and rushed out of the apartment. He then picked up his pay cheque, cashed it, met a dealer, scored some dope and went home to relax and escape.

Death comes knocking

Sometime after 8:00 p.m. there came a rudely loud knock at the door. Paul crossed the few steps from his couch to the locked entry door that opened to the hallway. Upon opening the door, a blonde-headed male rushed past him as the two other men at the doorway looked on in surprise at what was happening.

strangled copyPutting Paul in a police choke hold from behind, the blonde assailant dragged Paul to the floor, with both him and Paul on their back. Paul struggled to break the hold and as he fought his pant bottoms rode up on his ankles, exposing the wad of cash secreted in his socks.

The money leaves but death stays behind

The other two grabbed the money and bolted out the door. The assailant, seeing that the money was headed toward the hallway, pulled himself out from underneath Paul. The attacker rose to his feet, and Paul started screaming and grabbing his attacker’s legs. Some of the money they took was money Paul had set aside to give to his family. Paul was loud because he wanted to attract attention to the fact that he was being robbed.

Paul’s attacker, anxiously and angrily realizing that Paul’s screaming would attract unwanted attention and already having enough troubles with the law for other crimes, turned back to Paul who was still on back and pushed Paul down with his hands as he sat on Paul’s chest so that Paul could not get up. Then he began strangling Paul with his two hands around Paul’s neck.

Fight or die

Paul was losing the fight. The devil at his throat kept squeezing. Paul could feel his knees weakening and could no longer resist the unrelenting pressure. His heart was pounding now. Paul screamed out, “Help me, somebody help me please.

He didn’t know if a voice had actually come from his larynx or if the scream was only in his mind. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been in his life.

The other two had fled with his money. “Was it a minute ago or an hour ago?” Paul didn’t know. He wondered why this devil was still choking him when he had no money.

Paul was still on his back, but this time with his attacker’s weight holding him to the floor. Their faces were only inches apart now as Paul looked into the eyes of a killer and the killer looked into Paul’s eyes to see Paul’s desperation and fear.

Help! I’m losing

Paul flailed at his assailant’s arms, trying desperately to break the death grip. He thrust his hands at the attacker’s face trying to gouge at his attacker’s eyes. But the killer stretched his neck upward, pulling his chin in the air and his head back as he bit at Paul’s fingers.

its murderNothing was working. Paul was losing strength with each movement. Even his mind was finding it difficult to fully engage his enemy. His willpower to survive was weakening. He couldn’t decide whether to continue to fight, or not. It seemed almost easier to quit than to continue.

He needed his brain to focus, but he sensed the end though and thought. “So this is how I die.” He wondered, “Why won’t my body fight, why?

He begged himself for strength. He tried frantically to will the power back into his arms and tried to command his legs to give one last thrust. There was another burning gasp for air, but the terror he felt was becoming a peaceful terror. Every effort he could muster was failing.

Peace at last

Memories of his family raced through his mind in a slow-motion pictographic display, like the drawings youngsters would make and flip through to give a sense of motion to stick figures. He saw images of his childhood in a misty background. He saw a bright flash of light, and then his brain exploded into a black nothingness. Then suddenly it didn’t matter anymore.

Paul was dead, murdered without mercy and he hadn’t even known why. He didn’t feel the indignity of his body being dragged to the closet and clumsily stuffed halfway in with his feet pointing accusingly at his killer. And he didn’t see Wyatt Evan Prince exit the suite and slink off into the hallway to savor the evil he had committed.

beckoning angelThe Angels call

I have seen the same Angels beckoning me that Paul saw. I have felt the same fear, seen my life flash before me, and grappled with an enemy I could not control. So I know what Paul felt and I have more compassion for him that you can imagine.

The difference is that my assailant was a blockage in my coronary artery and a doctor brought me back to life. Paul was not as lucky because his assailant was a vicious, blonde-haired fiend who did not want to save him, but only wanted to kill him.


It’s Alright To Cry

Orlando Gibbons: “The silver swan, who, living had no note, when death approach’d unlocked her silent throat…”

Unknown Author: “Some say you are too painful to remember. I say you are too precious to forget!”

Trumpeter Swan Picture 001Another senseless death in the hood

Today is May 17, 2014, and I was just told of the death of a young lady yesterday. She was a physically beautiful girl, but that is not the point; it wouldn’t be any different had she been physically ugly.

From the few brief times during which we had spoken with one another, she had also radiated an inner beauty. Again though, that is not the point either. The point is she was only fifteen years old and she is dead.

Just last week I had seen her sitting on a grassy slope as I drove by. She was near one of the homeless shelters with a few of her friends, whom I did not know. I gave her a bowl of fresh strawberries, a minor kindness for which I was rewarded with a major smile that almost overshadowed her twinkling, “Thank you.”

Her sincere reaction made me feel as though there existed a sea of beauty in the world of ugliness that surrounded her life.


As I write these words, oceans of rage are rolling down my cheeks and anger is demanding a way out of my soul. You see, this child of God never had a chance at life.  And as the person who told me of her death said, “Now she will finally have the peace a child heroin

Purportedly, she was the daughter of two addicts. When the parents split apart, her mother’s new boyfriend, according to her, sexually molested her, while her real father roamed the streets, playing tough guy and using and slinging his dope.

The pervert

The story has it that some nameless, shameless, but never blameless thirty-ish year old debauchee with kids of his own [This degenerate was never charged so I cannot name him], well known for his violence and depravities, was actually sexually defiling this young lady on a regular basis. Then this soulless degenerate gave her enough heroin to overdose.

Whether he overdosed her by design or by accident might never be known. But for his sick sexual behavior, I pray that this slime dies as a eunuch, slowly, alone, and shaking in fear. I pray that he spends eternity in the hands of Torquemada. And I pray that the grand inquisitor tortures this repulsive pedophile for the truth, but never believes a single word out of his mouth.

angel in coffinAnother Child Is Gone

Do not let it get lost on you that a child is gone. She was a child who may have someday been a mother. Or she could have been any of a number of other noble things. Thanks to drugs, she is now with the angels and only a memory and a loss to us.

Do any of you people get it yet? Is anybody out there listening? We now grieve another innocent. This is where child abuse leads. This is where drugs lead.

Just Fu*king Stop

Stop with the fu*king abuses. Stop with the fu*king excuses, and stop with the fu*king drugs. Just stop. I beg you; just fu*king stop.

Do you agree or disagree?  Participate in the discussion at the bottom of the page and share this article on social media with one of the links below.  Make yourself heard!

About Hal 171 Articles
Ex-golf inventor, Ex-stockbroker, author, blogger, social activist, drug counselor, public speaker

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