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Grand Ghoulish (Act One)

2020.08.20 23:06 pulpbusters Grand Ghoulish (Act One)

An absurd tale of twisted romance in which a photographer engages in a sordid affair with the wife of a surgeon–one who loves to get a little blood on his hands.
(Collects PulpBusters #01-03)
1-1
There are precisely two types of people in this world. The first are those daring few showcasing tasteful erotic photography on the walls of a small art gallery located in the sort of affluent coastal California "community" where everyone drives the latest model luxury vehicle, grows their own pot, and insists on charging their rocks by moonlight. (For the sake of legalities, the name of this particular town escapes me at the moment). Meanwhile, the other sort aren't complete idiots. And as a man we'll call Harold stood there in a mostly empty art gallery, staring up at a clock hung between a pair of before-and-after photos of a sticky motel room, he took solace in the fact that while his idiocy was on full display, at least nobody was around to witness it.
"Hey," a voice said, shattering the silence and dragging Harold kicking and screaming back into the harsh, unflattering light of his own failure with a thundering lilt.
Harold turned to a pink faux hawk in horned-rimmed glasses and a pantsuit, started to scream something about phoney capitalist elites sucking on the teat of artistic integrity, then thought better of it. “Hey, Brennifer.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he lied. “I think so.”
Brennifer looked to the empty gallery, then back to Harold. “Wow. Really?”
Harold looked at Brennifer for a moment, wondering if the dead-eyed woman across from him sold either scented oils or pills when she wasn’t failing to sell other people’s artwork for money. Pills, he thought. Definitely pills. “Have we sold anything yet?”
She shook her head, Nuh-uh. “But if it helps any, I’ve curated worse showings than this.”
“Really?”
“No. This is probably the worst.”
Harold considered this, then briefly imagined himself running through the gallery’s glass storefront and cackling his way down Main Street until finally succumbing to blood loss. “Thanks, Brennifer--”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t finish.”
“Oh?”
Harold shook his head, Nuh-uh. “I was going to say, ‘Thanks, Brennifer, for stomping on the shattered remains of my hopes and dreams.’”
Brennifer hung her head. “Oh.”
“Yup.”
“Sorry.”
Harold turned back to the clock. “It’s fine. I didn’t want to have to carry home what little self-respect I had left.”
1-2
The hours didn't slip away so much as they shuffled by, fell over, cried that they'd fallen and can't get back up, waited a moment, and then slowly got back to their feet before finally getting on with it. During this time, Harold decided his feet hurt and got a chair. And from atop an uneven, wholly uncomfortable chair that creaked and clattered every single time he shuffled his weight, Harold’s attention alternated between the clock on the wall and the scattered handful of disinterested locals and disinterested, broke tourists drifting in and out of the gallery. At one point, a pleasant man with thinning hair and a thick Romanian accent briefly considered purchasing that pair of seedy motel photos on either side of the clock. But as the pleasant man later told his equally pleasant, squattish wife, “I would love to buy it, but that angry little man looked like he needed it more.”
This continued for much of the afternoon until a wrinkly potato of a woman with a green visor and bad highlights in her hair asked Brennifer why the lady hadn’t put her phone away and asked the shaggy homeless man in the back to leave.
“You need to leave,” Brennifer said.
“What, leave?” Harold asked, looking up from his chair, accompanied by yet another slow, echoing creak that hung between them. “Why? This is my show.”
“You’re scaring everyone away.”
He cocked an eyebrow, scoffing, “‘Scaring everyone away?’ There’s nobody here, Brennifer!” He gestured to the still mostly empty gallery, locked eyes with a concerned couple in matching shirts, watched as they slipped out the door without any sudden movements, and then turned back to Brennifer. “Okay. Maybe you have a point.”
“Excuse me,” a voice tittered.
Harold and Brennifer turned ever so slightly to their right to find a petite woman smiling a confused smile. She was a cool forty poured into a silk sundress, dark curls kissing the bare, tanned skin of her shoulders. Only the faint hint of laugh lines appearing about a pair of bedroom eyes as a devilish smile--
“Can I help you, Ma’am?” Brennifer squawked.
Harold shooed Brennifer away with a wave of his hand, but without so much as a look her way. “Go vlog in the street, or something, will ya?”
Brennifer considered this, pretended to care, thought better of it, then floated away to do exactly as Harold suggested.
“Is she going to be okay?” the woman asked.
Harold shrugged, Who knows? “How can I help you, Ms…”
Harold’s voice trailed off, and his words hung there a moment before the woman realized the man in front of her wasn’t simply at a loss for words. “Sophia,” she said, extending her hand.
Harold smiled, and did just that. “How can I help you, Ms. Sophia?”
Sophia looked at her hand, back to Harold, then withdrew her hand without another word. “Aren’t you the janitor?”
“What? No.” Harold replied. “I’m the photographer.”
“Wait. Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, gesturing to the many photographs hanging on the wall, but specifically to the reasonably sized sign by the door with both Harold’s name and face printed on it. “These are all my--”
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized, sneaking another look at the sign by the door, “Harold.”
“Did you actually think I was the janitor?”
Sophia shrugged.
“Huh.”
“I mean, you dress so...” she trailed off, gesturing at Harold.
Harold sighed and shook his head. “No, I totally get it.”
"Poor," she clarified. "You dress like a poor--"
"Yeah. I got it."
She looked at him. Did you, though?
A silence fell between them until Brennifer was nearly rundown in the street by a passing bike messenger while she complained about her crummy day at work to strangers on the internet. Her subsequent shouting and swearing, though frowned upon by everyone else around her, provided a conveniently timed distraction for both Harold and Sophia.
“So,” Harold started, turning to the not-screaming woman beside him. “Sophia. Did you see something you like?”
“Actually,” Sophia replied, still seized on the pink-haired woman still shouting at the long-gone cyclist. “I wanted to inquire about a possible private session.”
“Seriously?”
Sophia turned toward a photograph of a naked woman wistfully looking out across Santiago Canyon at sunset, and sighed.
“Okay,” Harold blinked.
As she shared some emotionally charged story about her fading beauty and the men who once painted images of her, Sophia drifted from one image to the next, pausing dramatically as necessary. Harold watched this from his creaky chair, but mostly tuned in and out until Sophia stopped long enough that he simply assumed she had finished.
"I would love to photograph you, Sophia," he said, still creaking in that damned chair as he did so. "But, why me?"
She considered this for a moment. “Do you believe in fate, Harold?”
Harold didn’t consider this at all. “No, not really.”
And then for the sake of dramatic conflict, it was at this time that Sophia's previously unmentioned husband appeared.
1-3
He was a square jaw in khaki shorts. A head of luscious, perfectly coiffed hair wearing socks with sandals. Broad shoulders and meaty arms with a tiny wristwatch. Not since Charlton Heston descended from that mountain top in his finest robe and slippers has a chiseled work of divine art commanded the attention of all those in attendance. So it didn’t surprise Harold that, even as he stood on his chair, he was but a boy, in both stature and dress, to the animated slab of beef before him. And all he could think to say was this: “Is that a tailored polo shirt?” (It was.)
“Harold,” Sophia interjected, just before Harold could physically inspect the beefy man’s arms without permission. “This is my husband, Oliver.”
“Husband?”
“Doctor,” Oliver corrected, extending his hand to Harold like a Greek God reaching out to a chimp, “actually.”
“Of course you are,” the chimp said without thinking.
“Excuse me?”
But before Harold could even begin to consider constructing a lie to hide this strange and confusing mix of fear, insecurity, and pure animal attraction, he realized that what can only be described as Oliver’s massive paw was crushing his teeny-tiny baby-man hand. And as the bones and joints bent and popped in ways they never evolved to do, Harold recalled a date with a petite Vietnamese woman at a Japanese seafood restaurant. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name, or even why this scenario occurred in the first place. But he did remember the way he struggled to crack the shell of a crab with the big metal cracker they’d given him. And the way he felt uncomfortable watching his date rip and tear crab leg after lobster claw with her bare hands.
“I said, ‘You're crushing my hand.’”
Oliver released what remained of Harold’s hand. “Sorry.”
“Oliver's an experimental surgeon,” Sophia added, for some reason.
“Experimental? What, like ripping people open with his bare hands?”
“Wait,” Oliver said, with a not-insignificant amount of concern in his voice. “What have you heard about my bear hands?”
Harold looked at Sophia. “Is he serious?”
“Probably.”
“Sweetie?” Oliver said, his eyes never leaving Harold, which made Harold all sorts of uncomfortable, if we’re being perfectly honest.
“Yes, Darling?”
“Why are you introducing me to the janitor?”
Harold looked over and quickly examined himself in the glass of a photograph depicting a young interracial couple mid-coutis beneath a pier, the sunset behind them, the long shadows of the pillars caressing their naked flesh as the waves threaten to consume them whole. All-in-all, a rather impressive image. And it hardly took any convincing from Harold to get the couple to sign a release form. “Do I really dress that bad?”
“He's a photographer, Oliver.”
“Always good to have a hobby, I suppose. But why are we speaking with the help?”
Harold snapped his attention back to the beefy man and pretty lady. “Rude.”
“No,” Sophia said. “This is his show. These are his photographs on the wall.”
“My face is on the poster, man.”
“How quaint.”
“Thank you?”
“Bit gratuitous though,” Oliver added as he looked about at the skillful, if poorly marketed work around them, “all these pictures of naked people and their wobbly bits. Don't people share this sort of thing on the internet for free these days?”
“Oliver--”
“It's okay,” Harold said. “He's not wrong.”
“See?”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Yes. Well. I want to book Harold's services for a private session.”
“Is that right?” Oliver asked, once more staring deep into Harold’s soul.
Harold shrugged. “Yeah, I don't get it either.”
“You want to take private, erotic photographs my wife?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly in some state of undress.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you want to be paid to do such a thing?”
“Also yes.”
And just when it seemed like something might come about from all this awful tension, Brennifer took a moment from her nonsensical ramblings on the internet to stick her head back inside the gallery long enough to ask if someone’s latest model luxury vehicle was parked in the handicap spot across the street.
“Yes,” Oliver replied. “Why?”
“Because they’re towing it, Dude,” Brennifer duh’ed.
“Not again,” Oliver groaned. “Okay. Look. Henry?”
Harold,” Harold and Sophia corrected.
“Don’t correct a man when he’s giving you a job, Henry.”
“Yes, Sir,” Harold said, realized what he’d done (in response to Oliver, with his life), then accepted how stupid he truly was.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea to have a total stranger take erotic photos of my naked wife.”
“I mean, when you put it that way--”
“I did.”
“Right,” Harold conceded, spineless, gutless. “Well. Let me get you a business card, and--”
“No,” Oliver said, shaking his head and slapping Harold’s hand away from his own pocket. “Nope. No business cards.”
“What the hell?”
Oliver wiped his hands clean on the back of Sophia’s dress. “I don’t do business cards.”
Harold puzzled this, then decided it hurt too much. “What?”
Oliver dismissed this with a wave of his hand, muttered something about poor people, then took Sophia by the wrist. “Don’t worry about it, Hank. We’ll find you.”
Harold attempted to correct Oliver once more, saw Oliver and Sophia were somehow already out the door, then stepped off his chair.
“Did he threaten me?” Harold asked no one in particular. “‘Cuz that sounded like he was threatening me, maybe.”
“A little,” Brennifer said, still standing in the gallery’s doorway. “But if it helps any, they totally towed his car away. He’s super pissed.”
Harold smiled. “Yeah. That does kinda help.”
To be continued...
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2020.01.02 14:49 jordanbeff Album of the Year #2: Quelle Chris - Guns

Artist: Quelle Chris
Album: Guns
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Background
One of Detroit’s true odd-balls, Quelle Chris got his start in 2006 with fellow wordsmith Denmark Vessey, forming the duo known as Crown Nation, releasing their debut LP $lutbag Edition in 2008. Linking up with Danny Brown shortly after, Chris is credited as a writer for many of Brown’s early work, even going as far to produce several tracks on The Hybrid. In fact, they ran in such a tight circle that Quelle used the same beat from Danny Brown’s XXX on his 2011 debut solo album Shotgun & Sleek Rifle; (Quelle’s “MTFO” uses the same beat as Brown’s “Nosebleeds”).
Quelle began his rise to underground prominence after his 2017 album Being You Is Great! I Wish I Could Be You More Often was met with critical acclaim, landing at #26 on Anthony Fantano’s end of year list, #11 on Rolling Stone’s best rap albums of 2017, and #12 on bandcamp’s end of year list.
Quick to follow up what was clearly his best album yet, shortly after getting engaged to legendary underground MC Jean Grae, these two came together in 2018 to release their collaborative effort Everything’s Fine, which was somehow even more well received than Being You Is Great. It was awarded Best New Music by Pitchfork, and was hailed as the best album of 2018, landing at #1 on bandcamp’s end of year list.
After two albums in back to back years, both of which are widely regarded as his best works, a big question arose. Could Quelle keep this hot streak alive? Would he be able to continue making his unique, odd-ball flavor of hip-hop work in his favor, or would his nasal tone and eclectic beat selection come off as self-indulgence for the sake of self-indulgence? On March 29, 2019, Chris was given the chance to confirm whether his past two albums success were an outlier, or if he would finally cement himself in this decade’s underground hall of fame.
Album Review
In Quelle’s own words, from his bandcamp page:
Guns is an arsenal of both sounds, styles and subjects. At its core it’s about things that can be weaponized for good or evil, including ourselves. The words we say, what we fear, how we love, how we live, what we ingest, what we believe in, who we idolize, shit like that. Somewhat a sonic study of the question “do ‘guns’ kill people or do people kill people?
On Guns, Quelle examines not only the obvious sources of violence in American society, the literal guns, but the root cause(s) of where these violent urges stem from. “Guns” simultaneously acts as a metaphor for how institutions are weaponized to hold people down, as well as the weapons we have to fight back against an inherently corrupt system. Quelle explores these concepts with beautiful intricacy and depth.
LITERALLY (more patriotic than pie)
With a title like Guns, you might expect Quelle to utilize an aggressive sonic direction, using the beats to act as a metaphor for the loud and violent state guns exist within. However, Quelle instead opts to let his pen sprawl the concept. With the opener “Spray and Pray”, producer Dane sets the tone of the album with a simple kick and snare pattern featuring a thicc snare, while a tall, walking bassline backs the drums, creating an unsettling, yet simultaneously comforting vibe for Quelle to spit his socially conscious bars with his trademark mellow and monotone flow. At only 1:30, Quelle is able to pack a surprising amount of thought provoking bars into the brief track.
Quelle sets the lyrical tone of the album, nailing several major points regarding gun culture in America with multiple tightly packed one liners. Mentioning his original friend cohort and their eventual lifestyle change, concluding that a 401k is more useful than an AK-47. Commenting on the culture surrounding gun safety that he has experienced; where young people refuse to utilize their safeties, and how that mentality translates into adults who are intentionally reckless with their arms. The most poignant piece of commentary here is found in the bridge, where Quelle uses “all guns for hire” as a metaphor for the massive lobbying power provided to the NRA, who use that power to spread misinformation regarding gun violence in order to maintain the current status quo.
This song ends abruptly, with Quelle seemingly getting ready to go in for a second verse, when he is stopped short by…
Praying the climate changing, this game maintained by the youth
Watching 'em run and gun 'til they grow up to be like (gunshot)
...you guessed it, a gunshot. Quelle uses the opening track as an opportunity to create a library of generic gun violence talking points, almost in an attempt to get them out of the way. This is what the album would be if he were to address this deeply nuanced topic from a strictly surface level perspective. Instead, we are blessed with Quelle diving deeper into the social and cultural aspects of gun violence on the following track.
We then dive directly into the title track “Guns”, opening with a cascade of jazzy piano keys and a super smooth synth chord progression to compliment it, which then breaks into these double time opened snare claps, providing Quelle an up-tempo, bright and colorful backdrop to spit hyper conscious lyrics, beginning with the foundation as to what drives American’s obsession with guns.
Not unlike many different cultural phenomena, Quelle views the American fanaticism with guns as a learned cultural expression. He provides a few examples of how a weapon, that ideally should be used for protection, can be normalized in a person’s youth to the point where it’s not viewed as a weapon anymore. If a twenty-two caliber bullet is viewed as “more patriotic than pie”, or if you learned how to fire a weapon before you could even spell, then gun use has been deeply ingrained into your psyche and is now a standard aspect of your life. However, it’s not simply the presence of guns that has been normalized; it’s the misuse of these weapons as toys, and their appropriation as status symbols that has been normalized. The bigger your guns, the stronger you are. This is a fallacy that Quelle builds around for the duration of this album.
In the second verse, Quelle is able to extrapolate the idea that guns are an integral part of American culture, imagining himself in the shoes of someone who was raised with this world-view, reacting to some of the proposed gun control measures.
They hollering give me back my bullets, Lynyrd Skynyrd, new Van Zants
If you own it, then you'll pull it, maybe so, probably not
They spend billions like civilians won't catch trickle from the top
Just to protect or to progress what but little bit we got
Bruh-bruh, I'm your friendly neighbor, I stay on yo block
I protect and service, I big game, buckshot
Ain't no cracking that code, ain't no safety on locks
Might as well get you one, procrastinating will get you popped
After reeling from the unsurprising animosity to the proposed gun control measures, Quelle attempts to bargain with this “person” (not really an individual, more a representation of a group think). As their “friendly neighbor”, he understands their desire for protection in their neighborhood. Quelle states that even he arms himself; although, it’s likely with a hunting rifle or shotgun. Eventually realizing that there is no “cracking that code”, or getting through to them. If they are not willing to listen, nothing will change, and his only logical course of action is to arm himself at an equal level to his neighbor because, as stated, “procrastinating will get you popped”.
This verse does an excellent job of illustrating how the gun control argument in America has progressed on both sides. Instead of being clearly biased, Quelle presents viewpoints from both sides of the argument; showing how deeply ingrained guns are in American culture, and why people might be hesitant to willingly give up an aspect of their culture that they have always known. Simultaneously, it also illustrates the reaction that some people might take when their ideas to curve the widespread violence are immediately rejected; a reaction that will not only not solve the crisis, but exacerbates it. The idea that “if everyone has a gun, we would have no gun violence” only provides a sense of security on an individual level, not a systemic one.
All this is subtly expressed through Quelle’s 16 bars. As he progresses in his career, Quelle’s pen has become more and more impressive. Listening to the guy who once wrote a song called Super Fuck spew these incredibly socially conscious lyrics is almost shocking.
RACE & THE LAW (for the black, for the white, it’s for all)
“Color of the Day” is a simple skit track, taking a subtle jab at law enforcement, and how simply performing mundane activities (walking, shopping, swimming, driving) “while black” is enough to get someone stopped by the police. Really, the skit is meant to provide some context to the following track, “Mind Ya Bidness”.
Sounding like something straight out of a 1980’s video game, and further confirmed that’s exactly what Quelle was aiming for, with the music video, the self-produced “Mind Ya Bidness” is a representation of a few things. On the surface, it’s an ultra low-key flex track, with Quelle describing his night at a club. Obviously, the first thing he does before he even leaves his house, is get baked with his wife. But don’t try to take his weed, he’ll have you praying for mercy. He then heads out to the club; the catch here being that Quelle doesn’t like to stunt.
I ain't tryna stunt, I post in the back
Can't eat with them niggas, most them niggas is actors
You ain't got no homies, all your homies is rappers
If Quelle’s at the club, he’s hanging out in a back room with his ride or die friends and a shitload of weed. He mentions how he can’t hang with these “actors”, likely meaning other rappers that are putting on a facade. You may have more heads in their section, but they’re not your homies. They’re just dudes who are trying to get put on and chase clout.
The chorus outlines a small bit of social commentary with a double meaning, connecting the mellow flex-track to the overarching theme illustrated throughout the record.
'Cause me and mine 'bout to shine, that's for motherfucking sure
Feeling VIP, fill a zip full of motherfucking smoke
We got brown, we got white and some motherfucking Guinness
If Quelle feels like it’s a VIP kinda night, he’s gunna take a zip of weed and head out with his friends. In this case, it’s a mixed crowd (figuratively and literally). He’s got black friends, he’s got white friends, and he uses “Guinness” as a metaphor for his mixed-race friends, as well as the literal interpretation of drinking beers.
And ain't nobody here tripping, so mind ya motherfucking bidness
This is the double meaning that Quelle is implying throughout the song. If a group of dudes are just chilling and not causing a disturbance, then there’s no real reason for someone (a police officer) to not mind his business and leave them alone. Chris’ poignant social commentary, speaking on the systemic racism that plagues law enforcement officers throughout the US, is illustrated in the music video as well; after being welcomed into the back room of the club and bartering with a dude, he is chased by a pig and put in handcuffs, while a white dude smoking a bong right behind the pig is ignored and gets off scott free.
I COULD STAND IN THE MIDDLE OF FIFTH AVENUE AND SHOOT SOMEBODY AND I WOULDN’T LOSE
“Mind Ya Bidness” ends with this real life quote from our Orange In Chief , delivered via vocal snippet collage, introducing the topic found on the following track.
Imagine; it’s 2007 and presidential candidate Barack Obama gets in front of the press and starts talking about the strength of his campaign. He says, “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters”. How do you think this would have been received? I can tell you now, he would have been ostracized by the media and would have lost all the political support he had, nearly immediately. But Donald Trump, a person who had been in the media’s spotlight for ages before he announced his candidacy, can say this and be met with a room full of applause. LAUGHTER. A ROOM FILLED WITH PEOPLE LAUGHED AS HE STATED THAT HE COULD MURDER PEOPLE IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
And then he went on to win the fucking presidency.
“It’s The Law (Farewell Goodbye Addio, Uncle Tom)” opens with a plucky, walking bass-line, backing these off-kilter, slowly marching kick-kick-open-snare patterns, creating a beat that’s almost dragging its way through the track; an apt backdrop for the subject matter tackled, beginning with this skit:
It's God's and Nature's Law
That man attempt to prevail over his fellow man
Better to remember, that God is white
Would you mind repeating?
God is White; and as long as God is white
We will prevail over all other races
Both of these short skits are meant to outline white privilege; the former in a very real, recent vein, and the ladder in a more conceptual, abstract lane. It’s been well documented that Jesus Christ was not white, yet he is continually portrayed as a white man. Why? Why do people who worship Jesus, the supposed Son of God, insist on viewing him through this white-washed lense? It’s all about control. As long as God, or the Son of God, is white, they will prevail.
Both of Quelle’s verses on this track are packed full of metaphors and imagery that depict how white supremacy has been a keystone building block of the foundation of the United States. I’ll breakdown the subtleties of his first verse, as I find it to have some of the most intriguing metaphors and delivery I’ve heard this year.
Let he who is without cast the first 'Get-out-of-our-country'
Oh, the hypocrisy
Another tongue in cheek ode to the democracy
To help normalize the day to day atrocities
Quelle digs into this concept with brilliance right off the bat, repurposing one of Jesus’s most famous quotes (John 8:7) to call out the double standard of people calling for a wall to keep out “criminals and rapists”
By the law of the land, as planned by the man upstairs
From Lehem with the long blonde hair
The USA was intentionally founded as a country with religious freedom, yet it has somehow been misconstrued as a “Christian Nation” by any number of religious fanatics screaming for America’s laws to more accurately reflect the “morals of the Bible.” Quelle directly references the fact that Jesus, who was born in Bethlehem, Israel, a middle eastern country, is generally depicted as having long blonde hair.
Oh, the irony
All these multi-culti hatin' whities
Who fetishize some brown on ivory
AKA bless the USA
In the true blue bloods who trust, American Way
Quelle continues to poke holes in their logic, this time with a beautifully executed double entendre. The first of which being that white supremacists, who so vehemently hate black culture, fetishize the words of a brown-skinned Jewish man as the “law of the land”. The second of which being the fact that in todays society, southern states, which are generally associated with rampant racism and hatred of black culture, search for ebony and interracial porn at a far higher rate than the rest of the country.
Hate in the name of love
Sin ain't a sin if the pen pushes them vs. us
From under the ship to behind the truck
Behind the truck to the back of the bus
Now we makin' it?
Or going back where we was?
Progress is a long road
So buckle up
The treatment of African-Americans in this country could easily be viewed as a sin. That is, unless the laws of the US condone it, and until not that recently in terms of our country's history, they very much did. Quelle outlines a brief history of how the rights of African-Americans have progressed in the US, ending with a question. Have we made it? Have we reached a point where African-Americans are considered equal? Or have we regressed? Either way, buckle up, because progress is a long road.
This is easily the best verse I’ve heard this year. Not only is it unbelievably witty and well-written, but it’s delivered with such ease from Quelle that you might not even pick up what he’s talking about on first listen because his flows are so smooth and his rhymes are so tightly packed that you just want to listen to how effortless his raps are.
This song ends with the final iteration of the chorus...
It's the law, it's the law niggas
It's for me, it's for y'all, it's for all of us
For the straight, for the coochie and the ball lickers
It's the law, for the black, for the white, it's for all
...which then brings us back to the Donald Trump quote that initially lead us into the song. This is meant to drive the point home that laws are meant for everyone; except the 1%. If you’re part of the 1%, you are more than welcome to threaten murder on national TV; hell, it might even increase your poll numbers. And while historically, the law has been used to oppress people of color, Quelle now realizes that it has moved past just oppressing one race. It’s used as a mechanism to hold people in their current social class, and does not apply to people with money. Class is the new race, which is better for the oppressors, because it’s not illegal to discriminate against poor people.
GOD (and so will I… why not?)
Religion was touched on lightly in the previous track, the implication being that religion is the basis for the laws that have been so effectively weaponized to discriminate. “Wild Minks” follows in the tracklist, continuing the theme of religion; this time with a much more metaphorical and abstract approach.
The track opens with a lone piano note, and a few simple piano chords following shortly after. A very mellow kick-kick-kick-snare pattern that sounds like it’s been sat on eventually breaks into the track. Quelle added a layer of what sounds like vinyl static to the background of this track, making it feel distinctly lo-fi compared to the rest of the album, which sounds tightly polished and clean. Maybe this is due to the Mach-Hommy feature, whose vocals are consistently muddy and mixed down, even in his own music. Either way, this lo-fi hissing does detract from the verses spit on this song, making appreciating the subtle concept even more difficult. From a sonic standpoint, I’d say this is the low-point for the album. However this sonic shortcoming is more than made up for from a lyrical perspective. “Wild Minks” is, without question, the most complicated and abstract concept approached on this record. I’m going to do my best to break it down for you here, but I urge you to read the lyrics a few times before you read my explanation. A big part of what makes this concept so unique is the perspective from which Quelle writes his verse; blending true aspects of biblical scripture with absurdism, and using that as a metaphor for today’s society.
Quelle’s verse here starts out referencing Matthew 3:4, referring to John’s shirt of camel’s hair and his leather belt as “Wild Minks”. He then lays down an intricate and descriptive verse about John The Baptist and how he lived; detailing his affinity for substances, his desire for lavish compensation, his expansive housing, his high quality furs, his expensive diet, and how he’s considered to be cultured and refined by his friend group due to these things.
Wait, back up. John The Baptist wasn’t materialistic, was he? He’s considered a Saint in the Christian faith. How could someone who enjoyed such a lavish lifestyle be a literal Saint? As it turns out, very little Quelle details in his verse here is true about how John The Baptist lived. So why fabricate this detailed verse about his lifestyle? What am I missing here?
Quelle ends his verse with the perfect summation of the subtle metaphor outlined in this track:
Johnny boy wore wild minks, and so will I
Why not?
Chris uses the “wild minks” that John The Baptist wore as a metaphor to illustrate how religious scriptures can be easily lost in translation, and misinterpreted in ways that are far, even polar opposite, from their original intention.
If John The Baptist wore wild minks, what’s so wrong about me wanting to do the same? He was a Saint, after all. First off, a shirt made of camel hair isn’t exactly comparable to a “wild mink”. Even if that’s what it was referring to, during the time he was alive, the fact that he was wearing a wild mink implies that he was living in harsh conditions; he likely hunted those animals in order to stay warm and survive. However, in today’s society, a wild mink coat is considered a lavish and expensive luxury. Viewing this scripture from a strictly surface level perspective might allow one to interpret that living a materialistic lifestyle is condoned by the Bible.
His lyrics here reflect the absurdity of what it would have been like if John was to live with lavishness, with delicate complexity, such as:
Feasting on meats that was bled from the throat
Lambs and goats
Wiping the grease from said treats on the sleeves of his coats
Matthew 3:4 literally states that John’s diet consisted of locusts and honey. Quelle outlines the habits of today’s ultra-wealthy and re-appropriates them into the context of John The Baptist; making you realize the true absurdity of the way the 1% lives today, a lifestyle that has strayed quite far from what their “God” would condone.
Quelle’s verse here very subtly summarizes how scripture can be intentionally misinterpreted for personal gain and selfishness, expressed using extremely complicated and deeply coated metaphors, all of which sound buttery and smooth flowing from Chris, thanks in part to his complex rhyme schemes. This is undoubtedly the most subtle concept in the whole album. No joke, it took me a full week of dissecting these lyrics and studying John The Baptist to piece this metaphor together.
P.S. Fuck you and your shitty DMCA takedown requests Mach-Hommy!
YOURSELF (i par up bar for bar, pa)
While the first half of this album beautifully details the many ways in which our society is designed to hold people back, the second half of this album is about how we can combat it. As individuals, we don’t have the luxury of being able to design our country to benefit the few. We must operate inside the system we’ve been born into, and Chris is aware that the most powerful weapon we have to fight back against a corrupt system is our own success. This is what “Box of Wheaties” represents.
As some of you might already know, Quelle Chris recently changed the beat on "Box of Wheaties", presumably due to sample clearance issues. When I discovered this, I went to check his Twitter to see if he mentioned anything about it, and the very first thing I saw was this series of tweets that Quelle had recently pinned. He basically goes off on hating the streaming service industry, and how we are just borrowing music from Big Brother.
Really the most essential thing to take away from this, is that buying music is arguably more important than ever. By exclusively streaming music, you don't own any of it. It can be taken away in an instant by any number of frivolous lawsuits artists are slapped with on a regular basis. But, if you buy a physical copy of an album, no one can take it away from you.
I'm extremely lucky to have had the foresight to download the album to my phone, which has not yet been changed. However, one day when the data is corrupted, I will have no option but to re-download the tracks, and I will lose the OG version of "Box of Wheaties". BUT, I have the album on vinyl. And although it was pressed with an illegal sample, there is no court that can take away my vinyl. I have that version forever now.
Initially, I wondered if I should have my review reflect the original version, or the updated version that new listeners would experience. However, it’s clear from his tweets, this new beat is not what he envisioned or wanted for this album. He put out the version with this sample for a reason. My review will be reflective of the original version.
The beat on “Box of Wheaties” (originally) samples Les Hurdle - You’ve Got What It Takes, taking the smooth guitar melody and jazzy drums, pitching them down, and looping it to fit into the slow groove of 88 BPMs that “Box of Wheaties” so comfortably rests at.
Chris opens this track with a super catchy chorus, featuring a flurry of internal rhymes and the smoothest delivery you can imagine, listing reasons as to why he thinks you should find his face on a box of Wheaties, a place historically reserved for “Champions”.
Chris has been grinding in his profession for a long time. He’s been making music for well over a decade; at this point in his career, he’s 15 albums deep. If you had paid attention, he believes you would find his work is worthy of a spot on a Wheaties Box.
Now, if Wheaties were to start including artists (musicians, writers, actors, etc.) on their prestigious boxes, would Quelle qualify? Based on his overall discography quality at this point, I would say no. In my opinion, he has three albums that are worthy of true praise and accolades, all of which came out within the last 3 years. But that’s not what Chris is alluding to with this metaphor. His point here is, being confident enough to believe that he deserves the Wheaties Box spot is a major factor in manifesting that reality.
The way Quelle delivers this hook with absolute confidence in his ability, even mentioning that his raps are good enough to “par up bar for bar, pa” with any rapper in the game today, is an attitude that society could benefit from. Put in the work and know that the accolades will follow. This is exactly what happened with Chris’ work. After grinding for 10+ years, he finally began getting noticed in 2017 with Being You Is Great. Everything’s Fine was named bandcamp’s AOTY in 2018, and he has what I consider to be the best album of 2019 with Guns. But it starts with knowing that you belong there. Your thoughts manifest your reality. Put in the work and know it will come, and it will.
SLEEVELESS MINKS (smoke em if you got em)
If “Wild Minks” represents the many ways that the elite live to excess, “PSA Drugfest 2003” represents the limited ways that the 99% live in excess. Since most of us don’t have money to blow on lavish clothing, cars, or homes, we’re forced to find ways to cope with the stresses of living in this near-dystopian wasteland, and there is nothing more cost-effective at doing so than drugs.
Acting as the follow up to his song “Drugfest TooThousandToo" from his 2015 album Innocent Country, Chris takes the concept previously explored and amplifies the message. In “TooThousandToo”, he utilizes a crowds’ reaction to his mentioning of certain drugs as the litmus test for what drugs are good and what drugs are bad, eventually concluding that weed and mushrooms are the favorites from the crowd. In 2003, Chris has evolved his opinion, throwing caution to the wind with his drug choices. This is made clear right off the bat with his opening line.
This town ain't the right size for you and I
Six million ways to fly, who's tryna die?
Chris is rapping from the perspective of the average American, looking for ways to cope with the insane stresses that the elite have forced us to live with. He isn’t looking to be picky with his high, he just wants it to distract him. He starts with the spliff, but quickly graduates to harder drugs as the weed and nicotine high “got lame”; moving up the drug intensity scale as our drug tolerance increases and our social and economic injustice tolerance decreases.
When that shit got lame, we spiced up the game
Brought out the blades and lined up cocaine
Prefer it off white, but albinos, okay
To balance out the jump, we rolled it up Js
Making one last bible reference in the chorus here, he relates the American people to the sinners of Sodom and Gamorrah, implying that we would rather be dead than to continue to live in the wasteland that we currently exist within. And let me tell you, in a certain sense, he’s not wrong.
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR (trust me tho i seen it)
The track “Sunday Mass” is sandwiched between Drugfest and “Straight Shot”. This short, one verse song, delivered by Bilal Salaam, is essentially a laundry list of mass shootings from the past few years. Bilal refers to the Pulse nightclub shooting, the Las Vegas massacre, and the Texas shooting that occurred in a Baptist church, amongst others. This is used to set up the concept of the following track.
“Straight Shot” is a representation of a couple things. One, it outlines some of the hopelessness that many of us experience due to the long-term impact of the many weapons that society has pointed at us, be they literal or figurative. We get to watch our neighbors be executed by mad-men with guns on TV on a semi-regular basis, and then walk outside to a world that is literally designed to oppress you and make you complacent. It’s not difficult to see how the combination of horrors we are subjected to regularly can make people feel like there’s no point in being here. I know for a fact that I’ve experienced it, and I’m positive plenty of you have as well. Two, it’s a reminder for people who are feeling this way that there are reasons to stick around.
Featuring a verse from Brooklyn native Cavalier, "Straight Shot" is easily one of the most gorgeous and well composed songs on this record. Melancholy piano keys and a single bass note opens the track, followed shortly by Quelle singing the incredibly soulful chorus. He seems to be on the brink of crying, with his voice cracking as he sings along. A skeletal drum kit comes in after the first iteration, followed by a choir of voices singing the bassline melody, before the full drum kit kicks off Quelle’s verse.
Chris opens the track with a verse that’s very light, describing himself seeing the good in the world. He paints a picture of himself enjoying life; making the music he loves, laughing at his past pain, and stopping to sniff the flowers. He recognizes that he’s preaching to the choir, as his fanbase are generally people who might be aware of the issues he’s been outlining during the past 35 minutes.
Cavalier follows the chorus with a verse that paints a diametric view of the world. He describes his time on “this pitiful stone” as a Sisyphus Stroll, and his desire to leave it all behind. However, Quelle’s perspective in the previous verse has brought him back from the brink. Using absolutely gorgeous imagery to describe his misery, and his eventual conclusion that there are reasons to continue on; Cavalier realizes that the powers that be are the ones making him doubt his worth, and if there’s one thing he loves, it’s an underdog story, and standing against the ruling class in today’s society is about as big of an underdog that you can be.
EAT THE RICH (i’m tryna burn this bitch down)
The lead single for Guns, “Obamacare” features this absolutely haunting, choppy synth lead pounding away until a short piano melody erupts into the enormously heavy, and honestly sinister beat drop. On the surface, “Obamacare” seems like a simple flex track, with Quelle laying down ultra-confident bars, painting a picture of other rappers being terrified to take Chris on. However, watching the music video, you begin to realize the secondary meaning that he’s attempting to outline; anarchy.
Quelle’s hook game has been massively improved, even from his last few records, with the catchy chorus starting off with lyrics that any anarchist would be proud to chant in the streets.
I'm tryna burn this bitch down, I ain't tryna break in
Fuck your opinion 'bout us, to me don't mean nathan
I brought the wave, brought the rain, brought the lake in
Eyes on the cake and yours is for the takin', wait man
Lyrically painting a picture of a society that is sick of being oppressed by the ruling class and is finally ready to rise up, Chris’ anarchist nature is made very clear in the music video. The chorus features a robber burning down a building and making off with a comically sized money bag, while a cop, in an ironic twist of fate, is stuck behind bars, as well as a literal lake of blood rising while pieces of cake, depicted as boats, float around the blood lake.
If you were look at this from a surface level perspective, you would likely see a flex track, as Quelle’s second verse particularly comes off as “look at how much better I’m doing than you”. But watching the video, it becomes clear that he’s rapping from the perspective of the 1%. We see Chris and his “friends” sitting around a table, playing cards, while his verse details some of the privileges the 1% live with; being able to gamble money away while people in the lower classes would significantly notice a few more dollars in the paychecks. Their neighbors are high ranking pharmaceutical industry members with access to any drug they can imagine, vacationing together in southern beach houses, eating steak and eggs until gout forms. These lavish lifestyles are bound to anger the lower classes, who are literally starving. Hence the chorus’ overt “eat the rich” themes.
ROMANTIC LOVE & LEGACY (and when i win, we win)
Following “Obamacare” as a much needed positive note(s) to end the record on, the album’s love song, which features Quelle’s wife Jean Grae on the refrain, might seem a bit out of place on this album at first glance. However if you’ve made it this far into the review, you can likely conclude that Chris is making the point that finding the right person allows both of you to muddle through this hellscape known as our society with a bit more ease. You hold each other up in times of darkness, and celebrate big in times of light. One person’s victory becomes our victory. Quelle and Jean married in mid 2018, and if you were looking for a compelling reason to keep going on “Straight Shot”, Quelle is letting you know his with “You, Me, & Nobody Else”.
Finally, we are brought to the closer “WYRM”. This track shows Quelle ruminating over the idea of his legacy, and how he will be remembered when he’s gone with absolutely gorgeous lyrical expertise, particularly in his first verse. He’s aware that most people who are born into this world are forgotten sooner than later, and the only way to be truly remembered is if you have a worthwhile legacy. Calling back themes previously mentioned throughout the album, he feels like he's done enough to be remembered, but don’t we all?
Will you remember me?
Am I just a moment for few to see?
Another black face rapping nigga on a cash chase?
Dozen for a dime, penny for your mind at one time?
Chris is aware of the saturation of rappers in the game now and worries that his legacy will be downplayed and forgotten due to the direction he took his art in. Rappers who are making music just for the money are a dime a dozen lately, and he’s concerned that his legacy will be tarnished due to those who aren’t in it for the right reasons.
Overview
This is by far Quelle’s best album to date, in my opinion. Guns does an unbelievably gorgeous job identifying the many ways our society has been oppressed into submission, while simultaneously summarizing how we can rise above the few and be better people for it with intricate detail. Chris’ lyrics are sharper and more layered than they've ever been, and the self-produced beats are beautiful beyond words. Guns is not only a milestone for Quelle Chris’ career, as this is by far the most cohesive and conceptually brilliant piece of work he’s ever released, but it also represents a breaking point in our society, as well as the framework for how we can better ourselves and the people around us on the long road ahead. Quelle has nailed every aspect of this project, stringing these 13 tracks together into a album that is far greater than the sum of its parts.
9.2/10
Favorite Lyrics
Talking Points
  • How does this album compare to the rest of Quelle’s discography?
  • Do you think I’m reaching with some of the points I made during this review?
  • What are your favorite lyrics?
  • How do you think this album will be looked back on in 5 years?
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2019.06.09 20:08 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 23:05 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 13:46 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 13:45 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.’s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.06.07 02:33 rhonnie14 PREMIERE: I Went To O.J.'s House (Part 1/2)

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Him and I argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to Pearse and I about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grammy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Pearse and I's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward Pearse and I. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
Link To Part Two
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2019.03.04 21:20 poloniumpoisoning My Friends From Under The Trap Door

Did they tell you in History class that the Egyptians mostly didn’t drink water, only booze, because the water wasn’t clean enough, and they had no way to purify it except by making alcohol? I never fully believed someone could survive solely on wine and beer until I saw it for myself.
It was a cold, misty autumn day, just how I like it. I was coming home from work, totally minding my own business, when I met a good friend of mine from high school. Lizzie told me she was waiting for a guy, and I mistakenly assumed it was a date.
But it was her drug dealer.
After a few minutes of small talk, the guy showed up. They were horribly conspicuous and, before I could think of an excuse to get the fuck out of there, I noticed a few cops were staring at us.
I ran on pure reflex, and I was right. Both Lizzie and the dealer were white, so sure, pursue the Hispanic girl, even though she’s the only one here that doesn’t look like Post Malone.
I ended up in an alley, and I know it’s stupid and cartoon-like, but my plan was to hide there. Unfortunately I tripped in a few discarded cardboard boxes and fell on the floor behind a big dumpster.
There was a small trap door in ground of the alley.
It was weird, and I was totally okay with leaving it alone, but there was a rat approaching me, so I tried the handle, and it opened.
As I entered there, I had the sensation to be falling forever, but in fast-forward. It didn’t hurt when I landed, and I was on my feet.
I was in an alley just like before, but it was way dirtier and murkier, and I wasn’t alone. There was a tall man with mohawk hair and a long beard. He wore a long black coat and combat boots, and binoculars were hanging from his huge pocket. He had a big haversack on his back and was holding something in both of his hands, but I couldn’t see what.
Under his slightly short trousers, I noticed one of his legs was mechanical. I didn’t want to say anything, but he became aware of my presence just from the sound of my breathing – maybe, just maybe, I was a little worked-up.
“Who’s there?” his voice was thunderous. He turned in my direction and I finally saw what he was holding. I don’t know the technical details, but I’m sure it was a high-precision rifle. He was some kind of sniper.
Throwing my arms in the air, I said I’m sorry.
“Are you from the Laitos?” he growled. The man spoke English in an accent I didn’t recognize.
“No, no, I swear. I was just… coming home from work. Police chased me.”
He carefully examined me.
“What’s with those clothes? Who the hell are you?”
“I am… well, my name is Lupita. I study Social Work at the local University”.
He looked at me like I was insane.
“There’s no University anymore”, he barked those words and, before I could react to them, he kept questioning me. “How the fuck did you show up in this alley? There’s no way to come from the other way and I would have seen you”.
“I… I know you won’t believe me, but I fell from a trap door right here, behind you”.
He silently stared at me for a few moments, then shook his head like he said “well, whatever”.
“You gonna need some equipment if you’re staying here, Lupita. I’m Alastrine. Follow me”.
I followed. We carefully sneaked through devastated streets, empty of people. The ruble piled up, and in mere few blocks I saw a lot of dead animals. Dozens of carcasses. I think I saw a human body too.
The buildings were all shattered beyond repair, possibly unusable and inscribed in graffiti, there was no tree in sight and the pavement was all broken, like grenades were used there and nobody bothered to fix. It was a warzone.
“What is this place?” I asked as quietly as I could.
“We call it The Last City In The World” he replied, never looking at me, his smart eyes always scanning the road ahead. “There’s pretty much three kinds of people now. Laitos, the controlling elite and their army; budak, the slaves of the system, and us, the rebels. We call ourselves Motstånd. It means resistance in an old language”.
I fell silent for a long moment to process this information. I was in a dystopia; the world was pretty much destroyed, everything I knew was gone, and there was only survival and fear now. I know our world is pretty chaotic and often scary, but it’s nothing like that. At least we have a sense of normalcy. Except if a tragedy happens, you will get home from work today. How would your life be if there was no work, no money, no breakfast, no family to welcome you home at the end of the day, no restaurants to pick up dinner, no permanent place to live?
That’s what living in The Last City Of The World is like. But it’s also way more.
“Get down, Lupita!”
I jumped behind a pile of garbage as a deafening battle started. Alastrine was fast like lightning. I couldn’t see what was happening or how many men we were against. It was one of those moments that ends quickly, but at the same time they seem to last too much because you’re ultra-aware and your heart feels like it’s pounding thousands of times per second.
After it was over, we kept walking. There was a fresh corpse in the street, a man in military uniform whose left side of the body exploded in blood, bowels and gore. As we walked past him – was this deformed mass of a former human still a “he”? –, Alastrine murmured.
“I’m so sorry you had to end up like this, Brother”.
***
After that, we arrived in the Motstånd headquarters. It was nothing more than a hangar where around a dozen of people went to eat, sleep and plan their next movements; sometimes they found someone hurt, usually a slave, and brought them to get medical care. This was the entire last resistance against tyranny in the entire humanity.
Conant, Alastrine’s husband, was tending to someone’s wounds when I first met him. The person was covered in blisters, I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. They had lost one arm, and only a raw lump descended from their right shoulder.
This person probably won’t make it, I thought. But at least they didn’t agonize and die alone in the street.
There was no water fit for drinking. I helped Conant put liquor and beer in his patients’ mouths. Some were brand-name drinks, but most were crafted by the resistance.
You could tell Alastrine had a hardened heart, but Conant was still gentle. He was always eager to take care of people, even if it meant witnessing death and ugly sores. Conant welcomed me like a sister, and helped me find the better-fitting armor we could find in their spare box of equipment.
They all wore some kind of protection under their clothes. Some had bulletproof vests, stolen from enemy soldiers, corpses or found after revolving huge piles of trash. A few of them had metallic vests and shoulder pads; I came to find out that a small woman named Yseult was able to manufacture them from remains of cars, busses, or any metallic piece that was big enough.
Sometimes, they organized expeditions to places with interesting garbage – canned food, medicine, metal and weapons, mostly.
I learned that, in their world, it was the year 2040 and civilization had fallen no more than three years earlier. Everyone I met had lost everyone else; they were mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters and brothers to someone that is gone forever.
I decided to stay and help for as long as I could, and Conant named me his assistant. I did my best to comfort the sick and the amputees; nobody had hope of surviving for long.
“We just want to piss off Laitos while we last”, Conant said, as we worked together on bandaging an older man that lost one of his hands. “We’re dying soon, Lupita. We the rebels in this city used to be more than 300 people when civilization officially fell. Some surrendered, most died. The only slave that was ever able to escape and survive was Alastrine. That’s why we call him that; it means protector of mankind. Things got better after he became our leader, but let’s face it, every day we are closer to being erased from the world. I just want to make sure I don’t go down without a fight”.
***
I have so many memories from The Last City In The World I could probably write a book. I kept coming back for months, and maybe you’ll ask yourself why I didn’t stay the whole time. As time passed by, I learned the three rules of the trap door to another reality.
Rule number one: People from our world can only stay there for 24 hours before being pulled back, and can’t go again for the next 24 hours. So I simply vanished from there after spending an entire day. I was back in the original alley, in my original world – your world.
Rule number two: Nobody from the upside down city can go to our world. I tried so hard to hide my friends in our world, to bring the injured to our hospitals, but I can’t. The trap door won’t show up from the other side, I have to wait to be brought back after a whole day. I also can’t bring anything alive even if I’m holding them in my arms.
I would learn the third rule way later.
It was the middle of winter. The cold is hard to handle in The Last City In The World because there’s no electricity anymore – at least, not for the rebels – and it’s very difficult to find blankets that are good enough to use. I brought a few for my friends; I’ve been getting them basic supplies such as potable water, food and clothes, but I can only carry what’s in my body and fits the trap door with me, so every time I cross the path between realities I bring only whatever fits a big backpack or a small suitcase.
I’m not rich either, so I can’t get them anything sophisticated. I obviously tried to bring phones, but all the signals were cut by Laitos.
We were in an operation to get firewood; it was almost impossible to keep warm without a bonfire that day, and I volunteered to go. We roamed around the whole devastated city, but couldn’t find a single tree. Laitos had made the slaves cut them all off, and build rural fortresses for them, where all the remaining trees were. They literally expected the rebels to freeze to death.
Not on my watch, I thought, as I climbed their tall walls. My plan was to enter their property and steal firewood from them. I don’t know why I was so bold; I was never too athletic, but I’m small and light, and I’m the only person that’s been properly eating in the group. It was only natural that I’d take the risk.
“I trust you, Lupita” were the last words I remember hearing, from Conant. Alastrine looked at me like I was crazy, but we both knew he couldn’t afford to complain about my boldness.
I was shot in the moment I finished trespassing, and I remember dying. My blood was so warm, and the bullet holes hurt so much. But I immediately was back on the original alley, with my original clothes, unscathed.
***
I was able to respawn. It made me wonder if that world was even real.
Rule number three: Nobody from our world can actually die there.
So maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to take down Laitos if I bring more people.
But who do I know? Who do I trust enough? Who would think it’s worth live through hell for me and my friends from under the trap door? I started to list everyone I know. My closest friend is my cousin Christina who lives in another country. I can’t ask my coworkers or my pothead friend Lizzie. My parents are old and they would literally die if they knew the danger I was putting myself into.
I was pretty much alone. The same way people from The Last City In The World only had me, I only had them. I wish I could join them forever. I never felt such a strong sense of purpose in my life as I feel when I’m fighting their battles.
When I went back next, everyone looked at me like they saw a phantom and a miracle. Alastrine hugged me for the first time. God, he was strong.
“I can’t believe you’re alive, you fucking weirdo. I saw you die”.
After explaining to them about the third rule, I volunteered to go to every dangerous mission from then on, so they wouldn’t lose more people.
“We’re losing Conant” Alastrine murmured, a single tear falling on his well-sculpted cheek. Conant was able to sneak in and get the firewood after the soldiers were distracted by me. They were intrigued about my body’s disappearance and Conant had time to do what we went to do.
But he was shot in the shoulder on the way back.
As soon as I was brought back to the normal world, I was knocking on my neighbor’s door. My neighbor was a surgeon’s assistant – Dr. Lena Jenkins. I don’t even know what I told her to make her come with me. I was crying and completely covered in snot. I think she took pity on me.
I’m so glad she did. We were able to do so much more together. With Lena, I was able to provide way more supplies. She was tall and had strong arms that could carry three times more weight than I could.
Lena seemed to be lonely and misfit in this world, just like myself, and she was used to seeing some bad stuff, so I guess I found the perfect person to go there. For a while, I felt happy and productive. Conant was able to survive, but he lost the movement of his left arm.
Lena asked a lot about how the civilization fell.
“At first it didn’t seem so bad, you know?” Alastrine sighed. “Dictatorships started everywhere, but we didn’t think much of it. They were protecting us. We accepted they could take away some of our freedom for it. It was temporary, they said. We still could leave our houses, work, buy things. We just couldn’t walk in groups and… associate with individuals different from us”.
“I didn’t think it was too bad until gay and interracial marriage was banned. People like Lupita were… sent back to their countries, they say. I don’t believe that was the case now, but back then I… well, I had a boyfriend and I was more worried about myself. He wanted to escape, but I knew it was the same everywhere. I gave up on him and fake married my lesbian friend”, Conant sounded utterly ashamed.
“After less than a year, the government announced there was a shortage of water and food in the whole world. That not everyone would be able to survive. So, at first, they fought wars to steal from the other countries. When there was a new shortage, they chose what they considered to be the most fitting humans, both physically and intellectually. It happened to be all white people, mostly without children. They wanted us to feel superior for surviving” Yseult added. “I actually had a son, but he was sick and we didn’t have medicine for that anymore. I used to be an engineer, and I guess I was a good one. I’m also very Germanic, probably the main reason why they let me live”.
“There were riots, of course, but they just made it easier to eliminate the unwanted citizens” Alastrine explained. “We all escaped slavery in some different way. Yseult is short but she killed five men in a high speed truck and never made to the facility. Conant went off the grid and was never taken in the first place. I was a slave for a whole year before I was able to break free and kill everyone in my way. The prosthetic leg is from when the world was somewhat normal”.
After hearing about that, Lena changed. She became paranoid. She reported her apartment was invaded, but the police found no evidence to support her claim. She quickly moved to another place, and left me a note, insisting we go to The Last City In The World in alternate days, for safety, and that I don’t contact her unless I absolutely have to.
Lena thinks our world is not that far from that dystopia, but I disagree. I think humanity still sucks, but we have never been better. We’ve been fighting against discrimination and poverty. We condemn dictators. We won’t let it come to this.
I asked Conant, and Lena hasn’t been showing up there lately. She doesn’t answer the phone. I even asked for her at the hospital she works, against my better judgment, but they didn’t want to give me information.
The other day I met Lizzie’s dealer. I asked him for a few guns. I’ll be sneaking them to my friends as soon as I get them.
I’m so nervous. Technically, this is the first time I’m doing something illegal. I even started to feel watched. But this is probably crazy, right?
I’m so glad to finally get this all off my chest. Sorry if this is kind of rushed, but so much has happened. I promise that someday I’ll tell you more details if you want. You don’t have to believe me, but it would mean a lot if you did.
Love,
Lupita
***
This is extracted from Guadalupe Flores’ letter to her cousin, Christina. We never identified the alley she refers to. Flores has been missing for over 3 years as well as the woman she mentions in the letter, Lena Jenkins.
submitted by poloniumpoisoning to nosleep [link] [comments]


2019.03.04 21:19 poloniumpoisoning My Friends From Under The Trap Door

Did they tell you in History class that the Egyptians mostly didn’t drink water, only booze, because the water wasn’t clean enough, and they had no way to purify it except by making alcohol? I never fully believed someone could survive solely on wine and beer until I saw it for myself.
It was a cold, misty autumn day, just how I like it. I was coming home from work, totally minding my own business, when I met a good friend of mine from high school. Lizzie told me she was waiting for a guy, and I mistakenly assumed it was a date.
But it was her drug dealer.
After a few minutes of small talk, the guy showed up. They were horribly conspicuous and, before I could think of an excuse to get the fuck out of there, I noticed a few cops were staring at us.
I ran on pure reflex, and I was right. Both Lizzie and the dealer were white, so sure, pursue the Hispanic girl, even though she’s the only one here that doesn’t look like Post Malone.
I ended up in an alley, and I know it’s stupid and cartoon-like, but my plan was to hide there. Unfortunately I tripped in a few discarded cardboard boxes and fell on the floor behind a big dumpster.
There was a small trap door in ground of the alley.
It was weird, and I was totally okay with leaving it alone, but there was a rat approaching me, so I tried the handle, and it opened.
As I entered there, I had the sensation to be falling forever, but in fast-forward. It didn’t hurt when I landed, and I was on my feet.
I was in an alley just like before, but it was way dirtier and murkier, and I wasn’t alone. There was a tall man with mohawk hair and a long beard. He wore a long black coat and combat boots, and binoculars were hanging from his huge pocket. He had a big haversack on his back and was holding something in both of his hands, but I couldn’t see what.
Under his slightly short trousers, I noticed one of his legs was mechanical. I didn’t want to say anything, but he became aware of my presence just from the sound of my breathing – maybe, just maybe, I was a little worked-up.
“Who’s there?” his voice was thunderous. He turned in my direction and I finally saw what he was holding. I don’t know the technical details, but I’m sure it was a high-precision rifle. He was some kind of sniper.
Throwing my arms in the air, I said I’m sorry.
“Are you from the Laitos?” he growled. The man spoke English in an accent I didn’t recognize.
“No, no, I swear. I was just… coming home from work. Police chased me.”
He carefully examined me.
“What’s with those clothes? Who the hell are you?”
“I am… well, my name is Lupita. I study Social Work at the local University”.
He looked at me like I was insane.
“There’s no University anymore”, he barked those words and, before I could react to them, he kept questioning me. “How the fuck did you show up in this alley? There’s no way to come from the other way and I would have seen you”.
“I… I know you won’t believe me, but I fell from a trap door right here, behind you”.
He silently stared at me for a few moments, then shook his head like he said “well, whatever”.
“You gonna need some equipment if you’re staying here, Lupita. I’m Alastrine. Follow me”.
I followed. We carefully sneaked through devastated streets, empty of people. The ruble piled up, and in mere few blocks I saw a lot of dead animals. Dozens of carcasses. I think I saw a human body too.
The buildings were all shattered beyond repair, possibly unusable and inscribed in graffiti, there was no tree in sight and the pavement was all broken, like grenades were used there and nobody bothered to fix. It was a warzone.
“What is this place?” I asked as quietly as I could.
“We call it The Last City In The World” he replied, never looking at me, his smart eyes always scanning the road ahead. “There’s pretty much three kinds of people now. Laitos, the controlling elite and their army; budak, the slaves of the system, and us, the rebels. We call ourselves Motstånd. It means resistance in an old language”.
I fell silent for a long moment to process this information. I was in a dystopia; the world was pretty much destroyed, everything I knew was gone, and there was only survival and fear now. I know our world is pretty chaotic and often scary, but it’s nothing like that. At least we have a sense of normalcy. Except if a tragedy happens, you will get home from work today. How would your life be if there was no work, no money, no breakfast, no family to welcome you home at the end of the day, no restaurants to pick up dinner, no permanent place to live?
That’s what living in The Last City Of The World is like. But it’s also way more.
“Get down, Lupita!”
I jumped behind a pile of garbage as a deafening battle started. Alastrine was fast like lightning. I couldn’t see what was happening or how many men we were against. It was one of those moments that ends quickly, but at the same time they seem to last too much because you’re ultra-aware and your heart feels like it’s pounding thousands of times per second.
After it was over, we kept walking. There was a fresh corpse in the street, a man in military uniform whose left side of the body exploded in blood, bowels and gore. As we walked past him – was this deformed mass of a former human still a “he”? –, Alastrine murmured.
“I’m so sorry you had to end up like this, Brother”.
***
After that, we arrived in the Motstånd headquarters. It was nothing more than a hangar where around a dozen of people went to eat, sleep and plan their next movements; sometimes they found someone hurt, usually a slave, and brought them to get medical care. This was the entire last resistance against tyranny in the entire humanity.
Conant, Alastrine’s husband, was tending to someone’s wounds when I first met him. The person was covered in blisters, I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. They had lost one arm, and only a raw lump descended from their right shoulder.
This person probably won’t make it, I thought. But at least they didn’t agonize and die alone in the street.
There was no water fit for drinking. I helped Conant put liquor and beer in his patients’ mouths. Some were brand-name drinks, but most were crafted by the resistance.
You could tell Alastrine had a hardened heart, but Conant was still gentle. He was always eager to take care of people, even if it meant witnessing death and ugly sores. Conant welcomed me like a sister, and helped me find the better-fitting armor we could find in their spare box of equipment.
They all wore some kind of protection under their clothes. Some had bulletproof vests, stolen from enemy soldiers, corpses or found after revolving huge piles of trash. A few of them had metallic vests and shoulder pads; I came to find out that a small woman named Yseult was able to manufacture them from remains of cars, busses, or any metallic piece that was big enough. Sometimes, they organized expeditions to places with interesting garbage – canned food, medicine, metal and weapons, mostly.
I learned that, in their world, it was the year 2040 and civilization had fallen no more than three years earlier. Everyone I met had lost everyone else; they were mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters and brothers to someone that is gone forever.
I decided to stay and help for as long as I could, and Conant named me his assistant. I did my best to comfort the sick and the amputees; nobody had hope of surviving for long.
“We just want to piss off Laitos while we last”, Conant said, as we worked together on bandaging an older man that lost one of his hands. “We’re dying soon, Lupita. We the rebels in this city used to be more than 300 people when civilization officially fell. Some surrendered, most died. The only slave that was ever able to escape and survive was Alastrine. That’s why we call him that; it means protector of mankind. Things got better after he became our leader, but let’s face it, every day we are closer to being erased from the world. I just want to make sure I don’t go down without a fight”.
***
I have so many memories from The Last City In The World I could probably write a book. I kept coming back for months, and maybe you’ll ask yourself why I didn’t stay the whole time. As time passed by, I learned the three rules of the trap door to another reality.
Rule number one: People from our world can only stay there for 24 hours before being pulled back, and can’t go again for the next 24 hours. So I simply vanished from there after spending an entire day. I was back in the original alley, in my original world – your world.
Rule number two: Nobody from the upside down city can go to our world. I tried so hard to hide my friends in our world, to bring the injured to our hospitals, but I can’t. The trap door won’t show up from the other side, I have to wait to be brought back after a whole day. I also can’t bring anything alive even if I’m holding them in my arms.
I would learn the third rule way later.
It was the middle of winter. The cold is hard to handle in The Last City In The World because there’s no electricity anymore – at least, not for the rebels – and it’s very difficult to find blankets that are good enough to use. I brought a few for my friends; I’ve been getting them basic supplies such as potable water, food and clothes, but I can only carry what’s in my body and fits the trap door with me, so every time I cross the path between realities I bring only whatever fits a big backpack or a small suitcase.
I’m not rich either, so I can’t get them anything sophisticated. I obviously tried to bring phones, but all the signals were cut by Laitos.
We were in an operation to get firewood; it was almost impossible to keep warm without a bonfire that day, and I volunteered to go. We roamed around the whole devastated city, but couldn’t find a single tree. Laitos had made the slaves cut them all off, and build rural fortresses for them, where all the remaining trees were. They literally expected the rebels to freeze to death.
Not on my watch, I thought, as I climbed their tall walls. My plan was to enter their property and steal firewood from them. I don’t know why I was so bold; I was never too athletic, but I’m small and light, and I’m the only person that’s been properly eating in the group. It was only natural that I’d take the risk.
“I trust you, Lupita” were the last words I remember hearing, from Conant. Alastrine looked at me like I was crazy, but we both knew he couldn’t afford to complain about my boldness.
I was shot in the moment I finished trespassing, and I remember dying. My blood was so warm, and the bullet holes hurt so much. But I immediately was back on the original alley, with my original clothes, unscathed.
***
I was able to respawn. It made me wonder if that world was even real.
Rule number three: Nobody from our world can actually die there.
So maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to take down Laitos if I bring more people.
But who do I know? Who do I trust enough? Who would think it’s worth live through hell for me and my friends from under the trap door? I started to list everyone I know. My closest friend is my cousin Christina who lives in another country. I can’t ask my coworkers or my pothead friend Lizzie. My parents are old and they would literally die if they knew the danger I was putting myself into.
I was pretty much alone. The same way people from The Last City In The World only had me, I only had them. I wish I could join them forever. I never felt such a strong sense of purpose in my life as I feel when I’m fighting their battles.
When I went back next, everyone looked at me like they saw a phantom and a miracle. Alastrine hugged me for the first time. God, he was strong.
“I can’t believe you’re alive, you fucking weirdo. I saw you die”.
After explaining to them about the third rule, I volunteered to go to every dangerous mission from then on, so they wouldn’t lose more people.
“We’re losing Conant” Alastrine murmured, a single tear falling on his well-sculpted cheek. Conant was able to sneak in and get the firewood after the soldiers were distracted by me. They were intrigued about my body’s disappearance and Conant had time to do what we went to do.
But he was shot in the shoulder on the way back.
As soon as I was brought back to the normal world, I was knocking on my neighbor’s door. My neighbor was a surgeon’s assistant – Dr. Lena Jenkins. I don’t even know what I told her to make her come with me. I was crying and completely covered in snot. I think she took pity on me.
I’m so glad she did. We were able to do so much more together. With Lena, I was able to provide way more supplies. She was tall and had strong arms that could carry three times more weight than I could.
Lena seemed to be lonely and misfit in this world, just like myself, and she was used to seeing some bad stuff, so I guess I found the perfect person to go there. For a while, I felt happy and productive. Conant was able to survive, but he lost the movement of his left arm.
Lena asked a lot about how the civilization fell.
“At first it didn’t seem so bad, you know?” Alastrine sighed. “Dictatorships started everywhere, but we didn’t think much of it. They were protecting us. We accepted they could take away some of our freedom for it. It was temporary, they said. We still could leave our houses, work, buy things. We just couldn’t walk in groups and… associate with individuals different from us”.
“I didn’t think it was too bad until gay and interracial marriage was banned. People like Lupita were… sent back to their countries, they say. I don’t believe that was the case now, but back then I… well, I had a boyfriend and I was more worried about myself. He wanted to escape, but I knew it was the same everywhere. I gave up on him and fake married my lesbian friend”, Conant sounded utterly ashamed.
“After less than a year, the government announced there was a shortage of water and food in the whole world. That not everyone would be able to survive. So, at first, they fought wars to steal from the other countries. When there was a new shortage, they chose what they considered to be the most fitting humans, both physically and intellectually. It happened to be all white people, mostly without children. They wanted us to feel superior for surviving” Yseult added. “I actually had a son, but he was sick and we didn’t have medicine for that anymore. I used to be an engineer, and I guess I was a good one. I’m also very Germanic, probably the main reason why they let me live”.
“There were riots, of course, but they just made it easier to eliminate the unwanted citizens” Alastrine explained. “We all escaped slavery in some different way. Yseult is short but she killed five men in a high speed truck and never made to the facility. Conant went off the grid and was never taken in the first place. I was a slave for a whole year before I was able to break free and kill everyone in my way. The prosthetic leg is from when the world was somewhat normal”.
After hearing about that, Lena changed. She became paranoid. She reported her apartment was invaded, but the police found no evidence to support her claim. She quickly moved to another place, and left me a note, insisting we go to The Last City In The World in alternate days, for safety, and that I don’t contact her unless I absolutely have to.
Lena thinks our world is not that far from that dystopia, but I disagree. I think humanity still sucks, but we have never been better. We’ve been fighting against discrimination and poverty. We condemn dictators. We won’t let it come to this.
I asked Conant, and Lena hasn’t been showing up there lately. She doesn’t answer the phone. I even asked for her at the hospital she works, against my better judgment, but they didn’t want to give me information.
The other day I met Lizzie’s dealer. I asked him for a few guns. I’ll be sneaking them to my friends as soon as I get them.
I’m so nervous. Technically, this is the first time I’m doing something illegal. I even started to feel watched. But this is probably crazy, right?
I’m so glad to finally get this all off my chest. Sorry if this is kind of rushed, but so much has happened. I promise that someday I’ll tell you more details if you want. You don’t have to believe me, but it would mean a lot if you did.
Love,
Lupita
***
This is extracted from Guadalupe Flores’ letter to her cousin, Christina. We never identified the alley she refers to. Flores has been missing for over 3 years as well as the woman she mentions in the letter, Lena Jenkins.
submitted by poloniumpoisoning to PPoisoningTales [link] [comments]


2019.02.22 11:50 learzamike Why can't we be friends? Why the West will NEVER respect the Asian Male Image, EVER. Culture

Came across this interesting article, it's old, but gold and thought it might be relevant to this thread.
https://www.psychologytoday.com/au/blog/intersections/201411/go-commercial-viewer-backlash-over-mixed-race-family
So it's safe to say that the distribution of subliminal messaging regarding Interracial Relationships is only accepted when it serves the needs of those behind its promotion. So let me drop a big bomb on everyone once and for all.
The West (or the powers that control the West) is already AT WAR with Asia , particularly the countries that haven't capitulated to its various demands whereby that be economical, militarily, politically or ALL 3. Its ultimate goal is to fuel hatred, division & conflict internally (pit the people against one another and externally with other nations) in order to defeat its opponents and achieve global control. I invite you to see this big picture, as these things are all interconnected.
War DOES NOT limit itself to boots on the ground, bullets, bombs, drones etc. An opponent will resort to any means necessary to achieve full dominance over its enemies. In the 20th-21st century, war has evolved into a multidimensional battlefield involving
- Conventional (What most people think is war) / Technological
- Economical (Trade disputes, economical sanctions, currency manipulation & multinational litigation)
- Psychological (Mass Media, Propaganda, Subliminal Conditioning) , the latter being the least understood amongst the masses yet seems to be the most effective. "If you win the minds of your opponents, then they are as good as dead"
Pop Question: Think of the largest demographics to target if you wanted to cause a social disconnect within an Asian country or diaspora, what would it be?
Political? Religious? Target the Social Classes?
Why does the West constantly bombard the Asian demographic with toxic stereotypes? It's simple, because Asia as a whole is still an active threat (Economically, Militarily & Socially) to Western Imperialism, and Asians living in Western Countries need to be kept in check. Military Dominance & Success in Conventional War commands international power, full stop. Although an increasing female involvement in politics, corporate and other important industries are all GOOD things, but increasing doesn't mean a majority, and unfortunately the participants in a conventional or economical or political or corporate war is still a MALE majority, you'll see why this is important later. Such racist roots originated in the days of emigration when Asian labourers migrated to Western / (5 Eyes Alliance) Countries (AUS,CAN,NZ,UK,US), back then Asian workers would work for lower wages and longer hours, thus resulting in the locals despising the fact that foreigners were taking away their jobs, furthermore some of these laborers were single, they'd settle down with a non-asian female, a local if you will. Well, who wouldn't get mad at losing their job and a potential sexual partner in such a short time frame?
Certain countries such as the US even went to the effort to creating legislation that banned Asian emigration and any domestic / White female whom married an Asian would have her citizenship revoked and potentially be deported. Over the years, propagandists & psychologists working for Mass Media & the ruling class figured a way to perpetuate such racist beliefs in order to subdue and mould the mind of the masses to their thinking.
Want to see how the West have waged a multi-faceted war? Here's a brief summary, As Asia became a prominent source of wealth and productivity, the West combined its arms and invaded the continent (China, Japan, India to name a few), looting its wealth whilst simultaneously pacifying the population with drugs like Opium to avoid a rebellion (Kind of like the Porn, Video Games & Mass Entertainment industries today aye). Yet it could not control the continent as much as it had wanted, lets look at some of the results:
Korea
The Korean War left millions dead and the North has limped on ever since, though the North is rich and abundant in natural resources, is comprised of a large but undernourished workforce, which is the result of the United States' crippling international sanctions on North Korea, ensuring that nobody will ever buy from their businesses, destroying export deals, effectively forcing the North Koreans to be backed into a corner of isolation. The South, while materially wealthy, are only allowed to enjoy such superficial lifestyles as long as its government promises to financially prop up the ~24,000 US Soldiers stationed there as a threat to not only China, North Korea but also the South should they go against their agreements with the US.
Japan
Before beginning, i will acknowledge that Japan committed horrendous acts against civillians in WW2 however this does not relate nor overshadow their tremendous technological advancements and economical development in the 20th-21st century.
Japan in its restoration era was embroiled in decades of dealing with the United States before the Empire emerged, distancing itself from American Interests.
In the late 1930's When the Japanese refused to capitulate to US demands in the lead up to the Pacific War the United States' Pacific Fleet cut off Japan's oil supply, crippling its economy and production, the attack on Pearl Harbour happened a short time later which eventually resulted in Japan's descent into being a Western Puppet, there are currently 50,000 US troops based in Japan (which it also pays for with its own taxpayer dollars), an insurance policy for the US to keep its puppet in check whilst providing reinforcements to US forces in Korea. In the later decades following the war Japan actually had an economic advantage over the United States, exporting many goods such as automobiles to the States which resulted in a devaluation of US purchasing power, through the eyes of the US this was insulting & unacceptable and Japan was forced with economic sanctions to inflate its own currency causing massive disruption which dethroned its economy in an act of capitulation to the United States, whom pretty much rewrote the rules of economics, all because they had Military Superiority over Japan. Imagine a world without a powerful US Military as a bully, who would trade with US dollars, the greenback would be useless. US Servicemen are sold a pathetic honor, brotherhood, free education rhetoric while veterans whom see the true face of the US military are shunned, blackmailed, silenced or labelled as "Whistlebower, traitors" etc.
India
India is a wild card, in some ways they would be regarded as an ally to the West for their substantial contributions to many western countries in Technology and services, though during the days of British imperialism many Indians were treated extremely poorly by the British and a significant percentage live in poverty to this very day. They have enjoyed a somewhat improvement recently with the promotion of prominent Indian CEO's in large US companies along with some high achieveing albeit controversial Naturalised Indians (Ajit Pai for instance) in American Politics, topped up with some decent portrayals in Western Media. A welcome change to their old 20th century stereotypes however those numbers are still at an overall low, otherwise Bollywood & T-Series (Indian Pop) would not be booming.
Vietnam
The rise of Asian Fetisiation rose dramatically following the US defeat in Vietnam. The Vietnam War was a disastrous campaign, think tanks & propagandists needed a new way to defeat their Asian adversaries (which at the time represented a significant communist demographic) without ever having to put boots on the ground. Here is the answer to the pop question i gave earlier.
"Think of the largest demographics to target if you wanted to cause a social disconnect within an Asian country or diaspora, what would it be? "
If you answered Political, Religious or Social Class/Caste, you are dearly mistaken. For the largest demographic worth targeting in order to penetrate the psyche of Asians is GENDER. Male & Female, the closest ratio to 50/50. Religion (with the exception of India(Hindu/ Tamil), Pakistan (Muslim) & Indonesia (Muslim) would not be a suitable demographic. The remainder of Asian countries are either Buddhist (too peaceful of a religion to create rifts), Christian/Catholic (conflict of interest with the western world) or Agnostic/Athiest.
And so films/ mass media products depicting your stereotypical asian women,
(initially non-asian women in asian clothing moving into more authentic orientals being casted, those whom accepted the job simply for $$$ or social validation as a celebrity at the mere expense of their ethnic nations identity/ image for future generations, nothing too fancy...)
began appearing more and more frequently particularly in films depicting hyper Western masculinity (war films, action films etc), would you believe me that after all that the US has done to Vietnam, their population absolutely love everything and anything that come out of the States? They do.
Make no mistake, the masculine and WIDESPREAD image of Bruce Lee & Sessue Hayakawa will be the last masculine males the Asian diaspora will ever see from the west and will soon be forgotten, because until the West achieves dominance over the ENTIRETY of Asia, this image will not serve their best interests in creating disharmony and division amongst their "enemy".
Side Question 1: The population of the Middle East is over 90% MUSLIM (Sunni/ Shi'a), i'm not even going to give prizes out for anyone who correctly guesses what demographic the interests that control the West would target in order to facilitate hatred and to destabalise that part of the world... (If you have a functional medium-long term memory, you'd probably be able to guess correctly).
Thailand
Thailand is an incredibly rich and prosperous nation, yet a dark stereotype still looms over its people. Thailand is well known for its sex - tourism, cheap women, drugs and booze. How did this come to be? The short story:
During the Vietnam War, Pattaya beach was used by US servicemen to buy sex, when the war ended, much of the men stayed or returned to Thailand and the sex industry never died. This combined with a heavily corrupt government sees millions of Thai girls being abused, sexually harassed by sex tourists, sexual trafficking is rife & barely having its surfaces scraped by law enforcement. Perhaps the emergence of Ladyboys is a neurotic result from men whom endured years of stress from watching their mother, sister or friends getting sexually abused by scoundrels? South Korea & Japan has also had their fair share of providing "Comfort Women" services to the West, industries that are "taboo" & rarely talked about yet they resulted from decades of War involving the United States,
talk about being weak...
China
Following defeat of the US backed Kuomingtang, the US has launched multiple attacks in order to soften the power of the Communist Party of China, The Korean Wa Vietnam War are examples of such efforts to destabalise China's neighbours and weaken neighbour to neighbour relations. As it stands, China & Russia are the biggest threats to US hegemony, China boasts economic performance, high diaspora population & ranks 2nd in military spending / R&D. Russia rivals the US with its capabable military force, rich oil deposits, 21st century technology & massive nuclear arsenal. Therefore these are two countries that are demonised the most by the mass media (Aside from Iran & North Korea, both allies of the Former stated countries), all to facilitate hatred and for citizens to unconditionally support, sign up to fight and potentially die for a cause which they are effectively brainwashed to accept. Western Media were successful using Social & Mass media to create chaos in the Middle East & Africa (Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Syria & Egypt).
The hidden hand that guides the West knows fully the power of ;
- psychological infiltration (they invest millions in Psychology research and apply this to their newest products),
- propaganda, the effectiveness of Facebook / Google/ Youtube/ Twitter in influencing (Brainwashing) Public opinion
- Hollywood/ TV & Music Industry, whose reach tactically extends far beyond Western audiences!
It desperately tries to penetrate the Asian market with such propaganda, whilst simultaneously attempting to weaken the economy of such countries in the hopes that tough economic times combined with a negative portrayal of their government (through Western propaganda channels), will incentivise the Asian Population to view their own people and government as the enemy in an attempt to create internal conflict to weaken themselves before the West will deploy any sort of conventional invasion. A subsequent invasion will see innocent civillians from both sides die (one side will be defending their home, the offensive side will be there on the pretence of spreading democracy and "freedom"), the ultimate insult to ones intelligence, just look at Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Egypt & Libya, how free or prosperous are those countries today following the West's scathing attacks on them?
Side Note: (Although the government is has the name "Communist" in it, Todays China is really a State Capitalist/ Socialist society, where the government makes business/ policy decisions for its core industries whilst still allowing individual entrepreneurship and self made wealth) however propagandaists insist on affiliating China with big bad "Communism" and the US with "democracy", it's all a semantics game in fact if you ask any US citizen what they think their political system is , "A Democracy" is what you'll get in response. A 'Democracy' is actually political system where the people/ majority are in complete control of drafting,voting the nations laws, and have full control of the countrys economic spending. In reality, the United States is actually Constitutional or Democratic Republic, where civillians (the people/ majority) vote for an individual whom they believe will act and perform in the peoples best interests, their laws are written by individuals that are unheard of, whom have never addressed the public before and all of which are done in secret, away from public scrutiny. Unfortunately due to the lack of transparency, reliance of political donations to gain traction for voting & separation of powers, a constitutional republic is prone to exploitation, private corruption and hand picking of candidates to ultimately serve in the best interests of the elite/ ruling class. In a time where western propaganda is so scathing, fabricated and could potentially trigger civil unrest or even a world war, what proactive government in the crosshairs of the West wouldn't want to censor and protect its civillians from such attacks to its sovereignty. It's so ironic that media in the west demonise China's regular survelliance programs, as the West has been secretly monitoring & censoring its own people via the PRISM, MUSCULAR programs through its FIVE EYES ALLIANCE pact for YEARS.
--
Racism exists in every country. The Western majority is not naturally racist, (nobody is racist at birth) but merely misguided by stereotypes and are racist BY-DESIGN, designs that are deliberately pushed and implemented by a hidden hand. Although cross cultural values may differ in some aspects, we are not all that different and yet we try so hard to find the differences between one another. Why is it that an African Male , a not-so-long-ago freed slave (in the eyes of some Westeners) or an Asian Male, is scorned when seen with any Female other than African or Asian respectively? While at the same time TV, Films & Advertisements actively promote Western looking males in Interracial Relationships. "Repeat a message long enough and people will believe it", show the same types of faces over and over again in set roles and people will believe the stereotype. In Psychology this is known as the "Mere Exposure Effect" and the article i linked backs it up, any form of content carries subliminal images/ messages which alters a persons thinking and life choices. The western audience , although seemingly insecure about their women dating out, are incredibly hip to picking up these sorts of subliminal messages, and why wouldn't they be? Racism, Sexism, Anti Asian, etc, all of which are carefully designed by screenwriters, directors and psychologists in order to wage a psychological war and fuel division to set up multiple generations into accepting division and conflict in the hopes that it will bring about world dominance for the elite, resulting in countless innocent lives being destroyed or lost, all for the eventual benefit of the ruling class. Those that support this movement are rewarded financially or politically at the expense of their morals, something that is close to extinct nowadays.
Although it may not seem or feel like it, the indivuals in a toxic, racist, interracial relationship or those whom either consciously or inadvertantly support the Anti-Asia agenda can be effectively seen as Collateral Damage in the grand scheme of things, Collateral Damage in a 20th-21st Century War, where the Mind has become a portion of the battlefield. And that is why the West will NEVER cast a East Asian or any full ASIAN male in a lead romantic role or allow a larger Asian male involvement in Corporate Management or Politics, to ensure that the overall Asian + diaspora population will be seen as non-existent or as a joke, resulting with your Asian females gravitating towards other groups that will seemingly provide them with more "social ladder points" or validation because they've been subconsciously conditioned to believe that a good and normal life is ONLY what they see or hear in Western Culture, Films & Media, a life that clearly DOES NOT involve any Asian Men.
To be frank, I have absolutely nothing against interracial couples, especially genuine and successful ones, but it's disconcerting that on the surface, interracial relationships in the West desperately try to pass off as "Multicultural, Personal Preference & Equality" yet under the surface of a majority of these relationships lies "Stereotyping/Fetishzation, Neuroticism & Racism".
"Some sociopathic people would even go as far as deriving an ego fix out of deliberately making it clear to other Asians that they're not attracted to their own kind, and would only keep other Asians around in their friend circles simply to just lowkey flex on them and derive a false sense of superiority, nothing more. I've had several women make this admission openly." Talk about being Narcissistic & Neurotic, a common psychological symptom of buying into the facade.
It will get to the point where simply getting spoken to or looked at by a person with western features will arouse an overwhelming feeling of Belonging, Acceptance & Higher Status, a false sense of superiority which Asians simply cannot provide at this point in time unless propaganda is allocated towards their demographic. If this is the quality of life that is being offered in such times of non-conventional warfare & supposed "Peace", Imagine what the powers that be would do if the balance in superpowers (i.e. China & Russia) were to fall, Asian Holocaust x1000 perhaps?
This is the typical scenario where the pet is taught to bark, snarl and despise its own kind whilst unconditionally licking the boot of its master, which (if left untreated) will inevitably result in a decline of the Asian population, lower births within the Asian community will result in an overall reduced pool of military fit males, males that may be needed to defend Asian countries & their identity from attacks (Conventionally, Economically/ Professionally, Socially).
Half-Asians/ HAPAs will gradually be accepted more and more in the mainstream media (Especially those with Non-asian Surnames) as they desensitize the audience into accepting the presence of interracial relationships (whilst sweeping its dark origins under the rug), the male in these interracial relationships is no doubt disproportionately non-asian, whom (if racist) will no doubt imprint their racist views of Asians onto their child in their developmental stages, with mass & social media hitting in the final nails of the coffin of the Asian Image for these HAPAs.
And to those individuals whom want to keep to themselves and get a "stable job" to avoid all this headache, it's unlikely that stable job will ever go anywhere, ever heard of the BAMBOO CEILING? Asian Males (with the exception of India) aren't 'suitable' in any high executive roles in a Western based Company at least not in high numbers, yet droves of Western Executives & Upper Management are freely welcome in Asian Corporations. Asian Females that do get into these corporate jobs are frequently sexually harassed by their Non-Asian colleagues, those that do end up getting promoted will most likely be slowly coerced in an interracial relationship, a subtle insult to the professional Asian working force. This is also very true of the film and entertainment industry, Asian Females in order to further their careers are effectely forced into surrounding themselves with Western Colleagues and are hounded by Westerners for dates, so of course statistically speaking the effect is when people go "Oh yay, another popular Asian Actress! Oh and she's dating a Non-Asian", and gives the facade that High Quality Asian Women e.g. AF Celebrities in the West, go for Westerners, and thus the masses follow suit, where as the reality is that these actresses bought into a rigged game and fell into the trap of becoming yet another facilitator towards the Anti-Asian cause. The intellectual, political, cultural high achievers of Asian countries are systematically being headhunted with interracialmarriage (in the hopes of wealth transfer from inheritances, Influx of Western agendas into Asia), and when that fails they are threatened with imprisonment or financial sanctions (You're a mega rich Asian family with assets outside of Asia? Help us talk shit and overthrow your country or we'll freeze those assets) The US even made a act for it called the "Countering America's Adversaries Through Sanctions Act 2017" lol, what a name. Did us common folk in our fancy "Democracy" vote that in as a collective? No.
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End Comments:
So i hope that provides enough information (i apologise it is alot to take in) for you to see the situation as a bigger picture, freeing up mental energy which can be devoted to more productive causes like building relationships, self-study & improvement. Do not at any circumstance feel the need to constantly lash out without provocation at individuals whom you feel are exploiting the current situation for personal gain (e.g. Fellow Asians that disagree with your opinions, Sexpats, Yellow Feverists or Racists) , they are only doing so as a direct and indirect result of the points i have listed above. Like i said, collateral damage, it's inevitable. To be bogged down with hatred and stress is not healthy and you will pay for it in the long run, i can guarantee it. If it really bothers you then seek out some meditation and stress relief activities (Slow Breathing, Force positive thinking during it), Stop Watching Porn completely (Dopamine addiction from porn is worse than Meth/ Cocaine, just fap one out if you don't have a partner, no shame in that at all), Video Games (creates a false sense of achievement, sucking up time and money for nothing), Save your social media purely for networking, messaging, groups & events, never browse the feed (Get News Feed Eradicator for Facebook if you're on PC & Delete FB, Instagram from your routine if you're not a celebrity or business on those platforms). get outside and talk to people i guarantee that you'll feel amazing.
If you encounter some racist attitudes with some spare time and if safe to do so, don't get confrontational, instead play a fun game with yourself/them, stay calm try and probe for their underlying psyche and thoughts, unpacking the dispositions of racist people is fun. Pretend to be the devils advocate, pretend to be open minded and ask open ended questions like "Why do you say that?" "That's interesting, what makes you say that?", "Why do you act like that?", and keep it going to make them think hard about why they're acting like that, the looks on their faces when the cognitive dissonance hits them are priceless. If their logic or minds are FUBAR or if they want to get physical, defend yourself if feasible otherwise just ignore them and walk away.
Read more on Social Psychology, World Politics & Self Improvement. Just know that the fight is never lost and you ought to look forward to move forwards, there are good people out there, both Asian and Non-Asian that fully comprehend the state of things and aren't willing to capitulate to the status quo.
Why do you think we spent ~ 12 years in school, encouraged or sometimes forced to learn about everything BUT our BRAIN, one of the most fucking important organs in our body, how it functions & how it could be exploited. Because if we did then the practice of Corporate Marketing/ Consumer Culture, Propaganda & the Status Quo would effectively collapse, freeing & opening up the minds of Billions.
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2019.01.10 21:33 rhonnie14 I Went To O.J.'s House (1/2)... No Clue What To Do With This

Amongst all the unpopular opinions in America, mine may be the most unpopular. Or at least, the most hated. O.J. Simpson didn't kill Ron Goldman or Nicole. There, I said it. That's not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's not we can't prove he did it, but it's likely. That's fucking innocent. And no, I'm not the Caucasian-media-driven caricature of a black conspiracy theorist. Not at all. I'm a thirty-year-old middle-class white guy. I've got no dog in this fight. I didn't root for Juice during the 70s or admire his status as a crossover icon in all those movies and Hertz ads. Due to my youth, I've also got no claim in the emotional war zone that was his 1995 murder trial. I go off the facts. And regardless of what Oprah or Fox News wants you to believe, the "mountain of evidence" actually resides in O.J.'s innocence.
Remember when FX's The People Vs. O.J. Simpson claimed O.J. never asked detectives how Nicole died? That was bullshit, trial footage at 1:58. Or when ESPN's O.J.: Made In America insinuated O.J. wasn't taking his arthritis meds so the gloves wouldn't fit? Doctors signed off on O.J. taking the meds, trial footage at 7:49. Want another lie from this Oscar winning "documentary?" Try the fact O.J. didn't have a single cut or bruise on his body when he left his house on that fateful June night, trial footage at 1:30. Yeah, that's right. Goldman and Nicole's bodies (particularly Goldman's) were covered in defensive wounds yet there's no marks on O.J.
Juice wasn't in a hurry to get through the airport either. Less than thirty minutes after supposedly butchering two people in one of the biggest rage crimes in American history, O.J. was described as being friendly as he signed autographs at the airport. Witnesses didn't see a single cut, scratch, or bandage on his hands. Why is this important? The very next day, O.J. was examined by L.A.P.D. No cuts or bruises were on his body except a few cuts on his hand he got from smashing a glass in his Chicago hotel room. An overemotional reaction he had after hearing about Nicole's death. Chicago police found bloodied glass in the room. A hotel clerk even said O.J. came downstairs to get a bandage for the cut. The chauffeur who picked him up from the hotel took note of the fresh bandage. And everyone on that plane ride back to L.A. described Simpson as being completely distraught. He was in a rush to get back to L.A. as soon as possible... interesting for a guy deemed unquestionably guilty.
So without a single cut, where did the supposed incriminating blood evidence come from? Regardless of how Geraldo wants to spin it, the blood evidence is shit. At the prosecution's insistence, two samples were tested specifically to disprove the defense's theory that the blood was planted. The samples came back with EDTA, a preservative used in lab test tubes. Experts agree it was too much EDTA for the blood to come naturally from O.J.'s body. Or from eating Big Macs like Marcia Clark claims. Furthermore, the blood on Nicole's back gate wasn't seen in any of the initial crime scene photos. Rather, it was somehow inexplicably discovered in July... weeks after the entire crime scene had been washed down.
And that takes us to Detective Mark Fuhrman, the man who discovered the glove on O.J.'s property. Again, one of the gloves had a small amount of O.J.'s DNA, the other didn't. Aside from the fact the gloves didn't fit, O.J.'s DNA wasn't even found on the glove's fingers... nor did either glove share a cut similar to the one O.J. got in his hotel room (remember, he had no cuts on the flight to Chicago).
The glove Fuhrman found was also still wet even though it'd supposedly been rotting in the June heat for over seven hours. No dirt or debris were found on the glove either even though the back alley of O.J.'s home was heavily wooded with leaves, berries, etc.
So back to Detective Fuhrman, the guy did more than say the n-word. On his infamous taped conversations with Laura McKinny, he said "nigger" well over fifty times. Fuhrman also admitted to hating blacks and interracial couples, lying under oath, and planting evidence. On top of this, he'd gotten L.A.P.D. sued years earlier for shooting at an unarmed black man and planting a knife on him. If you believe O.J. is guilty, you have to do two things: you have to ignore all the facts and evidence, and you have to take the word of a racist white cop over all the witnesses supporting O.J.’s innocence. Mark Fuhrman is your guy.
On the other hand, is O.J, a great guy? Not really. He’s flawed. He hit Nicole back in 89. But regardless of the well-publicized hearsay, he didn’t hit her any other time (Nicole said this in court in 92, Nicole’s sister Denise said the same during the mid-90s). Juice never hit his first wife Marguerite Whitley. So yes, his abuse was inexcusable. But an idiotic motive considering as recently as spring of 94, Nicole was trying to get back with him.
This isn't even counting how O.J. never reacted with rage or jealousy toward Nicole's romantic relationships. Keith Douglas Zlomsowitch, one of Nicole's former lovers, admitted that O.J. had seen him and Nicole making love in Nicole’s living room. The very next day, a calm O.J. told them in private that they should be careful about doing things out in the open in case one of the kids walked in. One of O.J.’s best friends Marcus Allen even said that when he told Juice he had sex with Nicole, O.J. reacted calmly and was only upset because Allen was engaged at the time.
So yeah, none of this excuses O.J.’s lone case of domestic violence. But the context shows how exaggerated O.J. and Nicole’s volatile relationship was so the prosecutors could have a sensational motive.
I get that what I'm saying isn’t what Oprah, Geraldo, or the alarming number of celebrity black apologists have taught you. This isn’t what the racist Howard Stern taught you either when he advocated for lynching Mr. Simpson. No, what I'm telling you are facts. Not lies and bullshit.
People hate me for it. I suppose you will too. Go ahead and serenade me with your downvotes. I don't give a fuck. Throw out soundbites like Bruno Maglis (the Enquirer photos were supposedly taken during a rainstorm... not great for a pair of "pristine" Suede shoes), all that blood!1! (EDTA), the Bronco chase (O.J. believed he was framed and panicked), If I Did It (written by a ghostwriter, an easy 500k for O.J. after years of pleading his innocence onto deaf ears), a "failed" polygraph (nevermind the fact that Gary Ridgeway, the most prolific serial killer in American history passed a polygraph or that Ted Bundy did so twice), or the horrific civil trial that inexplicably allowed hearsay evidence.
And where has all my research left me? My family doesn't talk to me. I don't have close friends. Needless to say, no girlfriend. I'm alienated because of my beliefs.
But the biggest rift my "unpopular opinion" has created is between my dad and I. The emotions of this case run that deep. In many ways, I too was a victim of this trial of the century. Alongside the integrity of the American media, so went my All-American family.
My mother and father never got along during the trial. Even as a child, I remembered their bickering. Constant, ugly bickering. Mom's belief in O.J.'s innocence was actually what got me interested in the case. Particularly as a stark contrast to the O.J. Did It industry we've all been bombarded with.
My dad had the popular opinion. Their disagreement over the case opened a nasty wound between them. My parents divorced soon after Juice's acquittal. And as I grew up, I tried to stay close to my folks. My mother the introverted hippie, my father the more assertive and outgoing type. I was more like mom... no friends, artsy rather than social. On the other hand, my dad was friends with many of the people in the small town he lived in. The small town he thrived in as a local accountant.
For mom, O.J.'s plight was tragic. Yet another sad example of the horrors of being black in America. To my dad, Juice had played the race card.
While my dad and I used to be real close, my own interest in the O.J. Simpson case brought about the same tensions that had killed his marriage. Me and him argued more. He resented my opinion. Like most of you, he never could see anything past O.J. Did It, No Questions Asked.
My dad's brown eyes would berate me with the same sharp ferocity of his irate words. His temper was quick. And it only got worse as he got older. Particularly whenever O.J. came up.
Once mom passed a few years back, my dad and I grew even more apart. I think he blamed her for pushing me toward the case. But the reality was that their divorce was what fueled my interest. I came to the realization that mom was right all along. Yet she was crucified for that opinion. God knows how her own family and friends treated her for being the one white woman who believed Mr. Simpson was innocent.
But I think what really set dad off was my career. You see, my penultimate project began back in 2013: my O.J. Simpson webpage. I knew on-line there were people like me. People who did know more about the case and who had bothered researching it.
Over the years, my site garnered a cult-like following. And dad was pretty pissed about it. As he got older and his brown hair grew thinner, his eyes only became more narrow and cold. And so did his resentment toward me. The few conversations we had always ended in arguments. There were shouting matches about the case. Shouting matches about race. Shouting matches about mom.
I'd have loved to see him be proud of my work... but that was wishful thinking. His mind was made up. I couldn't worry about pop anymore. I had to worry about the new generation. Younger, more open-minded people like me.
As the site grew, my friend Pearse helped me land interviews with some of the biggest names from the trial for his podcast. I started uploading feature-length documentaries rather than YouTube videos. My analysis on the O.J. case made me an expert. Not to mention a hero to those who knew the truth. Hell, I even got advertising money.
My site was doing well. However, it wasn't mainstream media. I wasn't making much money. So imagine my surprise when the ultimate project came up. The most audacious thing my webpage had tackled yet: an interview with the Juice himself.
It turned out O.J. Simpson loved my work... I guess there's some consolation for never having my dad appreciate it.
I was surprised yet overjoyed when I got O.J.'s e-mail. I consulted with all of the people I'd been interviewing. And to my utter joy, everything checked out. I soon got Simpson's Vegas address.
The news would've excited my devoted fanbase however, I wanted to keep it a surprise for now. Outside of telling Pearse and a few friends, I kept the trip a secret. I doubted O.J. wanted me telling the world anyway.
But I did tell a few family members. Rather than congratulate me, they gave me the usual cliched jokes instead ("don't get hacked). I even got the nerve to tell my dad, but he just grumbled before hanging up. He always preferred my fiction. I guess it was for the best I hadn't told him about the O.J. book I was working on...
The following week, I packed my bags and left for Nevada. My buddy Pearse came along for moral support. And to be the cameraman.
O.J.'s handlers were there waiting for us at the airport. In their suits, they resembled Secret Service. But hey, I couldn't blame O.J. taking some precautions after all the death threats. His posse was very professional though. The exact opposite of the crazy Vegas crew who helped him "steal" his memorabilia.
From what I understood, O.J. had been staying at one of his friends's mansions. A Microsoft millionaire's house. He'd let O.J. crash there since Juice couldn't leave the state. Not that O.J. had it bad considering how lavish the mansion was. While modest compared to the rest of the neighborhood, the place was still glorious. There was privacy galore. Tall trees surrounded the yard, concealing the house and iron-pike fence from outside view.
Once our van pulled up into O.J.'s driveway, I took a deep breath. Pearse and I had made it. Here I was about give an exclusive interview with the man America considered a monster. But who in reality was a tragic victim.
The spacious and pristine yard had gaudy lawn ornaments. Pretty sculptures. Huge sprinklers and, of course, a nice pool.
Pearse was told to keep the camera off until we got inside the house. For security purposes. Me not being an asshole mainstream journalist, complied out of respect for the Juice.
Inside, the mansion was more in line with what I'd expect from O.J. Clean, impressive, stylish. And yes, flashy.
We were told to wait in the living room. It was in here, O.J. had his memorabilia well on display (apparently, he'd recovered most of the stolen items). There were old jerseys, posters, movie props, game balls, trophies. Hall Of Fame accolades. The Heisman. Not many people seem to realize O.J. Simpson was a Hell of a player. I could tell he had his guests wait here on purpose. A nice humblebrag. Then again, who could blame him? This shit was amazing.
Amongst the collectibles were more cultured items. Artwork, portraits, classic novels, some sick fucking vinyl. I could tell most of these belonged to O.J. The guy was a fucking connoisseur.
Framed family photos still had their place in this mancave of O.J.'s glory days. Pictures of him with Marguerite. Pictures of him with Nicole. But the most frequent images I saw were kids. Children, teenagers, college photos. O.J.'s smiling children seemed to swarm all around Pearse and I. And it wasn't creepy in the slightest either. In a room that could've (and probably was) a vanity tribute to the Juice, somehow, the children's photos took more precedence. They were what I remembered most about the house.
In a corner of the room was a framed photo of O.J.'s deceased infant daughter Aaren. A cross hung right above it. A collection of Angel figurines stood on both sides of the lavish picture frame. A sincere shrine for Aaren.
Using the camera, Pearse was all too happy to capture the scene. The mansion definitely a big step up from Pearse's garage studio.
Emerging from a long hallway, our man of the hour entered the room. Orenthal James Simpson. Even at seventy-one, he looked effortless and smooth. Quite debonair in a brown suit he'd consider modest but most likely cost a couple grand. The guy had style. And he also knew he was gonna be on camera. No wonder he had his Hall Of Fame ring on.
O.J. stuck a groomed hand out toward me. "Steve, how are you," he said in his eloquent baritone. A voice that hadn't lost any of its charm after all these years and traumas.
Overwhelmed by nerves, I forced myself to complete the handshake. "I'm doing okay," I responded, a slight tremble in my voice.
As if he sensed my nerves, O.J. flashed me a warm smile. "Alright. I'm glad."
His handshake was strong yet there was a soft touch. And his hand was fucking huge. It practically engulfed mine. No wonder he could hang on to that football.
"It's an honor to meet you," I added.
"Likewise." His voice even trembled like mine. Not from nerves but emotion... appreciation. "Likewise, Steve."
I introduced him to Pearse, and then the interview began. I was simultaneously surprised yet glad to see it was just us three for the interview. I'm sure O.J. appreciated the chill vibes.
We toured the rest of the house. The guest rooms were well-furnished. There was also another mancave, O.J.'s destination for Saturdays and Sundays during football season. He played us some of his old highlights via YouTube. The guy just couldn't help himself. I saw a bunch of golf gear in here as well. The sport definitely still O.J.'s go-to hobby.
Later on, we checked out the kitchen and dining room. A back balcony overlooked the pool. I even saw little yappy dogs running around the back yard. I was surprised they weren't even full-breeds. Just regular old mutts. We could hear their incessant barks all tour long.
To my surprise, O.J.'s bedroom itself was rather plain. Not flashy like the living room or mancave. Just a few pictures of his mother and Aaren placed next to religious figurines.
However his closet was another story. Hell, it looked it'd been converted from a bedroom. A Sex And The City wet dream. Rows and rows of clothes. All of them name brand, all of them collected over the years.
Overall, O.J. was very welcoming. Even humble. He talked to me and Pearse about how his stay in prison had changed his attitude. He'd gone through years of (understandable) anger due to his mistreatment by the media. He had a chip on his shoulder. But the experience of just being another inmate, another number, changed his outlook for the better. He missed Florida. He missed L.A. But he wasn't too upset as his kids came to visit him quite often. Las Vegas, and this house in particular, had become his "home away from home."
We planned on doing the bulk of our interview in O.J.'s cozy study. There we had a glowing fireplace, comfortable chairs, and perfect lighting. A small coffee table the only barrier between O.J. and I.
Even from where I was sitting, I saw how the bookshelves were stuffed with every literary classic imaginable. I figured O.J. probably hadn't read most of them, but shit, it was still an impressive collection.
One book in particular caught my eye. Unlike the books around it, this one resembled a scrapbook. No title on the spine. It looked old as Hell. Did O.J. own a first edition Book Of The Dead? Or the Necronomicon?
Gazing around the rest of the room, I saw O.J.'s framed memorabilia from the Roots shoot (costume, props, etc) right next to a pair of glass doors leading to the balcony. I could tell the memorabilia meant a lot to him. In an acting career based more off his charm and good looks than talent, appearing in Roots was a rare proud moment in his film career.
Like an annoying yet cute soundtrack, the dogs continued their barking well into the night. I suppose they were chasing squirrels or whatever other critters were lurking about. Maybe they were still after Pearse and I, for that matter.
A few of O.J.'s bodyguards stood by the study door. But they were quiet and kept their distance. They must've known how much an interview like this meant to O.J. One where he wasn't pleading his innocence to a buzzard or some other indifferent asshole. Instead, him and I were talking like old friends. Comrades.
We started off the interview in simple fashion: O.J.'s background. Orenthal James wasn't born a millionaire athlete. He came from nothing. From the slums of California all the way to the gridiron on the USC campus. Truly the American Dream. O.J. went into great detail about this. The anecdotes on the hardships he and his mother faced. His glory days as a USC superstar. And then when he cemented his football legacy on the Buffalo Bills.
When it came to his playing career, I could tell O.J. was most excited about his tenure with the Bills. They were a small market team he embraced. He also loved the Bills Mafia, the team's zany and enthusiastic fanbase. The Bills had some winning seasons with Juice leading their offense. After all, he was a natural born star and leader for that long-tormented franchise. And to this day, they still treated Simpson with respect unlike the alma mater that ultimately disowned him.
Throughout the interview, I could tell O.J. struggled at times to remember certain names and dates. Our conversation switched to CDTE and other brain/memory issues that had been attributed to playing American football. Awhile back, O.J. had been diagnosed with this (in addition to arthritis). While football is still a violent game, in O.J.'s heyday it was a fucking blood sport ("It was a different era, man," he told me). Not much padding or safety precautions. Illegal hits were the norm. Nothing was off limits. Not even your head.
The grave seriousness of the topic removed us from the nostalgic vanity that had accompanied O.J.'s reflections on his career. Our conversation soon shifted to the tragedy that would haunt O.J. Simpson. And forever tarnish his name.
I was surprised to see O.J. be so open while discussing that fateful June night. I knew he usually avoided the topic out of contempt for a press that had ignored his words in favor of misquoting him and making him look like a lunatic. But he was comfortable with us.
We discussed everything. From Mark Fuhrman to the planted evidence to the lack of a cut or bruise anywhere on O.J.'s body (Goldman was same height as O.J., a blackbelt, and twenty years younger). The fact there was no cut on O.J.'s hand when he was at the airport signing autographs (including signing one for the pilot). The racial implications of the case. How the media automatically assumed his guilt before knowing if O.J. was even in L.A. when the murders happened.
O.J.'s sadness veered toward an understandable bitterness as we discussed how the media's inaccuracies ultimately became the legend.
"No one believed me," O.J. said, his baritone voice full of jaded weariness. "I tried everything. I did interviews, I talked about the trial, and it's like no one listened to me! They didn't wanna listen to me. They didn't wanna believe me." Fire burnt in his eyes, but I didn't feel threatened or scared like you probably would. Such a fire was built off of frustration not violence. "With Fuhrman, you got a guy on tape saying all this shit. That he framed minorities and blacks... not only that but he was anti-Semitic. If I was a white Jewish man, everyone would be outraged at Fuhrman and what he did. They'd take my word, they'd show the evidence we had. But that wasn't the case, was it? Instead, I'm playing the Goddamn race card!"
And I couldn't agree more. Everything he said was correct. The media had ignored the overwhelming evidence favoring his innocence to spin a false narrative. To them, Othello James Simpson killed the two white Angels. No questions asked.
While we were on the subject of O.J.'s unfair public perception, I asked how he felt about the growing number of black celebrities speaking out against him. Kanye, Jay-Z, Steve Harvey, etc.
O.J. hesitated. Discomfort joined his anger. I could tell he felt these questions were putting him in rough territory... particularly since he was African-American himself. I didn't expect him to go into a rant on how they were all coons, but I didn't expect him to be this silent and awkward.
He let out a weary sigh. "I don't know what to tell them," he finally said. "Maybe they were too young to watch the dang trial. Or they've gotten just saturated with all the crap they throw against me. They read too much National Enquirer, I don't know." A faint grin crossed his face. "The media the way it is... I guess everyone thinks I did it now, huh."
There was a vulnerable sadness to him. Something I'd never seen in all the footage on Juice. His silence couldn't hide that look of anguish.
"Everyone thinks I killed her," O.J. went on. That I'd kill her right where my kids slept!" He paused. A breather from the anger. "I can't change their minds, I give up." His emotions were overwhelming him. I could tell he didn't like it. O.J. was confident and strong. And he always seemed that way on television and in public. The memories were killing his public persona. He wasn't the Juice in this moment. He was Orenthal James Simpson. The tormented ex-husband of Nicole. The tormented father of four.
The roaring tragedy of 94 had returned from the grave once more. O.J. would never escape it. And he knew it.
I didn't even hear the barking dogs during this tense silence. They must've been respecting O.J.'s emotional struggle as well.
"When people think you're a killer," he struggled to begin, his deep voice caving in with heartache. "They think I never loved her, but I did."
"I know you did," I said, my voice steady yet reassuring.
O.J. gazed down at his lap. An obvious method to hide his tears. "And everything I'd worked toward was gone." He glared at the camera. "I worked hard to get to here! I came from nowhere, man, I supported my Goddamn family! I made a name for himself!"
His anger was ferocious but not directed toward anyone in the room. I felt no fear. But if this was Fox or TMZ, I could picture the headline now: O.J.'s Rage Returns! Watch Out White People!
"And then it was all gone!" O.J. continued. "All because they wanted to believe the nigger killed everybody! That I was a stalker, a fucking psycho." Tear fell from his eyes. On camera, O.J.'s harsher profanity was about as rare as the tears. He was showcasing twenty years' worth of wounds right here for Pearse and I.
"So yeah, maybe Kanye and all these other rappers and what-have-you think I did it. If they wanna appease their white audience, that's fine. Fuck them. We don't need them. God knows the truth. My children know the truth! That's what matters more than these arrogant niggers running their mouths about me. Just so they can stay with their fake fucking white friends." He chuckled. A defeated chuckle that was chilling in its helplessness. "I guess I used to be the same. Believe me, I know. And they'll find out soon enough. Oh yeah, they'll see what happens when they get framed or blamed for some shit they didn't do. Then they won't be Grmamy-winning rapper or Oscar-winning "thespian," they'll be a guiltyass nigger. Like what they say about me."
I could feel Pearse give me an unwasy look. But I wasn't stopping this. Not now. This was O.J. at his most candid and honest. He trusted us. I wasn't stopping him no matter where the controversy led.
"I'd never hurt her," O.J. went on. "I wouldn't..." He brushed away his tears. "I wasn't a great husband, but I cared about Nicole. Yeah, I hit her... but it wasn't like me. I felt terrible the second it happened. When she looked at me crying. Hell, I cried too. I had no idea I could ever do that. That I could hurt someone, much less my wife." His wounded eyes stared out the glass doors, peering off into the darkness. "And they wanna say I slaughtered her."
Respectful, I leaned in a little closer. "Well, who do you think actually did it, O.J.?" I asked, sympathetic yet strong. "That's the main question me and Pearse get from these idiots. They'll ignore everything we said just for this shit."
"It really is," Pearse added with a weak smile.
Quiet, O.J. kept looking off at the balcony.
"Look, I know Fuhrman made sure we'll likely never know," I told O.J. "But is there anything you'd want to add to the discussion? Any suspicions you had? Anyone you suspect?"
O.J. put a hand to his face, shielding his ravaged face from the camera. Rather than strength, he showed defeat. Like the traumas were at war within him. I could hear his heavy, wounded breaths. I could only imagine the painful memories running through his head. "Juice," I said.
"I can't," he mumbled.
A cloud of silence conquered the room. I felt a sense of cryptic dread lingering through the atmosphere. O.J.'s handlers gave me piercing stares. I returned them an awkward gaze. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't a therapist, after all.
Trying to break the uneasy mood, Pearse grinned. "You sure it wasn't Kato?"
No one laughed or responded.
"We've always suspected drugs," I said.
Grimacing, O.J. looked at us.
"Several of Ron Goldman's friends were killed right after he and Nicole," I added. "One of them had his throat slit from ear to ear."
"And Faye Resnick left Nicole's house the day before the murders," Pearse assisted me. "She owed drug dealers over thirty-thousand dollars from what I understand."
O.J. ran a hand along his face. Our comments hit him like bullets into his emotions. He didn't say anything. He just kept within his self. Within his fragment, tormented psyche.
"She looked just like Nicole," I said. Me and Pearse's voices were calm but persistent.
Rocking in his seat, O.J. looked down at the ground. He avoided eye contact. He avoided us. The tears were forming in his eyes. He bit his lip. The sorrow weighed him down.
"There could've been a mix-up," I went on.
"It had to be two people," Pearse added.
I noticed all of O.J.'s associates watching him with concern.
Tears in his eyes, O.J. confronted us. In the war within himself, his anxiety was winning.
I just stared at Juice. But Pearse kept going.
"The original coroner even said two knives were used," Pearse continued.
O.J. gave us a fiery look. "You wanna know what really happened?" he said, his baritone devoid of any warmth or charm.
Pearse went silent in an instant.
"We just want to know your thoughts, O.J.," I said.
"Well, I'll tell you what happened!" O.J. responded. "I'll tell you exactly what happened!"
One of his concerned handlers stepped toward him.
O.J. held up his hand, keeping the bodyguards at bay. "No, let me speak!"
The handler took his place back by the door.
"Let me tell them everything," O.J. said. His intense eyes turned toward me and Pearse. "It's not about just drugs. There's more to it than that."
My detached coolness evaporated. O.J.'s gaze and voice were frantic. I sensed the interview was going into unexpected territory and I wasn't prepared. "What do you mean?" I asked, unable to hide the subtle panic in my voice.
"It's everybody!" O.J. yelled. "The whole fucking thing!" A defensive fury boiled up inside him. "There's an entire group of people that killed Nicole! And it's because they wanted me! They wanted to frame me and tear me to shreds. It wasn't just Goddamn Fuhrman or Vanatter. Not even the L.A.P.D. It was the entire country!"
The final chilling line reverberated through the room like an eerie piano chord. O.J.'s voice, his unnerving sincerity sold it.
Pearse and I just looked on at Juice, confused. None of his associates were stopping him. None of them even looked confused by his proclamation. They just had knowing expressions on their faces. Like they too were aware of Juice's wild account.
"I don't understand," I finally mustered out. "What do you mean? The entire country-"
"You heard me, Steve," O.J. interrupted. He leaned back in his seat. Like the weary survivor he was. "You know how this country is. You've seen it in action, Steve. It's not so much the media as it is the establishment."
"So what are you saying-"
"I'm saying they'll do anything to suppress blacks and other minorities. The white elite is too powerful. They need to find ways to... to inhibit blacks." O.J. looked right at Pearse and I. His emotional brown eyes pierced deep into our souls.
Not sure what to do, I hesitated. "So you're saying this conspiracy killed Nicole and Goldman?"
More animated than ever, O.J. threw his hands out toward us. "You know about me! You know who I was! What I represented. I was one of the first black celebrities to cross over. I was in commercials, man! Ten years after segregation ended, I was pushing Hertz! I was in movies, I was a superstar."
I didn't think he was bragging. His voice was too full of anger and resentment for this to be gloating O.J.
"And what better way to kill what I represented, huh?" O.J. challenged us. He leaned in closer like a wild-eyed preacher. This wasn't the Smooth Mr. Simpson. What we saw now was all paranoia... either from Alzheimer's or genuine fear. "They did what could turn the Juice into that rich nigger that got away with murder!" He waved his hands around as if he were shoving an invisible force away. "And they fucking got away with it! They killed Nicole and did everything they could to incriminate me!"
I looked over at Pearse. All I saw was a face of stunned confusion. Like someone had transplanted Pearse from Vegas to a nuthouse.
I confronted O.J. "So a group of these special rich white people killed Nicole?"
"Rich, powerful white people," he answered, his voice unwavering and not backing down.
The Juice was loose, alright, I thought. Loose in the fucking head.
"Look, Juice," I began.
O.J. flashed me a cryptic smile. "You don't believe me?"
I looked around the room. The associates were all stone-faced. Had O.J. convinced them of this batshit insanity? Or was he just paying them enough to believe?
"Honestly," I stammered. I looked back at O.J.'s calm face. He was relaxed. Like telling us this secret had lifted the weight of anxiety off him. "I don't know what to believe."
"I know," O.J. responded. Letting out a weary sigh, he slouched back in his chair. "It sounds crazy... it's why I don't tell many people." His gaze drifted off to the glass doors. "It's why I'm scared to tell anyone really."
"Why?"
Like he was responding to an insult, O.J. just gave me a cold glare. "You don't have a clue what these people are. The power they have. You can't even imagine what they could do to me and you."
"If they were trying to bring you down, why not just get you convicted-"
"They tried, didn't they," O.J. interrupted, his baritone commanding and strong.
"Then why not have you killed."
Smirking, O.J. looked off at the bodyguards. They returned sly smiles back.
Annoyed, I leaned in toward Juice. "If they were trying to destroy you because of your influence then why not just kill you? Alright, they tried framing you, so why wouldn't they just finish you off?"
O.J. let out a maddening laugh. The laugh of a helpless man left to die from irony.
"What?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"
"Why would they waste their time!" O.J. said through the chuckles. He pointed at himself. "Look at me, Steve. What the Hell would killing me do?"
The realization struck me. He was right. Why would they waste their time killing him... they'd already done enough. The damage was done.
"The trial killed everything I stood for," O.J. said. "No one looked at me the same. They couldn't look me in the eye." He leaned in closer, holding my gaze with those dark eyes. "There were no more advertisements, no more movies. No more Monday Night Football. No more respect of O.J.'s American Dream. I'm the Goddamn monster now, Steve."
Destroyed by inner anguish, he looked toward the floor.
Our staredown and his chilling reflections still left me shook.
"Hell, for all I know maybe they failed to frame me on purpose," O.J. muttered. He looked up at me. "Maybe just me fighting it out in the court then getting acquitted was part of the plan all along. Just to make people hate me even more."
"I'm sorry," I said. My attempt at a neutral voice couldn't hide my sympathy.
"If I'd gone to jail over a false charge, maybe people would've protested for me," Juice stated. "They would've looked into the case."
The atmosphere grew more and more tense with O.J.'s account. I noticed him running his hands together in a nervous tic. He couldn't fake the discomfort. He was never that good of an actor.
"Instead, all we get is everyone saying I did it," O.J. went on. "O.J. Simpson murderer. That's it. Listen to your Geraldos and your Nancy Graces, the entire American media. They all just pick me apart since I guess it's still illegal to string niggers up when you absolutely know we did something. I guess Emmett Till would've suffered the same."
Uneasy, I nodded my head. The room felt quieter than ever. No voices, no music, no football highlights, no dogs. Just crackling from the fire.
I didn't like seeing O.J. this way. Regardless of his hardships, he'd always been an upbeat fighter. Now he looked defeated.
"There's nothing I can do," O.J. said. "And they know it. They know they fucked me. My image is ruined forever. My name, everything I did. It's gone. My legacy is that I'm a black man who killed two white people. That's what I am." Tears of anger filled his eyes. "The media played it up. They control that too, you know. They control everything!"
"Jesus...” Pearse exclaimed.
I faced Pearse. Like me, he too was riveted by Juice's every word. Only Pearse 100% believed him.
"You do a lot of great things, Steve," O.J. told me.
I looked at Juice. Or the decrepit, depressed sight that was once O.J. Simpson.
"But there's nothing you can do," O.J. continued. "You're not Fox or NBC. You don't get many people on that show. It's why Baby Blue don't care."
"Baby Blue?" I asked, confused.
O.J.'s eyes never strayed from me. "That's their leader."
"What?"
His face stoic and deadly serious, O.J. pointed up toward his eyes. "Their leader's eyes. They're baby blue. That's all I know."
Part 1 of 2
14
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2015.12.04 19:47 alwayzsuspicious Chinese Interracial Overseas

=========================Statistics America=========================
The total number of Chinese in America is 4,010,114 (includes 215,441 Taiwanese).
Demographics of Asian Americans
Released: April 4, 2013
Source
Intermarriage rates for Asians. PEW Research Center, both male and female.
The Rise of Asian Americans
Updated Edition, April 04, 2013
http://i.imgur.com/HjLLVAk.png
Source
asian-nation.org
http://i.imgur.com/hm7XFW2.png
http://i.imgur.com/RAJD4uB.png
updated as of Nov. 2011
Source
PEW graph doesnt differentiate between male and female. The overall trend is consistent, but keep that in mind. To separate male from female go to asian nation.org. Both the PEW (see bottom of image) and asian-nation (see satistical methodology) got their data from American Community Survey.
=========================Statistics Canada=========================
http://i.imgur.com/SZueqDP.png
http://i.imgur.com/16eqxJW.png
http://i.imgur.com/BQFyAoO.png
A portrait of couples in mixed unions by Anne Milan, Hélène Maheux and Tina Chui
Source
Mixed unions in Canada
The proportion of mixed unions varied by visible minority groups
Some visible minority groups have a greater tendency to be in mixed unions than others (Table 1). In 2011, Japanese were by far the most likely to be in a conjugal relationship with a person from another group. Of the 32,800 couples in which at least one person was Japanese, 78.7% involved a spouse or partner who was not Japanese. Latin Americans (48.2%) and Blacks (40.2%) were the second and third most likely visible minority groups to form mixed unions.
In contrast, the two largest visible minority populations in Canada, South Asians and Chinese, had the smallest proportions of couples involving a spouse or partner from outside their group, at 13.0% and 19.4% respectively.
Size, demographic and ethnocultural composition, geographic distribution, number of generations and years spent in Canada, along with other characteristics, could all contribute to explain the variation in the mixed unions among visible minority groups.
2011
http://i.imgur.com/1lJu03q.png
Source
Source
=========================Statistics Australia=========================
For instance, whilst only six percent of Chinese males and 13 percent of Chinese females married outside their ethnic group within the first immigrant generation, 69 and 73 percent of those in the third generation did so (Khoo, Birrell and Heard 2009)
Source
Of the 120,118 marriages recorded in 2009 about forty-two percent involved at least one partner who was not Australian born. Fifteen percent of Australian-born women, and seventeen percent of Australian-born men, married somebody who was not Australian-born. Women born in America (68%), Greece (62%) and Ireland (62%) were the most likely to marry and Australian-born man. The least likely women to marry Australian-born men were women born in India (12%), China (16%), and South and Central Asia (16%). American (63%), Lebanese (62%) and Irish-born (62%) men were the most likely to marry an Australian-born woman. Chinese (2%), 'other North Asia' (7%) and Vietnamese-born (8%) men were the least likely to marry an Australian-born women. Chinese-born men were the most likely to marry a woman from the same country (91%). Mixed Marriage…Interreligious, Interracial, Interethnic By Dr. Robert H. Schram
Source
=========================Studies=========================
Marrying out: Comparing the marital and social integration of Asians in the US and Canada
Sharon M. Lee, Monica Boyd
Department of Sociology, Portland State University, Portland, OR, USA
Department of Sociology, University of Victoria, Victoria, BC, Canada V8W 3P5
Department of Sociology, University of Toronto, Canada
by SM Lee - 2007
Ethnic compositional differences in the Asian populations are expected to further contribute to lower exogamy among Asians in Canada as previous research have shown that some groups such as US Chinese and Asian Indians have lower intermarriage rates (Lee and Fernandez, 1998). Almost 80% of Canada's Asian population is of either Chinese (41%) or South Asian/Asian Indian (36%) origins (Statistics Canada, 2003).
Overall Rates
The majority of Asian couples are endogamous - about 80% of US Asian couples and 92% of Canadian Asian couples.
Fifty-two percent of US-born Asian wives are intermarried compared with 43% of husbands (comparable figures for the Canadian-born are 44% and 41%, respectively)
Percent intermarried by Asian ethnicity, nativity and gender, US 2000 and Canada 2001
http://i.imgur.com/fsDMRST.png
Chinese All Husbands and Wives Total (US): 13.6%
Chinese All Husbands and Wives Total (CAD): 6.4%
Chinese Total Husbands (US): 10.3%
Chinese Total Wives (US): 16.8%
Difference: 6.5%
Chinese Total Husbands (CAD): 5.4%
Chinese Total Wives (CAD): 7.4%
Difference: 2%
Multivariate Results
Chinese and Asian Indians are less likely to intermarry (US)
Filipinos and Southeast Asians in Canada are also more likely to intermarry while Chinese, Koreans and South Asians are less likely.
Discussion and Conclusion
As previously noted, the Asian population in Canada is a larger proportion of Canada's population, is more concentrated geographically, and is dominated by two ethnic groups (Chinese and Asian Indians) that have lower exogamy rates than other Asian ethnic groups.
Source
Models Explaining Exogamy- A Study of 1.5 and Second Generation Asian Immigrants in Canada
Pei Hua (Amanda) Lu, University of Saskatchewan
2011
FINDINGS
The results in Table 1 indicate that Chinese and East Indian immigrants show the highest percentage of endogamy among all 1.5 generation Asian immigrant groups (76.6% and 63.5%). One possible explanation may be that although Chinese parents can tolerate their children having a casual date with a Caucasian, it is still disapproved of, especially when marriage becomes a possibility (Weiss, 1970).
DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION
Both 1.5 and second generation Chinese immigrants appear to be the most unlikely group to choose exogamy in all models. Studies have found that when Chinese immigrant children are choosing a spouse, Chinese parents know that they cannot “impose their choices on their children, nor can they realistically expect to veto particular candidates put forward by their children, but they do continue to exercise the role of facilitator through their own social network” (Ikels, 1985, 258).
Source
Openness to Interethnic Relationships for Chinese and South Asian Canadians: The Role of Canadian Identity
Richard N. Lalonde, York University
Ayse Uskul, University of Essex
2013
A study by Lee and Boyd (2008) compared levels of endogamy for Asians in the United States and in Canada on the basis of the 2000 U.S. census and the 2001 Canadian census. Results indicated that overall rates of endogamy were about 80% for Asian American couples and 92% for Asian Canadian couples.
Whereas exogamy was quite high for the Japanese (41% in the United States and 49% in Canada, it was much lower for individuals of Chinese (14% in United States and 6% in Canada) and South Asian (9% in the United States and 5% in Canada) ancestries.
Milan and colleagues (2010) used data from the 2006 Canadian census and reported a number of statistics illustrating that the norm of endogamy is strong, at least along racial lines.
Among visible minority groups, the Japanese, particularly second-generation Canadians, were most likely to intermarry. Chinese and South Asians, the two largest visible minority groups in Canada, had the lowest proportions of exogamy, thus providing indirect evidence for a propinquity effect; given the geographic concentration of large numbers of Chinese and South Asian immigrant families in urban centres, they would have ample opportunities to meet a prospective partner from their respective ethnic groups.
Chinese Canadians who had spent more of their lives in Canada, therefore, were more likely to be open to the norms of that society, but they still maintained stable levels of identification with their heritage culture (see Cheung, Chudek, and Heine 2011).
Source
HOOKED ON RACE: An Investigation of the Racialized Hookup Experiences of White, Asian, and Black College Women
A Thesis Presented to the Department of Sociology In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirement for the Degree of Bachelor of Arts with Honors
By Nicole Chen
University of Michigan
April 2014
http://i.imgur.com/Jah6F4m.png
http://i.imgur.com/5aakHBY.png
http://i.imgur.com/o8Bp31A.png
Source
Group Size and Social Interaction: a Canada-US Comparison of Interracial Marriage
2015
For Asians, in both the Canadian and US samples, we identify 7 subgroups based on self- reports to the census question on race: (1) Chinese, (2) Japanese, (3) Filipino, (4) Korean, (5) South Asian (Indian, Pakistani, Sri Lankan, etc.), (6) other Asian (mostly Southeast Asians and individuals who reported multiple Asian groupings); and (7) Asian-white mixed race.
Chinese and South Asians account for nearly two-thirds of the Asian population in Canada, but just one-quarter in the US.
Table 5 replicates Table 4 for Asians. As in Table 4, we do not find a cross-country difference in the prevalence of interracial union for Asians when cross-country differences in individual- and community-level factors are taken into account. There are large differences among subgroups of Asians. More precisely, Japanese, Filipino, and Koreans have higher rates of interracial union with whites than Chinese (the reference group in the model).
Source
By the Numbers: Dating, Marriage, and Race in Asian America
Studies show that APAs have high “outmarriage” rates. But as always, there’s more to the story than just the headline.
Nov 19, 2012
Percentages of the Six Largest Asian Ethnic Groups who are Married to . . .
Chinese Americans:
Husbands - Chinese 77.6% Other Asians 13.0%
Wives - Chinese 72.9% Other Asians 11.9%
Filipino Americans:
Husbands - Filipinos 75.6% Other Asians 9.4%
Wives - Filipinos 55.6% Other Asians 6.9%
Korean Americans:
Husbands - Koreans 86.4% Other Asians 9.2%
Wives - Koreans 62.6% Other Asians 6.7%
Source
=========================Articles=========================
Love Sees No Color? Chinese American Intermarriage
Jul 10, 2014
Editor’s Note: The following is a question and answer between reporter Karen Ye and Dr. Larry Hajime Shinagawa, Executive Director of New World Research Institute, a non-profit think tank focusing on research on new immigrants to the United States. Among his research areas are intermarriage, multiracial identity, and Asian American culture and community. He is former director of Asian American Studies at the University of Maryland at College Park and director of the Center for the Study of Culture, Race, and Ethnicity and Associate Professor of the Sociology Department of Ithaca College.
Q: So what are the patterns today?
A: Very few Chinese American men intermarry, and when they do, it is in the 2nd generation and beyond, overwhelmingly with white and Asian females. Every generation of Chinese American women has a substantially greater tendency to intermarry into the white population and other Asians. Very few marry racial minority men.
Q: Doesn’t that show that Chinese Americans prefer to marry whites?
A: Not really. If we control for population size, we get the probability or “preference” to marry someone. The figures show that Chinese American men and women are significantly more willing to marry another Chinese or Asian than a white.
Source
AsianDate Helps Members identify the Difference Between Filipina and Chinese Women
Posted on October 28, 2014
AsianDate, the popular online dating service that helps single men from across the globe connect with beautiful and enchanting Asian women, has shared some fascinating facts about Filipina and Chinese women. The portal highlights the key differences between women from these two Asian countries so that single men trying to woo them online know what to expect.
“Apart from the different languages they speak, Filipino and Chinese women are poles apart in many other aspects,” says the Chief Communications Officer for AsianDate, Lawrence Cervantes. “Filipina women are comfortable with the idea of dating online and looking for a potential partner on the internet. Chinese women are more cautious when it comes to dating online and getting acquainted with men from the West.”
Source
Chinese-Americans Find Love on Specialty Dating Site
Dec 18 2014
Founded in 2010, and modeled after JDate, a dating site for Jewish Singles, 2RedBeans is an online dating site for the Chinese diaspora or "Overseas Chinese." It boasts almost 500,000 members, of whom 70 percent use simplified/traditional Chinese as their default site language, 30 percent were born in North America, and only 2 percent are non-Asian. It also has an algorithm that weeds out "Asianphiles" and accounts for Chinese cultural values such as date of immigration and highest level of education.
Zhao came to the United States from China for graduate school in Electrical Engineering at the University of California San Diego. Despite a large social circle, she and her friends found it difficult to meet compatible men because of language and cultural barriers. Mainstream dating sites, she says, didn't work.
"Although these sites do provide a large pool of candidates, many of them are not of similar background, since most Chinese are not on these sites," said Zhao. "In the US, 85% of ethnic Chinese still marry other Chinese, but there is no good platform to connect this group of people."
Source
The Chinese Question: Ethnicity, Nation, and Region in and beyond the Philippines
Caroline S. Hau
For instance, many Chinese elite families still practice endogamy (p. 259), thereby maintaining the boundaries between the Chinese and the Filipinos.
Source
Amazon's Book of the Year 2014: Literary thriller US loves
Published 07/12/2014
Lydia herself has always been defined by difference. Born to an all-American mother and a Chinese-American father, she and her siblings, Nath and Hannah, are the only 'Orientals' in their entire school. This may not be all that surprising in 1977 suburban Ohio; however what does surprise is the extent of the prejudice this interracial family experiences on a daily basis.
Source
For 60 years, America officially excluded Chinese people
Mark Roth Pittsburgh Post-Gazette 12:00 AM, Nov 28, 2014
http://i.imgur.com/KXHSrwj.jpg
The Chinese Exclusion Act, as it came to be known, was passed by Congress in 1882 and was not lifted until 1943, when politicians acted partly out of embarrassment over the fact that China was a U.S. ally in World War II.
In the 1920s, Yee said, it was common for Chinese families to send one son abroad to earn money to send back to China, and her father took on that role. Fung, who had grown up in Guangdong, catered to what Americans thought of as Chinese food in those years, mostly chop suey and chow mein. Only later did he add Cantonese dishes, egg rolls and other menu items.
One of his first hires was a waitress, Lorraine Kristoff, whose family was from Hungary, and “she said she knew two weeks after she met him that she was going to marry him,” Yee said.
Source
White Parents, Becoming a Little Less White
By Jack Cheng April 15, 2015 11:41 am
http://i.imgur.com/Jcqm19p.jpg
A few years ago, in fact, my wife casually mentioned that she doesn’t consider herself 100 percent white any more. She has blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin, and as far back as anyone can remember, all of her ancestors have been Irish.
She was white when we were married. I know that because I’m Chinese and that made us an interracial couple. My wife jokes (I think she’s joking) that she married me in part because my increased melanin would protect her children from skin cancer.
Our children are proud to be Irish-American-Chinese-Canadian but most people just see their faces as Chinese. I’ve read about a number of studies that explain how human beings tend to internalize external reactions to their appearance. This is the reason racism can incur negative self-assessments among minorities.
Source
Rich Chinese Men are Touring Russia to Find White-Skinned, Blue-Eyed Wives
Recently, five Chinese bachelors attended a meet-up in Novosibirsk, Russia’s third-largest city. The session was arranged by Elena Suvorova, head of a marriage agency called OSD Center. The bachelors, aged 25 to 46, came all the way from Beijing, Hong Kong, Shanghai and Shenzhen. “All the girls who we invited are under 35-years-old. Initially, the men want to see brides with white skin and blue eyes. Funnily enough though, last year the girls who got into a relationship were brunettes with brown eyes.” Suvorova praised Chinese men for respecting women: “Chinese men treat women with respect. It is important for them that the woman is moderate, natural, calm, smiling, and not competing with the man.”
Source
Middle-class Chinese men head to Russia and other Eastern European countries to find Westernized wives with local appeal
According to Yuan's observation, most of the Chinese men who go to Eastern European countries to find wives tend to be affluent and more familiar with the Western culture, lifestyle and value system. Yuan and his friends are an example of the current trend in China in which a growing number of Chinese men are marrying women from Eastern European countries. Earlier this year, a group of eight wealthy Chinese bachelors aged from 25 to 46 went to Khabarovsk in Russia for a group blind date with Russian girls. The date was organized by a local dating agency, and five of them found a match, according to a Daily Mail October 11 report.
Source
When asked which ethnicities they would be willing to marry, more than 95 percent of both male and female Chinese students said they would be willing to marry fellow Chinese. Americans of European decent were the second most popular, with 45 percent of Chinese males and 43 percent of females willing to marry them. These numbers were 8 and 3 percent respectively regarding African Americans — the least popular potential marriage partners among those surveyed.
http://i.imgur.com/fvzJ8Gt.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/kAFNx0V.png
Those who have a partner, over 90% their partner is Chinese.
Those who are single, 96.3% would like to marry Chinese.
only females had spouses with Korean/Japanese or 100%. From the other chart though, Korean/Japanese make up 1.1% of those 371 in relationships. So the "100%" is basically referring to 4 people.
Another observation. the Pg. 17 table shows males around 10% higher for Chinese spouses that basically matches http://www.asian-nation.org/interracial.shtml
Source
Uganda is worried about the number of Chinese men marrying their women
Contractors, petty traders, investors, and entrepreneurs from China have been pouring into Uganda for the past decade. China is a top investor in the east African country, accounting for as much as half of total foreign investment between 2014 and 2015, according to the Uganda Investment Authority. But according to Ugandan immigration officials, there’s one major downside: an increasing number of Chinese men are marrying Ugandan women to gain residency and continue their business interests in the country.
Source
Chinese student's willingness to marry a person from various racial/ethnic groups (survey)
http://i.imgur.com/fvzJ8Gt.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/kAFNx0V.png
Those who have a partner, over 90% their partner is Chinese.
Those who are single, 96.3% would like to marry Chinese.
More female students who study abroad are returning to China: largely because of the difficulty in finding a suitable marriage partner
Statistics show that 59.16 percent of female overseas returnees come home after finishing their studies, surpassing the number of their male counterparts.
The reason is mainly because it is relatively difficult to find a marriage partner in a foreign country.
http://usa.chinadaily.com.cn/china/2016-03/28/content_24137079.htm
China’s improved international image and more Chinese immigrants in the US create a trend of American-born Chinese marrying within their race
More ABCs are beginning to choose Chinese or people of Chinese origin as their ideal romantic partners because of their common language and cultural advantages. Experts say that an improved international image of China and more Chinese immigrants in the US are responsible for the trend.
http://www.globaltimes.cn/content/1020696.shtml
Why did 300 Chinese fathers vanish from Liverpool in 1946 after wartime service in British merchant navy?
Kept secret by the British government, the disappearance of sailors who’d braved German U-boats through the second world war left many Eurasian children to grow up not knowing what happened to their dads. During the 1940s, about 20,000 experienced mariners were recruited in Shanghai, Singapore and Hong Kong to supplement the British merchant fleet and undertake hazardous convoy duties in the waters of the North Atlantic, infested with German submarines, and beyond. Liverpool was the de facto headquarters of this Chinese merchant navy. Many of the men, like Foley’s father, a marine engineer, met and fell in love with local women and settled in the city.
http://www.scmp.com/magazines/post-magazine/long-reads/article/2118142/why-did-300-chinese-fathers-vanish-liverpool-1946
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