#thenarrators

#Repost @queenjustbrittany ... So many people call me for that good I had an outrageous ass phone 📞 bill 😜 ! This is the song that put me on the map! 🌎 S/o to #CashMoney and #TheNarrators ! #TBT #ThatGood #GoodGood #FemaleArtist #Houston #Atlanta #NewYork #Dallas #GoDJs #RecordingArtist #GoDjHiC #DjEric #Chicago #Birdman #RespeckIt #Baby (at Atlanta, Georgia)

THE SKEPTIC the first narrator who will be presented is Mattia , as it was the first mind firmly believing in Frozen Sand's project and that allowed the maturation of the band thanks to his skepticism. Follow his story on www.frozensandband.com/#!blank-9/av43o #frozensand #thenarrators #firstnarrators #storytellingmetal #metal #metalmusic #fractals #music #stories

I set down the letter informing me that I was being sued by a creditor for failure to make my car payments for the last six months and walked into the kitchen, my heart throbbing in my neck and pushing against the cry caught in the back of my throat.  I looked around, feeling out of sorts, and began opening drawers.  I found the drawer that kept the utensils, planted my feet and started sorting through the jumbled mass of spoons and forks and butter knives.  I wanted the biggest, sharpest knife I could find, a chef’s knife, maybe a meat cleaver.  The closest thing I found was a dull serrated paring knife, three inches long and set into a black plastic handle.  I shut the drawer and walked upstairs.  I put on my jacket and tucked the knife into one of its pockets.  I hurriedly left my apartment, walked up the street, and got into the driver’s seat of my newly acquired 1989 Ford Festiva, which by the way is the vehicular equivalent of owning a lisp.  I started the car, lit a cigarette, and struck out for a Comfort Inn on the outskirts of Brighton with the clear intention of stabbing Bradley Lucero, Jr., the man who had ruined my life, one or more times about the face and torso. But I should back up. The 1989 Ford Festiva I was driving had been given to me by my mother just a week prior, replacing the car I had on loan from a friend while he spent the fall traveling through Europe.  The Festiva was a tiny little car, a boxy red two-door turd that was apparently assembled from the production line leavings of bigger, better cars.  The name Festiva is derived from the Mexican word meaning, ahem, festive, and I imagine that the good people who won the naming rights for this model knew how to throw one hell of a party.  At any rate, my mother’s former party car now belonged to me, a gift I very gratefully and very shamefully accepted.  It had recently taken severe damage to its front end, and the passenger side headlight was held in place by a strategically placed branch from a scrub oak tree and copious amounts of duct tape.  The entire front quarter panel was crumpled against the frame, and in spite of the duct tape and the wedged stick, the headlight threatened to flop out of its busted socket at any minute.  My mother had been involved in a head-on collision a month or or so prior.  In an odd moment of confluence, I was driving the other car, the Chevy Cavalier that was on loan to me from a friend. But I should back up. There was this weird moment that happened as my wits returned to me after the impact and the Chevy Cavalier settled from the crash, looking over the steering wheel at my mother in her Ford Festiva (she seemed nonplussed but distinctly put out, a cigarette still dangling from her lips): this was a moment that felt like belonging.  It felt just about right that I should be involved in a head-on collision with my mother.  The incident happened right outside our house, so the odds were favorable that if two cars were to smash into each other, it should be these two.  And at my age, I figured that the consequences of my actions washed out as luck and not as a direct result of my poor decision-making skills, because they seemed all bad and I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to take on responsibility.  So the scene I found myself in felt just right.  It felt like I was right where I oughta fucking be.  My bad luck baby has bad luck.  My mother took her keys from the ignition, opened the door, and peered at me through a bug-stained windshield.  In her characteristic cool detachment she simply raised her voice and stated “Honey, I’m Home.” I’m gonna back up a little further. I had the Chevy Cavalier on loan from a friend because I had just sold my car after determining that it was an expense I could not afford as I entered into college.  After mustering up the courage to try and overcome years of public assertion that I was a moron, I had decided that I would try to get myself a degree in English, and had applied to Metro State College with the knowledge that they couldn’t turn me away simply because of my status as an idiot.  My years of working at the mall had left me battle-hardened but weary from my tours of duty in the trenches of retail sales, and I had developed a sincere desire to improve my station.   But I want to back up a little further. The car that I had just sold was a 1993 Geo Metro, Convertible, Bone White, with a manual 5-speed transmission on a three cylinder engine and an am/fm/cd player with four speakers.  If you don’t know what a Geo Metro is, I can tell you that they are not very cool.  Geo as a brand is probably better known for the Geo Storm, which was the official car of strippers in the early 90’s.  So if the Geo Storm was the stripper car, the Geo Metro was owned almost exclusively by pederasts, oral hygienists, and the kind of hunchback droolers who went to strip clubs and really thought that the strippers were “being nice”.   So, having established that, as an Assistant Manager of a Vans Outlet Store I had achieved a certain level of economic independence that had allowed me to purchase the car used at what I thought was a really great price.  I had only owned the car for a couple of months when I made the decision to leave my lucrative position at Vans, move into the city and get a job at the school or at a coffee shop.  I started to panic a little bit because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to make the payments.  So I posted an ad in the Denver Post and less than a week later Bradley Lucero, Jr., assistant manager of a Comfort Inn in Brighton, called me and asked if we could meet for a test drive.   When we met he had his two-month old daughter and his fiancee in tow, and we spent the better part of an afternoon together.  We hit it off, he liked the car and appreciated my situation.  He knew my asking price was fair (a simple transfer of the car payments through the lender), and wanted to help me out.  We worked out a deal where we just kind of put together some hand-written notes that we both signed that stated that he would take over the payments of the car and I gave him the keys then and there.  He wrote me a check for one months’ payment as a good faith measure and drove off into the sunset.  I had his phone number and knew that he worked at the Comfort Inn. As the months wore on, punctuated by angry phone calls from bill collectors and piling mail laying out the course of actions that were being mounted against me in my delinquency, my own frequent calls to the home of Bradley Lucero, Jr. became frantic, desparate.  In short, he gave me the total blow-off, and as I related my tale to older, wiser souls I was informed over and over and over again that I was a fucking idiot for letting him take the car under the pretenses that he and I agreed upon.  I had no legal grounds to bring meaningful action against him.  The consequences of my actions were conspiring against me.  I wanted to shed the car so that I could approach college sensibly, without the burden of debt, and I had failed.   But I’d like to back up just a little further, where I think the point of this story resides, which is at its beginning.  When you are the Assistant Manager of a Vans Outlet Store, you are afforded certain privileges.  You get a deep discount on already discounted shoes.  You get to control the VCR that plays looping clips of skate and music videos during store hours.  You get to provide direction to the part-time clerks, but you don’t get to punish or reward them for their efforts.   You get to count the register down at the end of the shift.  You get a printed nametag that displays your title, and you get a pretty sweet fucking salary, about 20 grand a year. I sat in the food court one day and perused the classifieds.  I was working my way through a six pack of tacos from The Bell and looking for a car to buy.  I had worked my way up through the ranks at one of the Outlet Mall’s coolest stores and felt great about being able to say that I had become the assistant fucking manager at the young age of 19.  I came across the ad for the Geo Metro and the price seemed ridiculously low for a car that had such low miles and was only a year old.  I called the dealership and played it cool about the price, thinking that it was a misprint, and made a mental note to bring the classifieds with me if they tried to weasel out of the price.  I thought I’d sue the fuckers for false advertising.  They acted like they were going to have a real hard time letting go of it for that price, but fair was fair.  I bought it.   I bought it.  I totally fucking bought it, the Geo Metro, the nametag with my name on it, all of it. Months later I pulled into the Comfort Inn Parking Lot where Bradley worked and cut the engine, leaving the lights and the radio on.  It had started raining on my drive up from Denver and the wiper blades pulled streaks across my view of the hotel.  I lit another cigarette and fumbled at the knife in my jacket pocket with shaking hands.  I sat and watched the wipers briefly clean up the watery landscape, drenched again as the rain beat against the windshield.  I didn’t know what to do.  Dusk descended easily in the overcast evening and I turned the knife over and over again, the blade catching on the seams in my pocket.  I didn’t know what to do.