The only thing more dangerous than ignorance is the illusion of knowledge.
A galaxy far far away🌎 🚀🟠
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Don't try me... Go Kick Rocks 🪨
“Vice City Heat”
GTA VI
The neon of Vice City bled across the windshield as Mike Sherman dropped the hammer. The supercharged muscle car, stolen two hours earlier from a parking garage off Ocean Drive, howled like it had something to prove.
Behind him, the pack of street racers closed in..a neon-pink supercar, a jacked-up swamp runner with swamp-light bars, and a sleek black sedan that had already sideswiped two competitors into the canal.
“Last one to the marina buys the next round,” he said over the radio, Florida drawl lazy and confident. Nobody had believed him. He looked like he belonged behind a drafting table more than a steering wheel, dark hair, sunglasses pushed up, a faint smirk that said he’d already decided how the night ended.
The course snaked through the heart.
Vice City PD unit 381 sat dark at the end of the unfinished bridge, engine idling low. Officer Lisa Nazzaro watched the pack of street racers scream toward her through the scope of her rifle-mounted spotlight. Badge 381 glinted once when she shifted in the seat.
“Dispatch, 381. They’re on the bridge. Requesting units on the marina side. I’m taking the intercept.”
The reply was static and a half-hearted warning. She was already rolling.
The lead car, a stolen muscle car with a supercharger that sounded illegal from three blocks away, was running point. Lisa timed it, then dropped the transmission into drive and shot out of the shadow, lights and siren exploding to life.
The muscle car’s driver panicked and cut left. She cut harder, her interceptor’s push bar kissing the rear quarter and spinning him into the concrete barrier in a shower of sparks and plastic.
One down.
The pink supercar tried to dive between her and the railing. She matched the move, stayed glued to its door, and spoke calm into the PA…
“Pull it over. Now.”
The driver didn’t. Lisa gave the wheel a deliberate twitch. The supercar’s front tire caught the expansion joint, hopped, and kissed the guardrail hard enough to fold the bumper. It limped to a stop, steam rising. She was already past it.
The black sedan was the only one left with any speed. It hit the marina stretch flat-out, weaving between construction barrels.
Lisa stayed in its slipstream, reading the driver’s moves a half-second early.
When he feinted right, she was already there, forcing him left toward the chain-link gate that closed off the boat ramp.
He locked the brakes. She didn’t. The interceptor’s nose tucked under his rear bumper and shoved him straight through the gate and into the shallow water at the edge of the slip.
Lisa killed the siren, stepped out, and walked the last ten feet through ankle-deep water, duty belt creaking. Badge 381 caught the light from the marina floods.
The driver was still behind the wheel, hands up, soaked and shaking.
“You win the race?” she asked, almost friendly.
He blinked. “I… I thought I was gonna.”
“You didn’t.” She cuffed him through the open window, read the rights like she had all night, and keyed her radio.
“381. Three in custody. Race is over. Tell the tow trucks they can take their time, I’m walking this one in.”
Behind her, the other units finally arrived, lights painting the water red and blue. Lisa Nazzaro, badge 381, smirked while the cuffed driver sat dripping on the hood of his ruined car.
The finish line someone had spray-painted earlier was already underwater.
She’d crossed it first.
@KickRocks2027
Disclaimer…
This work, whether fiction or non-fiction, is the sole creation and responsibility of the author.
Fiction: Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. May contain mature themes. Reader discretion advised.
Non-Fiction: Based on real events and experiences. While facts have been represented to the best of the author’s knowledge, this reflects personal perspective and memory. Some details may be approximated for narrative flow.
All rights reserved. No reproduction without permission.
This is not legal, medical, or professional advice. If you need that, go kick rocks and consult an expert.
©Lisa Nazzaro @KickRocks2027
2
17
For a non-Polish woman, I sure can cook and speak the language.
@KickRocks2027
Potato and cheese. Sour cream
🤖 Made with AI
Wine cooler night and singing.
Who’s up for it? I’m going to take requests.
Bring earplugs.
@KickRocks2027
In the sun-dappled gum tree forest of the Australian bush, Eucalyptus Eugene was known as the sleepiest koala around.
Most days he spent twenty hours dozing in the fork of his favorite eucalyptus tree, one paw draped over his eyes, the other clutching a half-eaten leaf.
The other koalas called him “Lazy Eugene.” He didn’t mind. He liked the peace and quiet.
One afternoon the quiet vanished. A hot, dry wind whipped through the trees, carrying the sharp smell of smoke.
Far below, wallabies and possums began to chatter in alarm. A bushfire was racing across the ridge.
Eugene’s mother poked her head out of the neighboring tree. “Stay put!” she called. “The fire will pass lower down. We’re safe up here.”
But Eugene heard a smaller sound beneath the crackle of distant flames…the frightened squeaks of three tiny sugar gliders trapped in a hollow that the wind had blocked with a fallen branch.
The hollow was on a tree that stood right in the fire’s path. In a few minutes the flames would reach it.
Eugene’s heart thumped so hard he felt it in his soft gray ears. Climbing down toward smoke and heat was the last thing he wanted to do.
Still, he uncurled his claws, took one deep breath of the familiar eucalyptus scent, and began to descend.
The trunk grew warmer under his paws. Embers drifted past his nose. When he reached the blocked hollow, the sugar gliders pressed against the inside, eyes wide.
Eugene braced his feet and shoved the heavy branch with both shoulders. It barely moved. The fire’s roar grew louder.
He tried again, this time rocking the branch back and forth the way he’d once rocked a stubborn leaf free from a high twig. On the third rock the branch slid, then tumbled.
The gliders shot out, gliding in three small arcs to a safer tree, chirping their thanks as they went.
Eugene didn’t wait to watch. He scrambled back up his own tree just as the first flames licked the lower bark.
Safe in the high canopy, he watched the fire sweep past below, leaving the upper branches unharmed. The sugar gliders waved from their new home.
His mother stared at him with wide eyes.
“You went down there?” she said.
Eugene shrugged, already settling back into his fork. “They sounded scared.” He popped a fresh leaf into his mouth and closed his eyes.
The other koalas never called him Lazy Eugene again. From that day on, whenever someone needed a brave climber, they simply asked for Eucalyptus Eugene, then waited patiently while he finished his nap first.
Back in his favorite fork, Eugene finally let his eyes close. A moment later he started to snore, soft little leaf-shaped bubbles of sound.
The three sugar gliders he had just saved had been watching from the next tree. One of them whispered, “Should we…?” The others nodded.
They glided over, carefully lifted Eugene’s floppy ear, and dropped a single bright red gum blossom inside it.
Eugene’s nose twitched. His eyes flew open. “AH-CHOO!”
The sneeze was so powerful it launched him backward out of the tree.
He spun once, landed paws-first on a springy mattress of fallen leaves below, and bounced straight back up into a lower branch.
Upside-down, he blinked at the sugar gliders, who were now rolling around laughing so hard they could barely glide.
“Thanks for the flower,” Eugene mumbled, still hanging by one foot. “Next time… maybe just a thank-you note?”
Then he yawned, tucked the blossom behind his ear like a tiny hat, and went back to sleep, while the whole forest tried (and failed) not to giggle.
@KickRocks2027
My Mom’s Famous Words….
“Lisa, focus on what you can change, and let go of what you can't.”
@KickRocks2027
All flights in the USA are ground stopped right now. FAA shut down all landings. Air route traffic, and it means chaos.
Overnight flights coming up. European flights. Asian flights. Up from the Caribbean.. it is going to be nuts. Stopped airplanes on the runways.
Pray for this.
Nationwide ground stop.
@KickRocks2027
NCIDENT SUMMARY REPORT
Case Number: 26-11-0419
Date/Time of Incident: 13 November 2026, approximately 1230–1232 hours
Location: Mississippi River, near mile marker 96, Port of New Orleans, Orleans Parish, Louisiana (vicinity of 1350 Port of New Orleans Place / Crescent City Connection)
Reporting Agency: Port NOLA Harbor Police (with multi-agency response)
Incident Type: Vessel allision / collision – tanker striking docked passenger vessel
Summary:
At approximately 1230 hours, the tanker Atlantic Asphalt (Marshall Islands-flagged, approximately 500–525 feet in length), while transiting upbound on the Mississippi River, lost control and struck the docked American Cruise Lines riverboat American Heritage (approximately 295–300 feet, paddlewheel design).
The American Heritage had arrived and docked roughly two hours earlier to begin passenger disembarkation.
The force of the allision caused the American Heritage to heel sharply onto its side and become partially submerged. Passengers and crew were forced into the water or onto the listing decks.
Vessels Involved:
• Atlantic Asphalt (tanker) – underway, lost control prior to contact.
• American Heritage (American Cruise Lines) – docked, approximately 129 passengers plus crew aboard at the time of impact.
Response:
Port NOLA Harbor Police, New Orleans Fire Department, New Orleans Police Department, U.S. Coast Guard, and emergency medical services responded immediately.
Rescue operations focused on recovery of persons from the water and the partially submerged vessel. A
triage area was established at the Port of New Orleans Administration Building. The U.S. Coast Guard closed the Mississippi River to all vessel traffic between mile markers 93 and 96 to facilitate response operations.
Casualties and Accountability:
All passengers and crew from the American Heritage were accounted for. No fatalities were reported. Approximately 32 individuals were transported to local hospitals for evaluation and treatment; none sustained critical injuries.
Two Port NOLA Harbor Police officers who entered the water during rescue operations were among those treated and released or held for observation.
Current Status:
Active rescue phase concluded. The American Heritage remains partially submerged against the dock.
The Atlantic Asphalt was secured with tug assistance. The river closure remains in effect pending assessment and recovery operations. Cause of the loss of control by the tanker is under investigation. A formal marine casualty investigation is anticipated.
Reporting Officer: Sgt. Elena Ruiz, Port NOLA Harbor Police
Date of Report: 13 November 2026
Keeping all victims in my prayers.
And the harbor patrol and EMS. All first responders, and all crew members from both vessels.
Anything spooky happen today ?
I left the sunroof window open. Yikes. It rained. Not good.
Saw a black cat…. Nothing happened.
@KickRocks2027
“Not for All The Vodka in the Entire Poland.”
In the little village of Oakridge, where the post office still closed for lunch, and the pub was the real town hall, two old friends had a standing arrangement.
Peter, the middle-aged financial advisor with a tidy office above the bakery, would swing by Jimmy’s garage most Fridays.
Jimmy, pushing seventy-three and still under the same bonnet he opened at twenty-two, always had something half-finished and a kettle that never quite boiled.
One Friday, Peter found Jimmy elbows-deep in a Mazda that refused to start and needed an oil change. He had oil stains you on his overalls, grey hair sticking straight up, he looked knackered.
“So how’s my friend Jimmy doing?” Peter asked, leaning on the hood.
“Working too much,” Jimmy replied, not looking up.
Peter grinned. “Oh, Jimmy, you deserve to retire.”
“You can’t do these hours much longer.”
Jimmy laughed. “How many hours did you do last week?”
Peter replied, “About eighty a week the last few weeks.”
Jimmy snipped, “No good. How old are you, pal?
Peter straightened, wiping his hands from the dust on the hood. “Sixty.”
Jimmy tilted his head, studying him. “How old are you, Peter?”
Peter snickered, “Sixty. I just told you.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows went up. “You look good, Peter.”
Peter squinted at him. “Jimmy… you hitting on me?”
Jimmy took a step back, hands raised, still smiling. “Peter…not for all the vodka in the entire Poland.”
The Mazda chose that moment to cough into life. Jimmy shook his head, but he was laughing too. Outside, the village carried on as usual, and for a minute the garage felt a bit less tired.
“Hey, let’s catch the game tonight down at the Polish club?” Jimmy said, wiping his hands on a rag after the oil change was completed.
Peter looked up like Jimmy had just suggested they swim the Channel. “Are you kidding me? I don’t know any Polish.”
Jimmy grinned. “You’ll be fine. I’ll teach you three words. That’s all you need.”
“Three?”
“Tak. Means yes. Nie. Means no. And piwo. Means beer. Say them.”
Peter squinted. “Tack. Knee. Pee-vo.”
“Close enough. If someone talks to you, just say ‘Tak, piwo’ and smile. You’ll look like a local.”
That evening they walked into the Polish Club, the place already loud with a football match on the big screen and the smell of something fried and excellent. Peter hovered by the door until Jimmy nudged him forward.
A guy at the bar turned and said something rapid. Peter froze, then blurted, “Tak, piwo.”
The man laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and two cold bottles appeared. Jimmy raised his. “See?”
Halfway through the match someone else asked Peter a longer question. He nodded wisely and answered, “Tak, piwo.” This time it got a bigger laugh and a plate of pierogi pushed in front of him. He looked at Jimmy, wide-eyed. “I think I’m winning.”
By the final whistle Peter had said “Tak, piwo” four more times, been bought two extra rounds, and somehow ended up arguing (via more “Tak, piwo”) about a penalty with a man who only spoke Polish and English in equal parts. When they left, Peter was smiling like he’d scored.
“That was great,” he said. “I might even learn a fourth word.”
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
Peter thought for a second. “Dziękuję. Means thank you, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Dziękuję for the piwo.” He paused. “And for not telling anyone I still don’t know what I was agreeing to.”
@KickRocks2027
