I’m a witness to the death of my baby brother, and a splitting image of the man who committed his murder. So, I have to look his killer in his eyes everyday. He’s been haunting me since I as about 4 years old. That night, the man I affectionately called daddy, took shots of Hennessy, and jabs at my mother and my younger brothers, in a drunken rage.
That night, there was a massacre. Something inside me, and my mother died. A double homicide, whose blood was on my daddy’s hands. What do when the only man you’ve ever known and loved: your Superman, is unmasked, and a cold-hearted killer stands before you?
He didn’t lay a hand on me, but he cut me deeper than any knife ever could. Little did I know, that wound will never heal. I felt helpless, hopeless, and hurt. Feelings that were all new to me, despite the fact that we were living in an abandoned building.
I was shocked to the point of paralysis. But my pride wouldn’t let me cry. But for the first time in my life, I saw tears fall from my mothers eyes. Not because she broke her arm trying to protect us, or because she was lying on the floor in a cocktail of blood with her dead son. Not because she couldn’t put a roof over our heads or food on the table.
It was just that, she’d always been able to shelter us from the storm, until now. She cried for me.
That night, she persevered through the pain. She wouldn’t risk losing another child. She mustered up the strength to gather what remained of her children, and left my father for good. That night, I made myself two promises: I would never put myself in a situation where I felt helpless again, and I’d die before I let anyone else lay a hand on my mother, or anyone else in my family.
I’d never heard of exercise, but that night, it became my first love. It was the start of a lifelong romance, whose flame would never die. That night, I started training. I did sit-ups until my abs ached. I did push-ups until my arms grew so weak, that they buckled under pressure, repeatedly dropping my malnourished body on the floor. But, I was determined not to fold. I refused to let anything, or anyone break me. Next time someone tried to lay a hand on my mother: I’d be ready.
That night, Bad Saint was born. I began my quest for the holy grail of health, fitness and business, so that I could give my mothers the life she deserves. And I’ve been training my body and exercising my mind everyday, ever since. My passion was to become health and fitness illustrated. My dream was to get my mother out of the ghetto, so that she would never have to hurt again, or be at the mercy of a man for her survival, and to show her that her sacrifices, her pain, and my brothers death, weren’t in vain.
Now I know that this is much bigger than me; and, everything that I’ve gone through was to help you along your journey, and avoid getting all the knowledge knots that inevitably come with learning every lesson first hand.
I’m a product of the projects, and an astute pupil in the school of the hard-knocks. A paradox. A proud Southeast D.C. native and Howard University graduate. I have made it my life’s mission to absorb every stitch of information that I can find on my quest for the holy grail of health, fitness and business in order to build a legacy, and inspire others from all walks of life to build dynasties, and reign in perfect health.
This is the Hustler’s Handbook, a compilation of the scriptures that I’ve collected on my journey. These are confessions of the Bad Saint, and your cheat code to success.
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