Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) by Duane Dog Chapman

them in the act and they were asked to leave. While being escorted out, Monique began taunting the bouncer, saying, “It’s because I’m black and he’s white, right?”
    There was a police cruiser sitting outside the club. When Monique saw the cops, she started yelling—throwing down the race card the second she saw them.
    “It’s because we’re an interracial couple. You’re just doing this because we’re interracial!”
    The officer overheard the ruckus, got out of his car, and asked if everything was all right.
    “You kids need to move along now,” the officer commanded. And then he realized he recognized Tucker, and he said, “Aren’t you Dog’s son?”
    “Yeah. He’s my dad.”
    “Well, I got a copy of his book in my car. Would you get him to sign it for me?”
    Tucker rolled his eyes at him and said, “I don’t really see him that much.” Then he turned and walked away. The cop let them off with a warning but filed a report on the incident documenting the racial accusations. I could see a troubling pattern developing. Even so, I had no idea how bad things were about to get.

CHAPTER 7
    Lucy Pemoni
     
     
    W hen I was a young boy, my mother would often remind me of an old saying that goes, “Sticks and stones might break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” I was trained from an early age that no matter what names someone calls you, you have to have a thick skin because they don’t really mean what they’re saying. From the time I was a little boy, I’ve been called a lot of bad things by people from all walks of life. When I was a boy, people called me Prairie N***er, Injun, Chief, Glue Head, Flatfoot, and all sorts of other names. As I got older, the names got worse, but they never cut me deep enough to hurt.
    I grew up in a home with a father who never used a swear word. I remember being at work with him one day when I heard him curse for the first time. In a way, I was relieved to know he had it in him, but still I was shocked to hear Dad curse. My mother used to warn me to watch my language. She’d tell me if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up like John the Baptist, eventually being handed my head on a platter if I wasn’t thoughtful with my words. I tried to reason with her that curse words weren’t literal, that it was no big deal to swear and call people names if you didn’t mean it. Mom disagreed with me, trying to tell me I was wrong and that someday I’d understand what she meant when she warned me to watch my mouth.
    My mother had warned me since I was twelve years old that my day of reckoning was coming, and it turned out that I should have listened to her.
    I always tell people that the tongue is the most unruly part of the body and the hardest to control. To me, it is the most dangerous weapon we all possess. It can cut a person down in unimaginable ways, causing more pain than my bare fists. Now, anyone who knows me also knows I wouldn’t purposely hurt someone in such a manner. My intentions are genuinely pure. So when the National Enquirer story broke about me using the “N” word, I truly didn’t understand what I had done wrong.
    Even though I am white, up to that point I honestly believed that I was a “N***er” too. For as long as I can remember, at least since my days back in Huntsville, I always thought of myself as a brother. I thought the word meant “I’ve been enslaved, but now I’m free” and “don’t mess with me.” I believed that a “n***er” was someone who had gone through a lot of controversy, had endured a lot of troubles, and had survived. A “n***er” won by succeeding at something he wanted to do. For me, going from an ex-convict to becoming a successful bounty hunter and television star made me a “n***er.”
    People have called me their “n***er” for years. I never once thought that either of us was being disrespectful or derogatory. I viewed it as brotherly love. I thought I was cool enough to use that word too. There were