21AFTER THREE MONTHS OF healing, the s***h on Theodore Darsman’s wrist was a long curving yellow-purple scar. Ted Darsman—a.k.a. Tyrone Dorsey, Blackwell, Wallace, Green, and others—had bamboozled the emergency room staff. “Fell, mothafucka, fell carryin a fuckin bottle a Coke. I’m suin them fuckas. Big time, Man. Lookit mah arm. Mothafucka, that hurt. Hit them mothafuckas for a million. Think I can’t, huh? You watch me, mothafucka. Million bucks aint nothin to them pigs. One Super Bowl commercial. Who make the glass? Sue them mothafuckas too.” And later he bamboozled the people who ran the soup kitchen just off the Nimitz Freeway, and the people of Our Lady of Hope Men’s Shelter near the Bayshore Highway. “Just been down and out, Man. Just down and out. Times er tough. I owned my home. Ha
