posted on November 26, 2012 08:00
On this Monday, I thought I’d share a chapter from my book. One, I think you may enjoy it, and two, at least this way people will read it, given the likelihood that it’s never actually published. Enjoy…
By the age of 13, I had become accustomed to getting my ass kicked, but was getting less accustomed to feeling good about taking it. The habitual ass-kicking started at about 8 or 9, when my parents got divorced. It didn’t take long for the kids in the neighborhood to realize I was about the only one at that time without a Dad to “stick up” for me, if you will.
Don’t get me wrong, by the time I hit about 12, more kids were victims of divorce, but in 1979 when ours happened, they hadn’t become so chic just yet. Like I said, knowing I didn’t have a Dad around, combined with Mom always working to feed us, I became an easy victim. I was also very small for my age, which only made it more attractive of a proposition. Now I’m not going to say that I had nothing to do with future beatings I would take, but these early ones were purely the result of mean kids being mean. I look back on them fondly for two reasons: they ultimately made me tougher, and they helped me develop my sharp wit and smart-ass mouth (more ass-kick fodder) that I’m so very fond of to this day.
Anyway, onto the matter at hand, or at least the winged horse. Like I said, by 13 I had grown quite tired of the beatings, pink bellies, “Jap-slaps” and other assorted physical abuse a junior high boy of about 90 pounds could take. There was a particular pair of brothers who made my daily ¼ mile walk home from the bus stop a living hell. One was a tall skinny dickhead the same age as I was, and the other was his fat fucking shitbag of a brother, who was 2-years older than we were and had a head the size of the goddamn Death Star.
The beatings had become inevitable and I found I couldn’t outrun them. I would sit in the front seat of the bus and watch them lick their chops from the back. As the door opened, I was off and running, only to be caught by the 100-yard mark. Some days they’d toy with me and let me get closer to home and let my guard down before pouncing like a pair of priests on some soiled Underoos. Obviously, I really felt I had no options, aside from possibly killing them, which did enter many a sleepless night’s somewhat disturbing thoughts.
The logical conclusion I came to was that if I could convince them I was crazy, they wouldn’t fuck with me anymore. Now another part of my thirteen year old self I didn’t mention was an unnatural affinity for the game of Dungeons & Dragons. Bad choice of words I suppose, as I don’t think there’s such a thing as a “natural” affinity for Dungeons & Dragons. Nonetheless, I don’t know if it was the “escape from reality” of creating completely different personas, not unlike the internet of today for many a parent’s basement-dwelling shitwad, or just the fact that I was, for all practical purposes, a huge fucking geek.
Whatever the reason, I spent hours playing D&D, as well as graphing dungeons, maps and adventures I would oversee when I was lucky enough to be a Dungeon Master…oh, to be Dungeon Master! Anyhow, you’ll see where this fits in with my glorious plan.
The day had come and I could hardly wait to get through school and off the bus for the gauntlet I liked to call my walk home. I chose a Wednesday feeling that I definitely wanted to have school the next day so that word of my fractured mental health would have legs to spread through the halls by the end of the week, but not too much time to where it had ridden its course by the beginning of the next week. Sick how much fucking thought I put into this, huh?
Before I knew it, the bus was rumbling down the outer road on the way to the stop at the front of our subdivision. Instead of locking my eyes forward so that I could perfectly time the starting gun that was the door, I kept glancing back, almost taunting these inbred pieces of genetic shit. When the bus stopped I strolled off and made it obvious I had no intentions of running. Not only that, I almost had a strut about me.
They started hurling the normal insults, to which I would answer, “whatever fag” (classic 7th grade comeback), or “is that the best you can come up with?” Not at all happy with this newfound boldness I seemed to have, or the fact that other kids seemed to be laughing at their expense, the wheels of my plan began to turn.
Announcing that he was “GOING TO KICK MY ASS”, the younger brother began his attack. But instead of my normal sprint, I turned around to face him and looked right into his eyes. He immediately shoved me to the ground and mounted me, pinning my arms over my head (sounds like a Harlequin). I now stared right past him and up into the sky with eyes the size of dinner plates.
“Pegasus, Pegasus, my mighty steed. I conjure thee to come and help me!” I belted out with the seriousness and intensity of a strip-mall minister.
“Who are you talking to?” asked my attacker.
“My winged stallion is prepared to take your neck!” I answered matter of factly.
Now the rumblings in the crowd began.
“What the fuck is he talking about?”
“What a fucking nerd!”
Actually it was more like “what the shit is he damn talking about?” and “what a pussy-fuck nerd”, as these were other 12 – 14 year olds who were still in the beginning stages of their cussing experimentation. This usually translated into the very awkward sounding phrases of somebody obviously trying too hard to those of us who were lucky enough to already be well-versed in the art of fucks, shits and cocksuckers.
Things were going perfectly. The onlookers seemed to think I was a bit off-balance and my attacker didn’t know what to think. He let go of my arms adding, “You’re fucked up”, as he got up to let me go.
The sense of accomplishment and pride I felt inside could not be measured as I started to rise to my feet, anxious to see the looks on the faces around me…and then it all went south.
Big brother fucknutz was having none of this “Pegasus” shit and proceeded to knock me off my high, winged horse before I could get halfway up. The pain of his rather large forearm to the side of my head was only replaced by all of the air leaving my lungs as his fat ass came plopping down on me like I was the last donut.
He proceeded to pound me over and over for about probably 10-seconds, until at least the masses seamed to have a bit of sympathy and tackle him to stop the beating.
The “best laid plans of mice and men”, I suppose.
There is no moral to learn from this, except maybe, keep running fucker, you’re fucked anyway.
This is how it happened and this is the way it was.
I swear to you if I ever see these boys now, I will beat them within inches of their lives. I believe strongly in vendettas, but I haven’t been lucky enough to run into these two shitwads.
If there’s a lord in heaven, which counters my belief, these fuckfaces have been hit by a car by now, but I doubt it. Until then, I can only hope to see them in aisle 4 at the local Wal-Mart someday. Oh, sweet justice will be served!
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