Have you ever wanted to kill someone? I mean, really, honestly DO IT? I don't mean fucked shit, although it does apply if you're into that kind of thing, the whole choke-rape-death-shit, which I am NOT--and I want to make that glaringly clear--but just use your hands to fucking beat someone to fucking death, maybe stomp on their head until their fucking eyes pop out and their brains exit their earholes like a splatter of spilled lasagna? Have you? Tell the truth now...don't lie just because you're afraid of what others will think. Fuck what other people think. They're going to think what they want to think and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.
Except maybe slit their goddamn throats...holy shit. Did I really just say that? I think I did. ARTISTIC LICENSE! ARISTIC--
Fuck it. Once, I almost killed someone. Truth. No joke. I'm sure I'll lose followers on this but I really don't give a tin shit. I almost killed a man when I was 21.
It was after the Kill Hannah/Placebo concert. Me and this guy Joe and John Hillie were on the Prarie Path in Elmhurst, drinking Night Train and Mad Dog. At first, the conversation was cool. We were talking about girls we'd fucked and what we wanted to do with our lives. Joe, see, he was a pretty normal dude, despite the fact that he considered himself a Satanist. John was newly married and his wife had recently been driving him crazy. But he had been my friend for about three years, and we'd only had one dispute after he insisted that no matter what, he'd always be able to kick my ass. But when it came down to the nitty, I gave him a bloody nose using a triangle choke.
John drank faster than me and Joe. We asked him to slow down but he did not listen. The next thing I knew, he was bitching at Joe about something I don't really remember. I think it was about Joe not keeping up with us, even though I was not keeping up with John. Mad Dog is OK, but I fucking HATE Night Train. The shit tastes like puke. I'd rather drink Cold Duck. To make a long story short, John took a swing at Joe, catching Joe in the shoulder and knocking him down. Joe, he was a skinny little dude, and I didn't think the shit was fair, so I knocked John down and asked him to chill out. Here are some stats for you, to help the imagination along:
Joe: 5' 7" 130.
John: 5' 10" 175.
Me: 6' 1" 210.
John attacked me. Taken aback, I rolled down the hill with him, and began punching wildly, forgetting my training. I had earned a black belt in Tae Kwon Do by then, but I was drunk and forgot about it...for awhile. I got him on his back and pounded on his kidneys and neck. It did not phase him. John was one seriously tough motherfucker. No joke. He was an ultimate badass. Still, I left him lying there, and Joe and I headed for Joe's green pickup. John followed.
"HIT ME!" he screamed in my face.
I did not. I asked him to stop. I did not want to fight anymore. I don't like bullies, and it seemed like he had been bullying Joe, so I took action. The action resolved, I thought it over.
"HIT ME!" he screamed again. And then he hit me so goddamn hard I almost passed out. But I didn't. Instead, I snapped a tiger kick at his knee cap and dislocated his patella. Drunk, he was hardly phased. He limped after us, foaming at the mouth like some kind of goddamn movie monster. Joe and I got into the truck. John pulled my door open and pulled me out.
I lost it. I throated him in the windpipe. I grabbed his arm and twisted his wrist until it broke. I kicked him in the temple and heard something snap. I saw his arm clawing the pavement and I ground it down with my boot much like children do ants.
And then I saw the flashing lights. I jumped back into Joe's truck.
"GUN IT!" I howled, and he did. We ended up crashing into the train tracks behind the Elmhurst 7-11 and the cops busted the window out and pulled me out of it and I got the beating of my life. I'll never forget the crashing of batons against my back and neck or the jackboots between my shoulders as the fascist pigs hogtied me and threw me into the back of a cruiser.
Facing Felony Aggravated Assault, I fled to Texas. When I finally came back to Elmhust after three years I turned myself in, went to jail, and after talking to the judge, the charges were dropped to disorderly conduct. John had lied to the cops. He said he was beat down by four black guys, the racist cunt. I paid $200.00 and still owe $1000.00 for bail-jumping.
I have no idea where Joe or John are now. I only know that Joe repaid me by stealing my girlfriend at the time. Fucking asshole.
So if any of you want to know why I can be such a fucking jerk sometimes, this is one of many stories that explain it. I've got more. Give a holler if you'd like to hear them.
I still love you all. Thanks for reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment