Saturday, March 20, 2010

Driving Rain

Stories About Fighting

"We're fighting! Go back inside!"


I'm eight and this piece of shit, ex friend of mine puts gum in my hair and I hit him as hard as I can. The silly fuck goes off crying to his mom and soon I felt awkward at the pool party. It was at some exclusive swim club in Kent. Which is paramount to an exclusive gun club in Iraq.
Or maybe not.
Beyond that, I only hit a man one more time and it was the type of thing that I didn't use full force. That was Weisberg and he was pissing me off this one time in high school.
But, I have been jumped. This one puke in junior high jumped me because this total toolshed told him I was "talking shit" about him. So, the fucker came after me and hit me once. I went down immediately to stifle any further blows, but found that this only opened me up for kicking. He had a bud with him, who I think took part only because I asked him too many questions about the Nation of Islam, which he belonged to. He was a bastard too, but in a different, self-righteous way. After they were done, I got up and laughed knowing nothing else to do with a bunch of junior high kids staring at me. This angered the jumper and he told me that if I thought it was funny who would repeat the beating. The next thing you know I'm shouting "It's not funny! It's not funny!"
I can't tell you how many times I've almost been beat up. A lot of the time it is for asking too many questions. People don't like talking about interesting things with outsiders and this results in annoyance and can lead to stompings.
I still love asking questions, though. Hell, I've only been stomped once.
The last time I almost got in a fight was a couple weekends ago when I made the mistake of hitting on these girls that some other guy was already hitting on.
I introduced myself to the women as "Esteban" and went from there. They loved me, and when I tried to get them to go have omelets with Josh and I, this puke whispers something that I knew was to the effect of "get away from my women."
So, I pushed it and asked not once, not twice, but thrice: What did you say to me?
Luckily I evaded any physical content and decided it was more important to go get a cheeseburger than to pretend I'm going to fight some guy.
I've seen a lot of fights. Even a shoot up.
Here's two from the campus of the University of Washington:
There was this fight in front of this frat and this guy was laying on the ground, beat up. Well, this douche in front of me walks up and kicks the guy in the head as hard as he can. The kicker didn't even know the guy on the ground or have anything to do with the fight. He just figured he'd walk up and kick someone.
The shoot out was around the same frat. This very huge somewhat friend/ex-drugdealer of mine is the bouncer at this frat party. Well, this one dude decides he wants to go to the party, but my buddy wouldn't let him in for whatever reason. Wellsir, the dude shoots my buddy through an open window in the frat sometime later. Not only that, but he shot through a dance floor. It sounded like a champagne cork. I was right in front of my buddy when it happened and had no idea. All of a sudden I hear "GUN!" and I bolted.
One time I was so drunk I was almost shot in the face with a phantom gun.
It's true.
I'm with this buddy of mine and his friend who just got out of jail. I'm like 19. The friend is acting weird all night; probably coke. So, the evening winds down and my buddy says he's going to take the jailbird home. My buddy says something like "Tomorrow we should ditch that party and go over to so and so's house."
The jailbird hears this "Dude, let's ditch the jailbird and go party at my house." Well, we're driving this dude home and all of a sudden my eyes are watering. The jailbird screams "Stop the car!" I get out and realize I've been maced. The next thing I know I'm in this driveway and the jailbird has something held to my head that he claims is a gun. He keeps shouting about being ditched. At the time I was so drunk and pissed off and trying to be manly that I kept yelling "Well, fucking shoot me then. What? Don't have the balls? Fucking do it. I don't give a shit, you fucking degenerate."
No joke. I'm just that tough.
He finally takes the "gun" away from my head and we find that the fucker had me at macepoint.
That's right, the crackhead was holding a can of mace against my temple the whole time.
I was livid.
The idea that my life was threatened, coupled with the cowardly way in which it was threatened and finished off with what is pretty much a joke – I was on fire.
Soon, I'm jumping at him from the arms of my buddy, who's holding me back (if you ever want to act like you can fight, make sure you have a "holding you back" guy).
Before I could fight him (ha ha – he's like 7 ft tall) the cops show up and we make up some lame excuse and leave.
Man, there's more stories about fights, but it's time to go home.
What have I learned about fighting? They are so less cooler than they are on TV.

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