Depressalin: Chapter 6 “Idiot Missile”

Here’s another chapter. A short one, but I feel it’s fun. I suppose I should point out that I will probably not be posting chapters in order. Just so you know.

Hit hard, like a missile. Stop breathing, live a little. Take my money. Take my soul. We’re not brothers, asshole.”  — Hate Dept. “Beat Me Up
Hey kids, what time is it? Time for a story! This thing you hold in your hands or eyes will be full of them. Short asides and such. Maybe even not-so-short asides. Many of them will involve me being an idiot in one way or another.

Let’s find out…

You probably are aware of this by now, but I have a big mouth. A really big fucking mouth. No, seriously. It’s not just big in a physical sense—in fact, it may even be small. A past ex, Amanda, used to always say I had a small chin and mouth… Anyway, yeah, big mouth. Me. I have it. To illustrate this, I’ll share a short tale.

So, one day in Spokane, a shit-hole where I used to live (shut up, people from Spokane, Washington – you very well fucking know that Spokane is a motherfucking shit-hole straight from the bloody bowels of Hell), I decided to drink a little (surprise!) and get a little lippy with precisely the wrong kind of people. I was almost 18 years of age and felt damned tough. I even had tall boots, a leather jacket and a blue Mohawk to prove that shit. I was walking past a bar somewhere and there I saw them, a bunch of bikers…

“Hey, what’s up, ladies?” Man, the looks on their faces as I said that with me, there, waving stupidly, was worth the price of admission alone. One of them returned fire.

“What’s that, kid? You say something?”

“Sure did, sir! Just wondering how you guys manage to put all that shit on and still look like a bunch of faggots. Poofs. Queers. Not queens, though, as I’m sure that is both beyond your scope of intelligence and imagination.”

Please keep in mind that while I used “faggot” in the pejorative sense, I was only using it to inflict insult to what was sure to be my injury.

One of the bigger ones with a greying beard gave me this crooked smile, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Walk away, man. You be smart and fuck right off.”

Boy howdy, did I ever want to prove to them just how fucking stupid I was.

“Whaaaat? Hah! Whatever, dude. Why don’t you shower of pussies just bring it already. C’mon, try to make me suck your faggot dicks or something.”

They all looked at each other in dumb amazement. I liked to think at the time it was surprised admiration.

I was wrong a lot back then.

My memory likes to say there were ten of them, but probably no more than five approached me. I kept a shit-eating grin on my face as they got closer and closer, looking all grim because they had to beat some retarded, cocky youth down to teach him a lesson. All I heard before the first round of fists hit my face was, “Fuckin’ kids today, I tell ya.”

I was laughing. That was a damn good line. Classic. Like from a movie. I fought back well enough, too. One of the guys reeled away clutching both his head and jaw where I focused some of my aggression. But it really didn’t matter. I just wanted a beating, I think. I fought back just enough to keep them interested, but in retrospect, even with my boxing experience I probably looked a sad, pathetic sight. Needless to say, they beat me down very hard. Within a couple minutes (more like thirty seconds—time slows down in fights) I collapsed on my back, spread eagle, coughing, spitting out blood, and burbling laughter. Oh, I hurt, too. But the trouncing was so quick I merely felt this weird numb, detached feeling.

The true pain would come much later on in life.

This particular story ends with me be left there for a while, as I groaned and burbled on the pavement of the parking lot, only to be eventually scooped up by the bikers, plopped into one of their pick-up trucks and asked where I lived. I told the driver the address of a friend on the South Hill and he ended up dumping my ass in a lawn about a half a block away from my buddy Ken’s. Well, to be fair to the nice biker fellow, I was helped out of the truck and then laid down to sleep on the lawn. When he asked me if I needed anything, I said, “Fuck off, you pussy.”

“You better fix that fucked up head of yours fast, man,” he sighed, “Someone is gonna cave it the fuck in.” And then he drove away.

Now you know just how stupid and foolish I can be. How lucky, too. Most people would have been beat beyond recognition, got no ride, and/or have been marked for life as a douchebag for bikers to gang-destroy on a frequent basis. Instead, I was simply taught a lesson. And the lesson I learned was:

Be meaner and a better motherfucker next time.

Don’t worry; I’ll completely understand if you think that’s fucked up.

I should also mention that years later one of those biker guys recognized me and said hello when he spotted me at a bar. The world is a small place, after all. It’s always good to keep in mind the people you fuck with.

***

 Embarrassing Factoid about Me # 7

When I was younger, in my pre-teen days, I would lock myself in my bedroom, seal all the windows and glue Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer and other types of miniatures together. I loved that modelling glue. I loved the smell and I most certainly loved the feeling I would get after a while of using it in a non-ventilated environment. To this very day, the smell of modelling cement puts me at ease. Oddly, I never got into the habit of Sniffing, Huffing or Whatever. I’ve always preferred drinking booze.

Now you know.

And knowing is half the battle. Or half the bottle.

Oh, eat a dick. You know you did it, too…

(Right?)

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One Response to “Depressalin: Chapter 6 “Idiot Missile””

  1. […] your convenience, here are the other chapters in order: Chapter Zero Chapter One Chapter Six  Chapter Seven “I’m Not Really a Writer” Blog Entry: Just Ask Any […]

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