Strike

So I whipped him

He was the one who talked shit, and he was the one who shoved me to

get it all started.

But I whipped him.

The room was a bloody mess: the chairs were all tipped over the phone

had been ripped out of the wall.  The cover on the record player was

smashed.  He was all the way in the kichen lying face down in a pile

of shattered glass and ceramic.

"Nice one," everybody had said to me.

I felt like shit.

He felt worse.

#

It didn't change him at all.  He still talked shit, still looked for

fights everyone else knew he couldn't win.  It never changed him.

I'd seen all the fights before:

There was the bouncer who knocked him out cold with one punch.

The punk kid who wouldn't let him into a house party and did the same.

We found him wandering the streets covered in blood one morning.

A soccer player busted a bottle across his face.

And every fight seemed as though it would break him, tame him,

shatter the delusions he'd been carrying for years.  But he still

walked around with his chest puffed out telling stories about high

school football and high school fights.  He only grew more bitter and

angry, clinging to the loose identity he could never live up to.

Then it was my turn, and I whipped him.

#

Now it was the next morning and he was lying on my kitchen floor.  I

nudged him with my foot, saw he wouldn't move, and stepped over him to

take a banana off the fridge.  Then he just lay there as I bumped the

door against his leg three times before pulling the orange juice out

through the narrow crack he left me.  He wouldn't move after laying

there all night, trying to make me feel foolish even after I'd spent

half an hour kicking his ass all over the apartment.

#

All his life he searched for fights, encouraged them in every way

possible, longing to inflict pain but always ending up beaten and left

alone to die.  All my life I'd been passive, avoided conflict, and

generally tried to treat everyone well.  Even this clout who wandered

into my life and never gave me one damn thing besides a reason to beat

him down.  He only did that when he was drunk, and I only did what I

did in the same state.  Sober now, I couldn't remember how it started,

only that something snapped and later I went to sleep wondering how

such a big dude could be such a pussy.

#

"You are pathetic," I told him and watched him lie there, loving every word.

I sat on the couch and rolled a joint, sniffed the buds loudly and

struck the light two or three times before inhaling and blowing the

smoke across the room towards his body.

That'll get him, I thought.  One whiff and he'll be up, smile on his

face saying: "shit, I thought I had you."  This was good weed.  No man

is so bitter...  He'll get up.  He'll say: "good fight.  Had to really

work hard at sleeping that one off.  Still woozy.  And it ain't the

alcohol.  Shit," he'd laugh.  We'd sit there smoking, listening to

music and counting up our money to get more booze.  "3.2 beer," he'd

say.  "Sunday."

"We won't even get drunk," I'd tell him.  "Let's smoke another and

walk down to J.J.'s.  Try and get him to sell us some liquor."

And we'd smoke and leave.  J.J. would pour a couple shots of brandy,

then he and I would watch a one-sided fight and I'd walk home alone.

I'd sit down on my couch, roll a joint, and smoke until it burns my

fingers.  Then I'd go to sleep and wake up to find this bum in my

kitchen.  Smoking hasn't fazed him.  This asshole ain't moving.

He's just lying there in the pieces of every dish I'd left pilled on

the counter, second-hand high, laughing to himself.

#

"Mother fucker, get up!" I shouted.  "If you wanna play games looking

for another shot, you got it.  But I won't hit you until you stand."

He didn't move.  "Fuck!" I screamed as I stomped on his back.  I

kicked him in the ribs, and when he still wouldn't move I knelt down

and began punching the sides of his face.  "Laughing still?" I asked

and started slamming his face against the floor.  It stuck to the

drying blood, but I smashed it again and went back to boxing his ears,

his head sliding back and forth through the sticky puddle of blood.

"That's the best fight you ever put up," I told him.

I sat on the couch and lit a cigarette.

"Laughing still?" I asked.  He was silent.  "Asshole.  Scum of the earth."

I went over and and put the cigarette out on his cheek.  The skin

sizzled, but he didn't make a sound.

"Still laughing..." I said and let him be.

Beaten.

Last update : 02-06-2007 05:30

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