Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Enough, this is not a nature blog.

Though I do as I please, I am not content with the current theme being represented. So here's something I've been working on putting to paper for quite a while.

17 years young, 5'7", toned, and wiry. Ready to fight for people who would never really be influential in my life beyond the next year or so. My life was school, work, boxing, and drinking, along with multiple hallucinogens which I need not get too far into at this point.

The lights from the nearby festival danced on the back of the local dive bar. Up to this point, my only knowledge was that about 150 kids total from two rival schools met up for a one on one fight, each representing one school. I attended followed by a troop of  about 15, a large percentage of which took underground boxing extremely seriously. One kid in particular kept trying to egg me on during the fight. I don't remember his face, I just remember that obnoxious blue button-up.

A few minutes pass, and someone from the other side punches a friend of mine in the back of the head. Everyone from my town pulls bats out of their pants, chaos ensues, and someone yells "cops" to disperse the crowd. It just so happens that the direction I had decided to go was the same direction Mr. Blue Polo had decided to walk not 5 minutes after my settling.

I antagonize him. I begged him to fight me, with promises that it would only be me. He walks, I instigate. He walks, I sling words and wait. He told me to wait. I knew in my mind, there was at least 10 coming down that hill. The crew had dispersed to the point where I only had 5 men, 2 of which were competent fighters. The less fortunate I sent for back-up and put one in the truck for evac. My only defense against what came next was a small tire iron and the ability to take gross amounts of pain.

10 was a major underestimate. 20 drunk guidos running down a hill is really a sight, you know? You can't help but shake, but the ability to turn that fear into adrenaline will keep a man alive. Confrontations begin, a six foot ball of muscle is in my face, as I continue to explain I only wish to fight one. I'm getting nowhere with these drunks, no one has any respect for a fair fight these days.

Two guys I had just met that night started getting into it, just trying to barre this horde from me. One gets taken to the ground within 20 seconds, the other knocks two of them out cold. Two down, eighteen to go. I went to help my newfound companion off of the ground, and succeed as 4 fists flew towards my face. I take 3 or 4 shots, and start swinging the tire iron like mad. I can't see.

I open my eyes to a hand on my throat, and a fist coming to my eye. He swings wide and hits me in the cheek at the exact moment I lifted my arm to strike his jaw with my only defense. As he fell, his shirt caught my eye... Mr Blue Polo. I black out.

They must have had me on the ground kicking me 4 times by now, why do I keep getting up and swinging? What has possessed me to be this persistant in my survival? What happened to the tire iron? Where are the kids that tried to help me? Are they ok? These things all set into my head at once, and the tension of the fight dies down.

Blood is pouring down my face, covering my arms from wiping it out of my eyes, my neck and shirt from blowing it out or coughing it up. This was my 4th broken nose, and the last concussion I could really afford. I walked down the street, smiling and waving at people for a few minutes. When I found my ride, one of them had the audacity to comment on my bloody, battered condition.

I spat blood and said to him, "Look how many of you it took."


  1. Crap, I think it might be. I guess I'll go fetch the stock photos of Sunflowers.

  2. Bunch a pussys they sound like, can't fight fare.

  3. was a good story, give us some boxing tips

  4. Boxing tips: Take classes. Nothing you read online or watch in some cheesy work-out video will ever compare to being trained.