Throughout my undergraduate tenure at Delta State University in Cleveland Mississippi, (1991 – 1996), there were four main fraternities on campus.  These were the Pikes, (who catered to high school jocks and the basic brand of date rapist you see stereotyped in any college movie), the Kappa Sigma’s, (who were semi-cool “smart guys”), the Phi Tau’s, (who were pretty much a bunch of social misfits who couldn’t get into any of the top three Greek organizations), and the Kappa Alpha’s, of which I became a member my first semester.

 

There were others to be sure, but most of them were very member-specific, like the African American groups, or the swim team.

 

I’m not discounting anybody, yet, I can honestly say that the K.A.’s were, by far, the best of the best.  As I was, myself, a K.A., I’m sure you’ll take that last statement with a certain measure of incredulity.  I mean, all frat boys think their group is The Balls, right? 

 

Uh huh, that’s true, but we were the genuine article!

 

We controlled the student government, we had the highest G.P.A., we kicked ass in the intramural games, and we were the ones all the sororities petitioned for “swaps”.  Normal with respect to philanthropy, superior with respect to grades, and unparalleled in the venue of partying, the Kappa Alphas ruled Delta State with an iron hand.

 

I’ve said “we” again and again, but, the truth of the matter is, I only became a K.A. because of my friend, Jamie Laws.  Yeah, I had the grades.  Yeah, I had the high school credentials.  And yeah, I had the looks, (if such a thing matters).  But I was somewhat shy in my youth, and the fighting prowess I THOUGHT I possessed at the time, wasn’t exactly a thing you can bring up at rush parties.

 

Indiscriminate K.A.:  “So, what makes you think you’re Kappa Alpha material?”

 

Me:  “Uh, well, I have a brown belt in Isshinryu Karate, and can probably side kick you through a window…  Is that what you’re looking for?”

 

No, I was allowed to pledge, and later get initiated, solely on account of Jamie’s assurances that I was not a dork.

 

Jamie Laws, while only a sophomore at the time, had an extroverted personality and preternatural charisma that made his word indisputable.  Since he and I had grown up together, his vouching allowed me into the K.A. fold.  Ah, but it wasn’t long before I put his proclaimed coolness of me to the test…

 

***

 

My freshman semester, autumn, 1991:

 

In September of that year, I went out with Jamie and fellow pledges Waring Evans and Rob “Spoon” Thomas to a restaurant/bar that was then called Wild Bill’s.  Not to be confused with the Wild Bill’s Convenience Store from my, “War of Marigold” story, (though both were owned by the same man), this was a pool hall of sorts that just happened to serve liquor and food.

 

I was eighteen, and though shy, I thought I was the baddest motherfucker on the planet.  You have to keep in mind that I’d been fist fighting nonstop during high school; the predominately black population of T.L. Weston, continually testing my toughness whether I incited a skirmish or not.     

 

As such, I wasn’t about to take shit off anybody- especially not a bunch of white frat boys- and my demeanor was thusly confrontational from the moment me, Jamie, Rob, and Waring entered the bar.

 

Wild Bill’s was PACKED that night, Pikes and K.A.’s crowding every inch of the place as a volatile mix of barely contained hostility.  I was aware of this rivalry, but I hadn’t been involved long enough to really understand it, (this was my first semester, after all). 

 

My lack of understanding pertained to alcohol as well, because I’d been drunk maybe three times in my whole life.  Needless to say, the five or so beers I had before going to Wild Bill’s was more than enough to get me shitfaced, not to mention that the staff of Wild Bill’s rarely carded their patrons, even ones as young as me.

This was to be the first appearance of both “Drunk Mike” and, later, “Satan Mike”, the pair of ‘em apparently having waited in dark and secret places for the better part of eighteen years.  They’d been screaming to get out, and beer was the portal they used to enter my world.

 

The early part of the night is a little hazy, but I remember following Jamie around like a puppy on a leash.  You see, I had very little experience in social situations, and was thusly terrified to be left alone.  Part of this springs from the fact that I was then, and am now, a total whore for attention, and the thought of standing by myself in a corner was a fate worse than rectal asphyxiation.

 

(Rectal asphyxiation…  Think about it.)

 

Eventually though, Drunk Mike broke through the barriers behind which he’d been hiding my whole life, and I started cracking people up with my blossoming sense of sarcastic humor. 

 

Ah, alcohol…  How could I have missed its power for so long?

 

Drunk Mike took over completely, and I found myself at the bar talking to what I considered the most beautiful girl in the place.  Her name was Paige Bailey, (the same that married Neil Suarez some years later), and she was breathtaking. 

 

Long blond hair, perfect skin bronzed by the sun, and a naturally spectacular body that had no need of exercise or plastic surgery.  Athletic rather than buxom, Paige was dressed in a starched white button up and faded blue jeans, her NONslutty attire making her twice as fetching as the mini-skirt wearing sorority hookers with daddy issues.

 

We’d met a couple of times before during rush, (she was pledging Kappa Delta, I think), and the awkwardness I’d displayed in our previous meetings endeared me to her.  I imagine she was sick of arrogant jerkoffs hitting on her all the time, and my Little Boy Lost thing gave me an “in”.

 

Ah, but Shy Mike had already perished, gradually poisoned to death by Drunk Mike’s mortal elixir of hops and barley, and I unleashed a full spread of Cock Torpedoes.

 

Sometimes you’re just “on”, and I was definitely “on” that night.  I had Paige laughing her pants off, literally, and as we downed drink after drink at the bar, I thought for sure that I’d be leaving with her on my arm.

 

‘Twas not meant to be…

 

Drunk Mike apparently had a prior engagement, and he slapped in his tag-team partner, Satan Mike, about an hour after I started talking and drinking with Paige.  I didn’t realize Satan Mike was there yet, but he was, a fact that became clear when I heard raised voices nearby.

 

Glancing to my right, (Paige was on my left), I caught sight of my fellow pledge Waring Evans standing about ten feet away with another guy I’d never seen before.  I don’t remember the other guy’s name, so we’re just gonna call him “Faceman”. 

 

Waring and Faceman were nose to nose, and from the haughty tones and combative body language, I knew they were about to fight. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Paige asked, “Who are ya looking at?”

“Shhh,” I told her, putting my index finger across her lips, “I didn’t want you to see this, but it’s time for me to do what I was born to do.”

 

BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!

 

Yeah, I think THAT little gem warrants a 9.6 on the Corny-Shit-To-Say-O-Meter.

 

Okay, so, I was a dork.  Thanks, Satan Mike.

 

Leaving Paige bewildered at the bar, I stomped over to where Faceman and Waring were still talking, then coming to a halt mere inches from the side of Faceman’s head.  I stood there with my fists balled at my side, the distance between us so close, I’m sure Faceman could feel my breath on his neck.  You have to understand that I was and am viciously protective of my friends, (my family too), and though Waring was upwards of six feet tall, I wasn’t about to let him get into a fight without my assistance.

 

Incredibly, they both ignored me, apparently too drunkenly wrapped up in there own diatribe to notice my hundred and sixty five pound ass standing there seething, (yes, even I was little once, though I soon gained about 20 pounds of muscle after joining the D.S.U. karate team). 

 

It was really, really crowded in there, and there were other people standing equally close to me.  Regardless, I picked up the conversation as it reached its head.

 

Faceman: (to Waring) “You promised, man!  You fucking promised!  We were gonna do everything together!  Same major, same fraternity!  How could you pledge K.A.?!?”

 

Waring: “I like these guys better.  That’s all, bro.  You gotta do what’s right for you, and I gotta do what’s right for me.”

 

A little background info is probably in order here, so let me explain by saying that Waring and Faceman were old high school buddies, and while they’d drifted apart shortly after coming to D.S.U., Faceman felt betrayed because Waring had pledged Kappa Alpha, (instead of Pike). 

 

To give you a visual, Waring was, again, well over six feet tall, with a thin lanky build.  He had pale skin and dark hair, which he wore long because he was a musician.  An easy going slow speaking country boy, Waring had won the hearts of the Kappa Alpha pledge committee with his priceless naivety and perpetual optimism.  Not K.A. material on paper, (his grades were shit), but definitely so with respect to personality.

 

Faceman, on the other hand, was shorter and bulkier, and since he came from a wealthy family, he had the “air” of a stereotypical frat boy, his blue button up and ironed khaki pants in sharp contrast to Waring’s ripped blue jeans and “Winger” tee shirt.

 

How the two of them were friends in whatever high school they shared, is still a mystery to me… 

 

The back and forth continued, Waring calmly trying to disarm Faceman with assurances that they would still be friends, and that fraternities didn’t mean that much.  All the while I was standing there at Faceman’s left shoulder, panting and glaring with an unexplained anger that dared him to look over.

 

Faceman never got the chance…

 

“Hey!” someone shouted, “Blondie!”  I looked over to see a trio of Pikes sitting at a small table nearby.  “What ya got your fists all balled up for?  Shit like that’ll get your ass kicked in here!”

 

(Remember to add redneck Mississippi accents when you’re playing this scene in your mind.)

 

I would later learn that the speaker’s name was Bo Lindsey, the same Bo Lindsey that eventually became Pike president.  Bo was a giant of a man with a goofy expression and square framed glasses.  To his left sat an equally large individual named David Smith, who appeared to be Italian, and far too old to be in college.  There was a third guy on Bo’s right, but I can’t remember his name or what he looked like.

 

“Mind your business, dick!” I called back, simultaneously flashing the Descado Glare.

 

Bo paused, looked side to side at his friends, and then laughed.

 

“I will ball your tiny little ass up and toss you in a garbage can!”

 

“Try it, bitch!” I told him, Satan Mike totally convinced that he could Bruce Lee all three of ‘em if it came to that.

 

Again, Bo paused, looked side to side at his friends, and then laughed.  This time, however, he didn’t say anything; he just sat there with a look of awe and amusement.

 

“That’s what I thought!” I scoffed, then returning my attention to Waring and Faceman.

 

Both were looking at me now.

 

“We’re not fighting, Mike,” said Waring, “Faceman and I are friends.  FRIENDS, dude!  What’re you doing?”

 

I felt like a total dumbass, but I had only enough time to spread my hands apologetically before a massive collar of muscle and bone descended around my neck. 

 

Just like the “War of Marigold, Part 2” story, I’m gonna narrate things now that I could’ve have possibly known firsthand, relying instead on eyewitness accounts.

 

As soon as I’d turned my back, David Smith had bolted up from his chair and grabbed me in a crushing headlock.  Because of the noise, I never heard him coming, and the next thing I knew I was doubled over with this big fucking Italian trying to separate my head from my neck. 

 

“Still wanna talk shit?” he snarled, “Still think you’re bad?”

 

Luckily, I was small and fast, and I slipped out of the headlock just long enough to knee David in the groin.  Surprisingly, David didn’t appreciate having his testicles knocked up into his pelvis, and he expressed his disdain by grabbing me in a headlock again and punching me repeatedly in the face with his free hand.

 

The sheer weight and power of this behemoth caused me to panic, and I cupped my face in my palms, thus taking the brunt of his onslaught on the backs of my hands.  Only one blow got through, but I had a nasty black eye for a couple of weeks after that.

 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Jamie, Rob, and the rest of the K.A.’s rushed to my rescue, prompting the other Pikes in the bar to rush to David’s.  Pandemonium ensued, a thirty man on thirty man brawl that truly put the “Wild” in Wild Bill’s.

 

I recall being knocked from David’s grasp, then to crawl away on hands and knees through a gauntlet of swinging fists and screamed profanity. 

 

Bok Bukbukbuk Boooook…  Bok Bukbukbuk Boooook…

 

(That’s me doing a chicken cluck, because, well, I was a total puss.)

 

Whether by luck, or my own skill at scuttling away like a coward, I emerged on the outskirts of the battling mob without taking any more damage.  Rob was standing there in shock, and he took one look at me and blanched.

 

“Dude!  Your eye!  You’re bleeding!”

 

“What?!?” I cried, simultaneously reaching up like I didn’t know I’d been hit, “Son of a…  GOD DAMN IT!!!  WHO HIT ME?!?  WHO THE FUCK HIT ME?!?  SOMEBODY’S GONNA DIE!!!”

 

Now, I knew damn well who had hit me and why, but I had a reputation to protect, and since I wasn’t sure what the other people had seen, I ACTED like I’d been blindsided, (which is partially true).  Shy though I was, pride/arrogance/ego made it unthinkable to admit that I’d just gotten my ass whipped.

 

“WHO HIT ME?!?” I kept demanding, to which Rob merely shrugged helplessly and said he didn’t know.

 

Notice, I never re-entered the continuing melee nearby, instead pretending to be confused and disorientated.  Pride/arrogance/ego or no, Satan Mike had given way to Coward Mike, and I sure as shit didn’t wanna get hit again.  

 

Bok Bukbukbuk Boooook…  Bok Bukbukbuk Boooook…

 

While Jamie nailed a few Pikes during the brawl, the Best-Hit-Of-The-Night Award went to an older K.A. by the name of DeeDee Hardy.  DeeDee was a scrawny pretty boy type of guy who everybody liked.  He wasn’t much to look at, but he’d boxed in his youth, (Golden Gloves, if I’m not mistaken), and his overhand right boasted the power of Thor’s hammer.

 

Unfortunately, DeeDee didn’t have enough ass on him to prevail in that kind of close quarter situation, and since he was one of the first to come to my rescue, he was quickly taken to the ground and bumrushed by a group of Pikes.

 

One of those Pikes soccer kicked him in the throat- and the dirty fighting son of a bitch in question, was none other than Faceman.  While DeeDee was able to roll his way to safety, Jamie had witnessed the kick, and that will come into play later…

 

Okay, so the cops were called, and the melee starting breaking up as soon as police sirens began to wail in the distance.  The rival fraternities drifted to opposite sides of the devastated bar, small groups running for the freedom of the parking lot so they could later claim they had, “Nothing to do with it!” 

 

As for me, I found myself standing in a small huddle with Jamie, DeeDee, and Rob.  Of Waring, there was no sign. 

 

Rob and Jamie were unscathed, but DeeDee and I looked like we’d been fed headfirst into a lawn chipper, both of us asking who was responsible for the wounds we’d endured.

 

While DeeDee’s entreaties were genuine, I was just trying to save face- which I pulled off beautifully since no one was sober enough to remember how the fight got started.  It was then that Jamie pulled us all back together.

 

“Let’s get outta here,” he said, “Mike, I didn’t see you get hit, but I sure as fuck saw the motherfucker that kicked DeeDee when he was down.”

 

“Who was it?” DeeDee asked stoically.

 

“I don’t see him right now,” Jamie replied, “But his name is [Faceman].  I’ve got a class with him.”

 

The four of us skulked past the cops that were charging in through the front door, then to gain the freedom of the parking lot.  People were everywhere, most of ‘em sticking around to see what would happen, who would get arrested.

 

Lo and behold, Faceman was standing about twenty feet away from us, he and his girlfriend leaned against the hood of a car.

 

Jamie bent close to DeeDee’s ear.

 

“Probably not the best time to do anything now, but that’s the guy.  See the dork in the blue shirt?  He’s the one that kicked ya.”

 

DeeDee stopped and stared.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Positive.  I saw it.  But you might wanna hold off until-”

 

DeeDee was advancing on Faceman before Jamie had time to finish, then taking a skipping step in to unleash a magnificent overhand right.  Given the fact that Faceman was twenty feet away, he had plenty of time to prepare.  I remember his panicked hazel eyes snapping DeeDee’s way as soon as DeeDee moved, but Faceman was like a deer in headlights.

 

BAM!!!  Point, set, aaaaaand match.

 

The impact was so solid, it was almost sickening.  Faceman had thrown his forearms up to block, but DeeDee’s bony right arm flew straight and true, his knuckles caving in the left side of Faceman’s, well, face.

 

Amazingly, there as no blood, but Faceman dropped to the concrete like a sack of potatoes.  To this day, I classify it as one of the most technically superb knockouts I’ve ever witnessed.

 

Cops swarmed on DeeDee, a second pandemonium ensued, and I felt myself being jostled this way and that until it was only Rob and I standing shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the parking lot.  Rob was fumbling for the keys to his huge circa 1980’s Impala.  The car’s color was piss yellow, if memory serves.

 

“I can’t believe that,” he grumbled, “I cant’ believe DeeDee hit ‘em.  He’s going to jail, Mike.  He’s gonna go to Parchment.”

 

“Naw,” I replied, drunkenly puffing my chest out, “That son of a bitch got just what he deserved.  It’s damn lucky I didn’t see who hit me.  I’d have done the same thing!”

 

“I saw who hit you,” someone said, and I looked left to spy my then-roommate and fellow K.A. pledge, Dan Wesson, leaning arrogantly against his mommy’s BMW.

 

Tall, rich and skinny, Dan had already become one of the most hated pledges in our class, his “better than thou” demeanor eventually causing me to consider living in a cardboard box outside the freshman dorm.  I loathed this prick, and I can only wonder how the fuck the older brothers didn’t “cut” him before initiation.

 

“You didn’t see shit,” I scoffed, “Shut the fuck up.”

 

“I sure did.  It was David Smith.  That guy right over there.”  Rob and I both followed Dan’s unabashedly outstretched finger to see David leaning against his own car, his hands cupping his scrotum, his girlfriend asking if he was okay.  “He’s the one that grabbed you when it all started.”  Dan stopped to add a sarcastic chuckle.  “Why don’t cha go over there and ruff him up, Mike?”

 

Within the silver glow of the full moon, David looked twice as big and twice as bad, and I had no wish to get my ass kicked again.  Ironically, I would’ve probably beat the hell out of Dan for being a jerkoff, (and calling me on my own bullshit), but there were still cops in abundance.

 

“Naw,” I sighed, hoping Dan would stop his flagrant pointing, “I’ll get ‘im later.  Too may cops.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Dan sneered, laughing conceitedly as he opened the driver side door for his fatass girlfriend to get in.  She was OBVIOUSLY three times as intoxicated as he was, but I guess he figured it was better for her to get a D.U.I. than him.

 

What… a… punk…

 

I never got the chance to kick Dan’s ass, (which would’ve been easy), or David’s, because the inter-fraternal drama that ensued had ALL Pikes and ALL K.A.’s walking on pins and needles.  

 

DeeDee was one of many arrested that night, and the subsequent involvement of collegiate administration and local law enforcement nearly caused the dissolution of both fraternities. 

 

I’m not shitting you. 

 

Because of the brawl I started, Pikes and K.A.’s were almost outlawed at Delta State University in 1991.  Given this kind of pressure, Jamie and Rob were the only ones I initially told the true story to, and they kept their mouths shut to keep me (a pledge) from getting cut.  I’d already been initiated when the whole of it came out six months later at DeeDee’s trial for assault, but we’ll get to that.

 

In the meantime, an intensive witch hunt was held by our respective Greek counsels, but no one was stupid enough to say what they’d seen or hadn’t seen, not even Dan Wesson.  The stakes were just too high to give the “higher ups” someone to blame, (because our fraternal futures hung in the balance), and they ended up learning exactly dick. 

 

Still, half a year later, I found myself in the Cleveland Mississippi Municipal Courthouse, there to testify on DeeDee’s behalf.  Under oath, I pretty much told the story outlined above, except that I was victim rather than instigator- the unwitting target of unprovoked Pike aggression. 

 

“I didn’t wanna fight,” I insisted, “I just had my fist balled up because I was scared.  Bo Lindsey and David Smith took it the wrong way.”

 

Though Faceman suffered a broken cheekbone, DeeDee got off with a lenient house arrest sentence that allowed him to still go to classes, but not before the judge decided to rip me a new ass in front of everybody.

 

“This has been one of the most juvenile displays I’ve even been unfortunate enough to preside over,” he addressed the attendees, “You’re all bright young men with your entire lives ahead of you, and to be in this courthouse testifying against one another as if you’re all free of blame, is a disgrace!”  The judge looked at me then.  “Your contribution, Mr. Descado, takes the cake with regards to unapologetic stupidity!”  He balled his fist up and held it aloft to demonstrate.  “To say that you were walking around the bar with your knuckles brandished- but that you didn’t want to fight- makes me wonder why YOU’RE not the one on trial here!  Your very presence makes me question the integrity of our country’s youth, and I can only pray that the next time you flagrantly disregard our state’s legal drinking age, you do it with your hands by your side!!!”

 

Yeah, that judge definitely ripped me a new ass, but his tongue lashing only served to elevate my social status.  For years afterwards, people would walk up to me with their fists robotically extended and say, “I DON’T WANNA FIGHT!!!”

 

Thanks, Your Honor.  I got a lot of pussy on account of your little tirade…  

 

***

 

This is the true story of the legendary brawl at Wild Bill’s.  No bullshit.  But since it all happened many years ago, I welcome firsthand recollections from those who were there.  Email me whatever you remember, and I’ll gladly post your contributions on this website.

 

I DON’T WANNA FIGHT!!!