(Note: Unless you're a functional retard, it should go without saying that you
need to read "The War of Marigold, Part 1" before you continue. The plot progression won't be affected
either way, but you need to understand my drunken mindset to fully appreciate the events that took place afterwards.)
The War of Marigold, Part 2: The Wraith of Descado
So Jamie and I return to the Kappa Alpha dorm looking like we'd just crawled through
someone's large intestine. After my drunken brawl with Pastor Lacey, my clothes were saturated by blood, vomit, and
Jamie's strawberry mega-slurpy. Jamie himself wasn't really in much better shape, cause he'd also regurgitated a stomach
full of holocaust during the drive back to campus.
Thanks, Nighttrain.
Now, when you're young, (twenty one and twenty two respectively, for me and
Jamie), you can drink all day, get your ass beat, vomit, and still recover with little more than a shit, a shower, and a change
of attire. That's exactly what Jamie and I did, subsequently cleansing our putrid maws with toothpaste and mouthwash
to emerge as a pair of pristine college pimplords- still drunk as a Choctaw black jack dealer in North
Dakota, but pristine nonetheless.
(Note: I can make fun of Choctaw Indians because I'm part Choctaw myself.
Isn't the hypocrisy of racial stereotyping fun?)
Our plan was to proceed to Cleveland's "it" place- Rumors Bar and Grill-
and procure the sexual services of two or more sorority girls.
Alas, we were prophetically intercepted minutes before we were ready to depart,
and by my other best friend at the time, Rob "Spoon" Thomas.
In Part 1, I said I didn't know where Rob got his nickname. That's no longer
so. Ya see, I've only recently put a "hit" counter on my website, so the meager 1500 or so "hits" it boasts at this
time are somewhat deceptive, largely because many of my old college buddies read it before I started keeping count.
One of those "buddies" is Alex Soprano, (Alex's last
name has just been changed at his request because he's in hiding, and he doesn't want his real name listed ANYWHERE on the Internet), a
guy I've known since adolescence, and he took it upon himself to enlighten me with regards to Rob in hopes of having his name
mentioned.
Okey dokey, Alex. Here you go. What follows is an excerpt from the
email Alex sent me:
Sent: Thursday,
January 29, 2004 8:41 PM
Subject: RE: Bitch!
You act like I dont work or anything, and have only
time to cater to your whims. Dont you know I had 738 straight games of Mah-jongg without a loss going? Well not
anymore, THANKS TO YOU!
Finally got her address, it is: xxxxxx@xxxxxx.com
(Alex was sending the email address of this girl I used to know)
By the way, Spoon's nickname came from his
love of Southern Mississippi, where they had a player named Clarence weatherspoon playing during high school, Rob was a fan
of his so people in his class started calling him spoon. Like the new stories, I need a credit though for informing
you on Spoon.
I will probaly post something on your forum smacking you down, figured we could start some sort of huge
argument between someone from your hometown and you, think it would be hilarious, me calling you out on stuff, etc.
Love the TKD guy who was a freak, notice how quick he backed down when you called him out on it? That was classic.
AL
Despite his pedestrian frame, Alex's football career at Saint Joseph high school
in Greenville, Mississippi is legendary, chiefly because he would anally inviserate much larger opponents on the gridiron
for no other reason than they looked at him funny, (or not, he just liked to fuck people up).
Alex emailed the origin of Rob's nickname a couple of days ago, and we'll leave
it at that... for now.
Rewinding back to 1994, Rob Thomas came barreling into my dorm room while Jamie
and I were getting ready to go out, babbling all kinds of gibberish about a party we HAD to go with him to.
Since I got all "extraneous" about Alex, I'll give you a little something about
Rob. Do you remember that television show "MASH"? Well, Rob looked like Clinger, only without the whole
'cross-dressing' thing. I have no idea what he looks like now, but ten years ago he was five foot eight and a hundred
and thirty five pounds soaking wet. Yet, like most of my friends back then, Rob could fight. In fact, he has the
fastest jab I have ever seen on a boxer before or since.
(No serious training, mind you- Rob simply knew how to punch.)
So Rob tells Jamie and me about an impending "get together" in the nearby town
of Marigold. It's a party for the Sigma Chi fraternity from Mississippi State University in Starkville, which meant
that K.A.'s from Delta State had no business attending. Ah, but the "host", (i.e. the guy whose house the Sigma
Chi's were using for their party), was a former K.A. alumni from right there in Cleveland, and that meant we had an "in".
This might slow the story down a bit, but I feel the need to clarify a few semantic
details. When you grow up in Mississippi, your sole objective is to graduate high school and go on to one of two
universities: M.S.U. in Starkville, or Old Miss in Oxford. If you fail to achieve either of these goals, you're left
to try for either my old stomping ground, Delta State, or its coastal equivalent, the University of Southern Mississippi.
Anything other than those four schools is beneath mention, so I won't elaborate.
(By the way, I only went to Delta State because of a lack of money. I had
the grades and ACT scores to go wherever I wanted, but- in retrospect- I couldn't have afforded it. Impressive scholarships
aside, I'm STILL paying off my student loans.)
The point is, M.S.U. is arguably the most prestigious college in Mississippi, and
Sigma Chi was the reigning fraternity at the time. This is the very reason me, Jamie, and Rob were the only ones stupid
enough to crash their party- even though they were ostensibly in our territory.
Many drinks later, me, Jamie, and Rob, rolled to a halt on the gravel road
in front of the house in question, our trek from Cleveland to Marigold perpetuated by the Bitching Camaro. The house
itself was a southern plantation of sorts, which meant we had to park the B.C. and walk across half a mile of well manicured
lawn to reach the mansion itself.
Aright, so we stagger up to the house, exchange pleasantries with the K.A. alumni
proprietor, (who we'll call "Yahweh" from here on out), and then separate to mingle; thus scouting our individual chances
of luring one of the female Sigma Chi groupies back to campus for a never-again-spoken-of taste of true Delta penis.
After another barrage of drinks, I find myself on the front lawn- void of allies
amidst a host of M.S.U. girls and guys, my sarcastic humor and uncouth wit drawing a small audience of mix-sexed listeners.
I remember thinking I had this one girl dead to rights, a petite little number with dyed blond hair and large gray eyes.
She was laughing at my drunken slurs- far more so than anybody else- and I'd already concluded that the "game" was over.
Point, set, and match. You're coming home with me!
That's about the time a short, stocky guy, (about my height and weight), barreled
into me from the side.
Perhaps a little more extraneous info is warranted here, yes?
Okay, I don't remember this guy's name, so I'm gonna call him "Hamlet". If
memory serves, Hamlet bared a striking resemblance to myself. Again, he was five nine or so, a hundred and eighty five
pounds, (though I'm much bigger than that now), and built like an Olympic wrestler.
My friend, Alex Soprano, is of the opinion that Hamlet was smaller than me at the
time, but, fuck you Alex! You can't compare the weapon of destruction I am now, with the Ken Doll punk
ass I was then.
(Seriously, Alex, I wasn't being an asshole! You know as well as I do that
I didn't know dick about fighting back then, so stop giving me shit!)
Anyway, Hamlet was a freshman pledge at Mississippi State University; his chosen
fraternity at said college, Sigma Chi. But Hamlet's older brother was a third year Pike at Delta State, (which
I assume came about because he lacked his younger sibling's test scores), and the freedom of intoxication prompts this guy,
which we'll call, "Oedipus", the perceived right to scream at Hamlet.
The two brothers indulge in a verbal altercation, one that ends in Oedipus pushing
Hamlet back with vicious but non-damaging force. Hamlet naturally stumbled back in a drunken stupor, and right into...
Guess who?
Yep, ME, and so we resume our story.
A clumsy collision, a mutual regain of footing, and then me and Hamlet are
face to face within a sea of the latter's oblivious Sigma Chi fraternity brothers.
Mike: (half laughing while I amicably grab Hamlet by the shoulders to keep him
from falling down) "Oh crap! Sorry man, are you okay?"
Hamlet: (Glaring in drunken confusion at first, before glancing down at my white
'Kappa Alpha Toga Party, 1994' tee shirt, his eyes immediately snapping up to meet mine.) "Fuck you, prick!" he slurred,
shrugging free of my grip, "You're not even supposed to be here! You fucking K.A.! What the hell are you
doing at my party?!?"
Mike: (taking a step back and looking around for Rob) "Easy, bro. I'm
here with Spoon. He's friends with the guy that owns this place. You know Yahweh, right? He's a K.A. from
the old days. Me and my buds are K.A.'s too, that's why we came out."
Ignoring what I'd said, Hamlet continues to cuss me out incoherently, his fraternity
brothers taking notice and gathering behind him. I'm masturbating-in-public drunk by this time, but no so much that
I didn't realize I was in trouble. Hamlet was galvanizing his compatriots into a tiger shark feeding frenzy, and my
ass was on the menu.
This didn't really frighten me as much as it pissed me off, especially when I tried
to sarcastically disarm the situation, only to be ridiculed some more. Hamlet was psyching himself up to hit me,
and once I realized there was no way out, I did what I usually do in untenable situations.
Hamlet: "What're you looking around for, pussy! You're momma ain't here!
She's in the bathroom giving head for beer money. Yeah, you heard me, you faggot K.A. son of a-"
BAM!!! I hit Hamlet as hard
as I could, my overhand right landing just above his left eyebrow at a downward angle. Now, every time I tell this
story, I say that I hit him harder than I've ever hit anybody. I doubt that's true because I hadn't done much boxing
back then, and so my technical prowess and command of weight distribution was nothing compared to what it is now.
Yet, what happened to Hamlet was truly awe-inspiring, because he was literally knocked horizontal before slamming
down, back first, against the grass. It looked like somebody had hooked one end of a chain to the back of his head,
hooked the other end to a mack truck, and then drove off.
To this day, I'm amazed that I didn't kill him.
If you know anything about crowd control, then you know that the best course
of action (if you can't get away) is always to take out the leader. Hamlet was, again, the galvanizing force behind
the other Sigma Chi's present, and handing him his ass cowed the others. Keep in mind, I'm surrounded by about twenty
five of the sixty or so Sigma Chi's at the party, but not a one moved against me. They just stood around in slack-jawed
uncertainty, collectively looking from me, to Hamlet, and back again.
Silence fell across the crowd, and I remember just standing there with my hands
by my side, desperately trying to decide what to do.
Luckily, the K.A. alumni owner of the house, Yahweh, came running up at that moment,
then taking a position in front of me and stammering apologetic warnings to all within earshot.
"Naw, naw, naw!" he shouted, "Y'all ain't gonna do this shit at my house!
Everybody just back the fuck off! And get that kid (Hamlet) in the house! Come on now! MOVE!!!"
Yahweh was by far the oldest person there, (mid thirties, early forties), and his
adult, authoritative presence was enough to further shift the balance in my favor. Minutes later, I was shaking hands
with those around me, apologizing for hitting their fraternity brother, and promising to leave as soon as I found my friends.
Amazingly, Hamlet was regaining consciousness, and aside from the grisly, two inch gash in his forehead, he looked okay.
As this story goes on, it will become apparent that I'm describing events that
I couldn't have possibly witnessed. Well, that's because I learned a lot of it secondhand. NEVERTHELESS, I assure
you that every sentence is true, and any emails to the contrary will result in me coming to you house, shoving an umbrella
up your butt, and opening it.
Anyway, it was then that I heard a blood curling scream, and I turned just in time
to see a tall, muscle bound silhouette barreling towards me at a full sprint. It was Hamlet's older brother and D.S.U.
Pike, Oedipus.
I don't know where the fuck Oedipus was when the initial fight happened, but he'd
apparently only just learned that his little brother hand been waylaid. Naturally, he found out I was responsible
and attacked, thus tackling me to the ground before I had time to react. I hit the grass and rolled to throw Oedipus
off of me, but the damage had already been done, and the nearby Sigma Chi's- at least two dozen of 'em- jumped on
me at the same time.
Now, I'd like for you to take a moment to envision this. It's nighttime,
and we're in a gargantuan, grass covered front yard, one flanked by forest on the north and south sides. The
house itself was about a fifty feet to the east; the gravel road where all the cars were parked, more than
two hundred yards to the west. As such, there were no obstacles, and more than enough room for the WWF brawl that followed.
Remember when you were a kid, and you'd play "pile on"? One guy would get
thrown to the ground, and then you and all your friends would stack up on top of him. Well, that's exactly what
happened to me. I found myself face down in the grass, twenty enraged Sigma Chi's all trying to beat my ass at once.
I recall the sheer smothering weight of it, the darkness that came from body after body blocking out the dim moonlight above...
yet, I wasn't getting hurt. There were SO MANY people on top of me throwing punches, that they were knocking the crap
out of each other instead of me.
If I believed in miracles, (which I don't), I would say that the patron
Angel of Assbeaters descended that night and embraced me with feathery wings, thus saving me from certain death.
I came out of it without a scratch, not one. In fact, I didn't even have a hangover the next day.
Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Jamie is now running to my rescue. He'd been
around the side of the house talking to some girl when he heard the commotion, and somehow, he knew it was me at the
bottom of that writhing pile. To quote Jamie later, he said, "I don't know, Mike. I just had a feeling.
I saw all those motherfuckers wrestling around, and I figured you were the only guy that could piss off that
many people at once."
I still don't believe in miracles.
Anyway, Jamie charges towards the melee, simultaneously stringing profanity
together with a deftness that would put Pulitzer Prize winning poets to shame. I'm sure he realized he was
about to try and take on two dozen Sigma Chi's by himself, but he came anyway. That's the kind of guy Jamie was
and is, the kind of friend he was and is. The odds didn't matter. All that mattered was that I was in trouble.
Fortunately, (for Jamie), one of the bystanders was a cool headed guy named Rick
Blalock, and he intervened. Rick was also a Sigma Chi, but, being an athlete, (on the M.S.U. collegiate wrestling team,
no less), he was sober, and thus doing his best to restore order. So Rick spots Jamie running headlong at the pile,
and disengages to intercept. A double leg takedown later, Jamie is on his back with Rick on top of them, both safely
away from the ongoing brawl.
Again, Rick was a collegiate wrestler, and since he outweighed Jamie by fifty pounds
or more, he had no trouble subduing my best friend for his own good. Nevertheless, Jamie struggles wildly for a
few seconds, then grabbing the back of Rick's head and yanking his ear close.
"You're gonna have to let me up sooner or later, motherfucker!" Jamie
snarled, "And then I'm gonna whip your ass!!!"
I shit you not, boys and girls. Those were Jamie's exact words, and I know
this because I heard the same story later from both Rick and Jamie.
Are my friends tough or what?
One might ask, "Where was Rob during all this?" Well, Rob is on the
scene by now, but he doesn't really know what to do. Lacking Jamie's insanity, he wasn't about to take on twenty guys-
at least not at first- and he was condemned to stand there helpless. That's when Hamlet's older brother, Oedipus, rolls
off of the top of the pile and gets down on hands and knees, thus screaming into the cursing, struggling bodies in hopes that
I can hear him. Keep in mind, I'm on the bottom, so Oedipus can't actually see me, yet, I remember his voice rising
above the cacophony.
"I'm gonna kill you, you son of a bitch! That was my brother you hit!
I'll fucking kill you!"
Rob can't see me either, but the mortal threats of Oedipus caused something inside
him to snap, and Rob lurched forward to punch Oedipus in the back of the head. Let's not forget that Oedipus is a big
guy, and Rob was a hundred and thirty five pounds.
Oedipus immediately stands up, turns on little Rob, and clinches his fists.
Oedipus: "Who the fuck hit me?!?"
Rob: (Peering around innocently before grabbing Oedipus by the arm) "I don't know,
man. But you've gotta help me break this up! Come on!"
Again, boys and girls, I shit you not. Rob not only got away with smacking
this guy in the head, he also convinced Oedipus to assist him in ending the pile on. Yahweh helped, of course, as did
the Sigma Chi groupies who didn't want to see anymore violence, (girls are funny, huh?).
One by one, my attackers are pulled off and calmed, and I spring from the ground
unscathed, my intoxication totally negating the warranted fear.
"Is that it?" I slurred, "Is that all y'all've got?" But Rob immediately
put a forearm around my neck and pulled me back, leaving Yahweh to further disarm the situation.
Nearby, Rick rolls off of Jamie; and, forgetting his previous threats, Jamie comes
stumbling over to me and Rob, then looking me up and down in amazement.
"You okay?" he asked, and I nodded dumbly, having no idea why he would think otherwise.
Behind us, the Sigma Chi's look like they've just been in a pad-less scrimmage
with the 1985 Chicago Bears, many of them bloody and bruised, their clothes ripped, their gelled frat-boy hair styles in disarray.
In their drunken vehemence to do me in, they'd unequivocally kicked their own asses. And the funny thing is, they were
collectively staring at me, Rob and Jamie as if WE were responsible!!!
I may have mentioned this before in one of my other stories, (or not), but
back home I have quite a reputation as a badass- and largely on account of situations like the one detailed above. Yes,
I've been in a lot of fights, but I've lost as many as I've won, and whatever "legend" I have comes from high school
or college escapades, and is thus, total bullshit. I didn't gain any real combative skill until much later,
but I always seem to be the protagonist when people recount such tales. I've actually had rednecks I've NEVER MET come
up to me in bars and say stuff like, "What's up Mike? Remember me? I was the guy you beat up in such-and-such
a place at such-and-such a time."
I usually just nod and change the subject, then doing my best to make a friend
out of a person who was never actually an enemy. You see, people need icons- good or bad- and since I've always dwelled
in the realm of alcohol, it's easy for the memory of the true event to get totally blown out of proportion. It's not
that people are intentionally lying, (any more than I'm lying when I write these stories), it's more that intoxication dulls
the memory, and fantastic events are always easier to believe than what actually happened. That's why religion is so
rampant. The "truth" of an individual is often more appealing than the "fact" of reality.
Case in point, for those of you familiar with the history of Delta State in the
early nineties, (which can't be many, as NOBODY reads this website), you may remember that a 1991 K.A. / Pike brawl at Wild
Bill's, (the bar, mind you. Not the convenience store, though the owner was the same), resulted in several arrests and
both fraternities being put on probation. Well, I actually started that fight, and was later called upon to testify
in court. I was a freshman pledge then, and I got my clock cleaned by a hoss named "David Smith" without landing
a single clean blow in return. Yet, to hear the tale now, I beat down three guys before I was subdued by the cops.
H O R S E S H I T !!!
Though some of my fraternity brother were- namely, DeeDee Hardy- I was not
arrested, and I went home with a black eye after cowardly declining a chance to mix it up with David Smith again in the parking
lot. See what I mean?
Anyway, my reputation likewise grew from the War of Marigold, even though I didn't
do any more than punch a drunken moron who'd unwittingly chosen me as a victim for his adolescent angst. I've heard
versions where I took on twenty guys single-handedly. I've heard versions where I did the same, but with Rob and Jamie.
And I even heard one version where I killed Hamlet, but got off because it was self defense.
Again, H O R S E S H I T !!!
What I've just written is the real story, and in the unlikely event that you come
across a supposed "eye witness"- my noble reader- feel free to set 'em straight, (or direct 'em to this website, whichever).
Ah, but the night didn't end there, so let's pick up where we left off, shall we?
Okay, so the owner of the house, Yahweh, advised us that we should quote, "Get
the fuck off his property and never come back!", and we agreed, then setting off across the lawn towards the distant gravel
road where Jamie had parked the Bitching Camaro. Whether by drunken paranoia, or some kind of sixth sense, we knew we
weren't out of danger yet, and we collectively decided to take off into the adjoining woods to the north, thereby circling
the plantation to arrive at the B.C. by the road less traveled.
I would later learn that a retaliatory force of six to eight Sigma Chi's, (led
by a Oedipus, who was again enraged once he took stock of his bleeding younger brother), had cut us off, and were waiting
by a blue Camaro that matched the description of Jamie's well known car. Luckily, (for us), there were forty or so automobiles
lining the gravel road, and- since we WERE in Mississippi- the Sigma Chi's found a similar but different Camaro around which
to stage their ambush. I like to imagine that they waited for hours before realizing they'd staked out the wrong car,
but I will never know.
At any rate, me, Rob and Jamie reached our carriage and escaped without further
Sigma Chi entanglements, then to brave Highway 61 South back to Cleveland.
Now, Jamie Laws is one of the few individuals I've ever known whose driving ability
is completely unaffected by intoxication, (not that I endorse driving drunk. In fact, I NEVER do it.), but, having undoubtedly
caught wind of the party in Marigold, the Mississippi Highway Patrol had targeted a certain stretch of road, and the three
of us were pulled over on general suspicion.
I remember strobes of red and blue, and then a bright white flashlight assaulting
my half-closed eyes. The situation was thus: Jamie in the driver's seat, me in the passenger seat, Rob in the back;
a grim-faced duo of M.H.P.'s finest flanking us on both sides. Jamie was ordered to exit the vehicle, then to talk his
way out of a field sobriety test by telling Officer 1 that he was taking his quote, "drunk ass friends home."
Meanwhile, Officer 2 is staring at me from outside the passenger side window, his
flashlight roaming the length of my body. After a few seconds, he tells me to get out. I do so, then having to
lean against the Camaro to keep from falling down.
Now, one of the few genetic gifts I inherited from my mother is the ability to
hear and smell with almost preternatural acuteness. I'm not kidding, I'm like Wolverine from the X-men,
which might be why I never get sick. Anyway, I was able to pick up bits and pieces of Jamie's conversation with
Officer 1 at the rear bumper of the Camaro, and thus had no problem weathering interrogation.
Officer 2: "Boy, what the hell have you been into?"
Mike: (feigning the demeanor of a scared and humble fifteen-year-old)
"I'm sorry, Sir. I think I drank too much. That's why I called my friend to pick us up. I didn't wanna drive."
Officer 2: "Well, that was smart, son. But that's not what I'm talking about.
Do ya need me to take you to a hospital?"
Mike: (having no idea what Officer 2 is talking about) "Huh? I mean,
No! I'm fine. I'll probably have a hangover, but I deserve it. Serves me right for trying to drink
like those other guys. I'm a pledge," I lied, "And I just wanted 'em to like me."
In retrospect, it was an Academy Award winning performance.
Officer 2: (pointing at my chest) "Jesus, kid! I don't care what you
drank, what happened?!?"
It was only then that I glanced down and realized I looked like an extra from Saving
Private Ryan. Dirt and grass stains aside, my white "K.A." tee shirt was spattered with blood, no doubt from when
I hit Hamlet. That overhand right had opened a two inch gash above his eyebrow, after all, and it was only natural that
I'd caught some of the backlash. Officer 2 thought it was my blood, and fearing I would go to jail, I blurted
the first explanation my inebriated mind could formulate.
"Naw, I'm okay!" I slurred excitedly, "I was in a karate tournament!
That last match was C.R.A.Z.Y.!!! I mean, the guy kicked me in the nuts, and I hit him back in the face. You should've
seen it! He went down, and then I got disqualified."
Officer 2 sneers at me and says, "I do Tae Kwon Do with Master Syes, and you're
gonna tell me you went to a tournament in jeans and a tee shirt?"
"Well, yeah!" I replied, "My parents don't like me competing, and I don't have
enough money for a uniform!"
Officer 2 sighs, rolls his eyes, and asks for my ID. I give him my driver's
license, which he studies for half a second, before handing it back to me, spinning me around by the shoulders, and then shoving
me into the passenger side seat. "He okay?" he asks of Jamie to Officer 1, "He taking 'em home?"
Officer 1: "Yeah, this guy's fine. He's the designated driver."
With this, Officer 2 slams the passenger side door, then leaning in the open window to
bathe me in Satan breath, (I think he had a cat shit sandwich before he went on duty). "Look son, I'm not stupid. If
I get an assault report later tonight, I'm gonna come looking for you."
"Uh, yes sir?" I chanced, at which time both policemen strode back to their patrol
car, got in, and drove away.
Jamie slumps down in the driver's seat and looks over, his expression a mix of
amusement and disdain.
"A karate tournament?" he growled, "Good one, Captain Dumbass... What's your
IQ again?"
We were driving then, eventually making it back to the K.A. dorm without further
incident. Despite being lethally drunk, me, Rob and Jamie stayed up into the wee hours to regal our fellow fraternity
brothers about the War of Marigold. The story grew from whatever embellishments we laid on at the time, which is one
of the reasons I'm giving a factual account now.
Interesting postscript to Part 2: Months later, (during summer break), I was sitting
in the kitchen of my parents' home in Greenville, Mississippi, enjoying several cocktails with two childhood friends who were
also home from college. Mom and Dad were out of town on a church retreat, so we were free to drink without fear
of parental intervention. The "childhood friends" in question were none other than Alex Soprano, (who I mentioned earlier),
and Chad Wicker, (whose constant retelling of my college stories is one of the main reasons I have the reputation I do back
home). Alex and Chad were fraternity brothers at M.S.U., and we were comparing debaucheries when the topic turned to
fighting. It was then that Alex told us of a Sigma Chi he had a class with that had gotten his ass beat by "some K.A."
at a party in Marigold.
It soon became apparent that said "Sigma Chi" was Hamlet, and that I was indeed
the "some K.A." that had beat his ass. The coincidence cannot be ignored, but I remember being amazed as I listened,
because- as I said before- the story Alex told was nothing like what actually happened. I immediately told the "facts",
simultaneously humbled and filled with pride when I learned that Hamlet's face was purple for a month afterwards, the cut
above his eye, requiring fourteen stitches.
That was many, many years ago. And I decided to write this story chiefly
because I was recently emailed by Alex after almost a decade. Alex aside, I saw Chad during my trip home last week,
but I'm not ready to write about it because I can't remember my one night out in Greenville. I got so drunk that it's
all a blur, and while I've emailed Chad in hopes that he will augment my recollection, I have yet to get a response.
This is my life, boys and girls. That's it, and that's all...
