One of the more memorable fights I got into happened the night of the first Tyson/Hollifield match up. It was actually two fights in one, so I'm gonna break it up.

Part 1:

I was living in Black Mountain, NC at the time, working at a YMCA conference center that caters to collegiate staff. That part of North Carolina is exceedingly beautiful, but, due to the rural nature of the area, it's also home to one of the more vicious species of redneck, (Trailorparkus Notoothicus). Ironically, I'll take a North Carolina redneck ANY day over a Mississippi redneck, (where I grew up). The Mississippi Delta is riddled with poverty-induced gang activity, and the "good old boys" will shoot you just as fast as the gangster types. The point is, North Carolina boys like to fight, and, while they might not always do it fair, you usually don't have to worry too much about weapons.

Okay, so I had a very close-nit circle of friends in those days, one of them being Rene Rameriez, (his name has been changed to protect his identity). Rene was charismatic and easy going, and he had a way with the ladies. BUT, he was also about five foot seven, Mexican, and suffered from Little Man Syndrome. You know what that is, right? Little Man Syndrome? It's where smaller guys try to be extra tough to compensate for their lack of height. Rene had this bad back then, plus, he was the most uncontrollable drunk I have ever met in my entire life. He once drove his Isuzu Rodeo THROUGH a bunch of trees because he thought it would be funny, (we later told his mom we hit a deer).

So me, Rene, and about six other guys and girls go out that night with the intention of getting blind stinking drunk so that we could better enjoy Mike Tyson prison raping Evander Hollifield, (I was actually rooting for Hollifield, 'cause he has more class).

Our night begins at a Mexican restaurant called Rio Bravo. It's a nice place, good tacos, HOT Latino bartendress! The girl serving us drinks was ultra mega gorgeous, the kind of beauty that makes you go retarded. For example, when she first came over I tried to throw some game by exclaiming, "Damn girl! Is that your ass? Or is your mama half reindeer?"

Just kidding, I ripped that off a song I heard on the radio. What I really did was point at her from across the room and slur, "Wearing that dress is a damn good way to get FUCKED!!!"

Needless to say, I almost got my uncouth ass thrown outta the restaurant. The manager even came over, at which time I pretended to only speak gibberish. Rene explained that I was from another country.

So the evening progresses into the depths of drunken debauchery, and since all of us were doing tequila shots, there WAS no voice of reason. Choice moments at our table include:

1. My friend Matt being punched in the face by his girlfriend Janet just because Rene mentioned Matt's ex-girlfriend, (no shit, she almost knocked him out with one blow).

2. My then girlfriend Becka stabbing the back of my hand with a fork because she quote, "saw something."

3. Rene assaulting an adjacent table catapult-style by launching a barrage of tortilla chips with his spoon. His was a one sided victory.

The above little tidbits might make you think that we were hated at Rio Bravo. Not so. They loved us! Well... let's just say they "grew" to love us. As is often true when a bunch of us go out, we make a mess, and a scene, but we do it with consummate good humor. It's kind of like a Broadway Show, and we try to involve as many bystanders as possible.

With our meals finished and our drink tabs paid, we begin to saddle up to take our party elsewhere. I'm somewhat dismayed because Rene managed to get the phone number of the mega hot waitress, and I was stuck with, well, my girlfriend. Staggering off to the bathroom, I do my business and then proceed to wash my hands. There's another guy in the bathroom, and- leaned up against the wall as he was- I just knew he was even drunker than I was. I kept him in my peripheral vision, but otherwise ignored him, then flicking the paper towel dispenser to dry my hands.

Suddenly this guy- let's call him "Buttlord"- reaches out and snatches the paper towels right off of the dispenser. This act alone was enough to warrant an asswhipping, but then he says, "You snooze, you loose"

I swear those were his exact words!

Now, I know what you're thinking, "Please Mike, please tell us of the anal inviscerating you unleashed."

Well, at first I didn't do anything. Why? Because I was drunk, and when I'm drunk, I'm very nice to people. Instead of ripping this guy's still beating heart out of his chest, I merely said, "Whatever Buddy, it's your bathroom," then turning my back on him and flicking the paper towel dispenser once again.

Instead of partaking of my generous mercy, Buttlord says, "Don't you turn your fucking back on me!" and grabs my left shoulder with his right hand and yanks me around. The consciousness of combat descended at that moment, and I allowed him to spin me completely, then using the momentum to unload a thunderous right hook. The rotational force added such power to the punch that I'm fairly certain I would've literally taken the guy's head completely off had I landed flush. Fortunately, I was drunk, and I only grazed him in the nose.

Buttlord groans and doubles over, his hands coming up to cover his face. The blow I unleashed then was one of the hardest I have ever landed. Grabbing two handfuls of gel-laden hair, I leapt forward and launched a Thai-style kneestrike right into this guy's face. The force knocked him upright and back into the wall, where he subsequently slid down into a kneeling/siting position, his eyes open and glazed, blood leaking from his nose and the side of his lip. The guy was out cold, and I can only thank the Gods of Assbeating that he was covering his face with his hands when I kneed him, because otherwise, his skull would've broken open like a dropped pumpkin.

Okay, so there I am, standing over this guy in a deserted bathroom with wet hands. Having no wish to explain things to the cops, I did what any morally responsible citizen would've done... I RAN!!! Out the door, down the corridor, and right into the restaurant proper, then to manhandle my friends out of their chairs one by one.

"We've gotta go! We've gotta go!" I kept stammering, and while I eventually got the group rounded up and out the door, nobody was happy.

Some of the better responses were:

"Gimme' back my fucking wallet, Mike!!!"

and, "That's not my arm, Mike, that's my dick!"

and, "Stop grabbing my boobs!" (not that Janet had any, but I was curious).

Like a sheepdog, I herded my friends into Rene's Isuzu Rodeo, (the one a fictional deer would later destroy), Janet insisting on driving for reasons I was too freaked out to recognize. You see, whenever Janet would get drunk back then, she would want to drive. I think it's some kind of protective mother instinct thing. I find this ironic seeing how Janet can't drive when she's sober, much less half in the bag.

Anyway, off we go! Out of the parking lot and towards Black Mountain via downtown Asheville. I've calmed down by this point, and I'm regaling the group with the tale of my fight in the bathroom, when I glance up to see Janet LOOKING BACK FROM THE DRIVER'S SEAT!!! She's laughing along with everyone else, completely oblivious to the parked Nissan Sentra she's barreling towards at 40 miles an hour.

"WATCH THE ROAD!!!" I cry, frantically pointing to our impending doom beyond the windshield.

In one, smooth and fluid motion, Janet faces front and jerks the wheel left to send the passenger-laden Rodeo swerving just enough to miss the parked car. I've seen bikini waxes that weren't as close as this spectacular display of driving prowess.

And get this, after the screams of terror die down, Janet turns BACK AROUND in her seat and says, "Then what happened, Mike?"

I would've strangled her if she wasn't driving. Needless to say, the string of profanity that followed got Janet crying uncontrollably, and, to this day, she suspects she was adopted.

Part 2:

The itsy bitsy town of Black Mountain is about 30 miles from the much larger city of Asheville, and between here and there is nothing but rural, mountainous roads, (other than the interstate, which we didn't dare to travel given our collective level of intoxication). We were set on going home, but someone in the Rodeo remembered that we hadn't gotten to see the Tyson fight, and the hunt was on for a sports bar.

It seems that Satan was looking out for us, because after about fifteen miles, we topped a hill to see a blue neon sign that said, "The Dew Drop Inn". Underneath the gaudy banner was a billboard that listed the evening's attractions. Aside from "Tyson vs Hollifield," they had "Topless Chicken Wing Eatin' Contest" which thankfully, we arrived too late to behold, and "Paps Blue Ribbon: $1.00"

I felt the cold, icy hand of death on my shoulder as we drove up into the gravel parking lot to see nothing put pickup trucks, many with Dixie flag license plates. In addition, the front of the place was an unbroken wall of urine yellow brick with a single door of black painted iron and no windows whatsoever. I would've thought it a crack house, were it not for the dull cacophony of country music oozing out from the interior.

I should probably make mention that our group had split, and it was now only me, Rene, Becka, Matt, and Janet. The other members of our Rio Bravo entourage, (whom I never named anyway), had taken another car home.

So the five of us get out and stagger up to the door, ostensibly led by Rene who was now in full "Drunken Mexican" mode. This highly inebriated state allows Rene to perform magical feats of both physical and verbal lunacy, from talking his way into free drinks, to emerging unscathed from a thirty man brawl. I've never been able to fathom his seeming invincibility; I just accept it as one of those few mysteries that science cannot explain.

Two minutes later, we're all inside withOUT paying the ten dollar cover charge. How, you ask? Rene. Again, I can't explain how he can do these things. Anyway, this place is a real shit hole. The room is full of smoke and the stench of stale beer, body odor, and piss, (kinda like my dorm room in college). The patrons are the lowest breed of Trailorparkus Notoothicus, sporting sleeveless T-shirts, jeans with holes in them, and- God's truth- rebel flag bandanas.

Ironically, no one seemed to notice the five, well dressed college-aged kids that had entered their lair, and we made it to the bar without incident.

Rene took care of our drink orders, which arrived as some kind of shot composed of a glowing blue fluid.

The Tyson fight is going strong on the various, wall mounted TV's in the joint, and we start cheering with the crowd, not really caring who was winning, but cheering for the sake of yelling things beneath the barrage.

(I think I screamed "Hank Williams sucks!!!" six or seven times without anyone hearing me).

At some point, this tall woman in a cowboy hat comes over to me and starts throwing hillbilly game. My girlfriend Becka saw it going down, but instead of making her presence known, she vindictively hung back to watch me squirm uncomfortably as this beast of a she-male tried to make me her boy toy. I'll try to recount my escape:

Ugly Bitch: "You a cutie pie, ain't cha?"

Mike: (recoiling from her acrid breath): "How was that cat shit sandwich?"

Ugly Bitch: "What?"

Mike: "How was that tit bath in Greenwich?"

Ugly Bitch: "WHAT?!?"

Mike: "I have to go poo poo. Bye!"

And with that, I made a b-line for the bathroom. I didn't really have to go, but anywhere was better that face to face with Vampira, Mistress of Stank.

It was then that I hear the word "Spick!" being yelled over the noise, and my combat radar went into high gear, (for those of you who don't know, "spick" is racial slang for "Hispanic"). I stopped to scan the room, then seeing a group of about four rednecks pointing and laughing at Rene. Rene himself was otherwise engaged at the bar, so he had no idea he'd become the target of their ridicule.

I froze, utterly certain that the worst was about to happen. As drunk as Rene was, he wasn't about to take shit from anybody, even if he WAS in a bar full of like-minded simpletons.

Suddenly, the ring leader breaks off and swaggers Rene's way, and I immediately move to intercept. He wasn't that big of a guy, maybe 5' 10", 165, but Rene's only 5' 7", and I hate racists.

"Hey!" I barked, "Why are you calling my friend a spick? He hasn't done anything to you. You don't even know him."

The ring leader's face screwed up in the classic, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" expression, and I knew instantly that I had to end things right then and there.

He slurs something like, "Look you pretty little faggot, I'll-"

WHAM!!! I hit him, but probably not the way you'd think. Instead of punching him in the face, I pushed him with both hands right in the chest. You see, a punch would've left his buddies no choice but to jump in. While a push establishes dominance, creates distance, and breaks your opponent's momentum without really hurting them. That was the idea anyway. Unfortunately, my adrenaline was already way up, and I pushed the living shit out of this guy. He rolled backwards over a pool table and hit the ground, the sound of shattering glass accompanying his fall.

I think I crapped my pants at this point.

So the ring leader's buddies- about three of them- gasp various versions of "What the fuck?" before advancing on me in a semi-circle.

Not caring if I looked stupid or not, I hit a stance and put my hands up, then bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet. I was hoping to intimidate them by appearing to know how to fight, and amazingly, it seemed to work because all three stopped in their tracks, their eyes focused on a point over my shoulder.

It was then that I heard a deep, gravely voice say, "Why'd you push Jeremy?"

I turned around to see a living wall of ebony leather, and again, I crapped my pants. This guy was seven feet tall if he was an inch! The bouncer apparently, he was wearing a long black coat and a black Stetson hat that gave him the appearance of The Ghost of Christmas Future, (see Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol). In fact, he extended a long bony finger towards a point at my feet, at which time lightning flashed IN THE BAR to reveal a tombstone that said:

  [ ]            RIP            [ ]
 [ ] Michael Descado [ ]
[ ]      1973 - 1998        [ ]

Those who live by the beer,
shall die by the beer...

Okay, okay, I made that last part up, but you get the idea.

Knowing there was no way in hell that I could win against these odds, I donned my sober, "educated" voice and explained what happened, then pointing past the bouncer to where the ring leader, "Jeremy", apparently, was rising from the sawdust floor with pool cue in hand.

The bouncer turns his attention to Jeremy, and I haul ass, once again gathering my friends together and herding them outside. We pile into the Rodeo, this time with ME driving, and I peel out just as a previously unseen side entrance opens up to reveal four or five pissed off hillbillies. They actually made a run across the parking lot at us, but we were gone.

The ride home was nerve-racking to say the least, and when we got back to our dormitory in the conference center, I downed about three shots of Country Gentleman Bourbon to sooth my restless soul. It was funny by that time, except that we never got to see who won between Tyson and Hollifield.

Rene and I were actually standing in the kitchen complaining about this, when one of our fellow collegiate's came in with an excited look and a video tape. "Did y'all see the Tyson fight?" he asked, holding up the tape.

The moral of this story? If at first you don't succeed, keep drinking.