The title of the story I'm about to tell is a little bit misleading,
because my ACTUAL first asskicking happened in tenth grade when I went up against Robbie Brady. In terms of damage,
I beat Robbie's ass; but I pussed out halfway through the fight, shit my pants (literally) and withdrew on the grounds that
I couldn't "see" him. Crippled by fear, I proclaimed that something had obstructed my vision, and thus proceeded to
back away until I fell into some bushes and Robbie left me alone.
My second ACTUAL first asskicking happened in 1991, when my
big fucking mouth started the legendary Pike versus Kappa Alpha brawl at Wild Bill's that almost got both fraternities kicked
off campus. During said fight, a HUGE redneck named David Smith grabbed me in a head lock and punched me in the face.
While I dutifully responded by kneeing him right in the balls, I think it's safe to say that David won that one.
(I'm sure I'll get around to writing up THAT story sooner
or later)
Anyway, the asskicking I'm gonna relate here occurred
in 1994 at an apartment complex in Cleveland, MS. It was a Friday night, and, per usual, I was drunk as fuck and riding
around with my then-best-friend, Jeff Byrd. Jeff was and is a great guy, and one of the only truly selfless people I've
ever known. Jeff's pretty big, like, six foot three, two hundred and sixty pounds. But he was never a fighter,
for his propensity to see the "good" in everybody made him one of the best loved icons in Cleveland history. He's still
like that, by the way.
So nine o'clock rolls around, and since I'm half in the bag,
I thought I'd be a good idea to drop in on one of my ex-girlfriends. Said "ex" went by the name of Jennifer Cole, and
she was solely responsible for initiating my research in the field of Boobology. For those of you that aren't familiar
with this discipline, Boobology is the study of female breasts, a field I had no experience in until I met Jennifer.
To explain, we're gonna set the "way back" machine to
1987, when I was a fourteen-year-old lad with no knowledge of girls other than what I'd seen on HBO. At the time,
my grandmother subscribed to this pioneer channel of cable magnificence, and I remember sitting in her living room one night
(after she'd gone to bed) watching the movie Conan the Barbarian with bated breath and a mean hard on.
Remember when Conan is nailing that witch lady in the tent? And she's all writhing around and getting demon style freaky?
Well, that turned me on to boobs, and I've been a fan ever since.
Later that year, (still 1987), I found myself at Hardee
Park putting on a youth group passion play for the Maranatha Assembly of God church. I didn't actually have a part in
said play, (which sucks in retrospect, because I kick ass, an I would've given an Academy Award winning performance), so
I was just there with my other non-actor youth groupians to lend moral support. Jennifer was there too, and
SOMEHOW, I persuaded her to steal off into one of the more secluded areas of Hardee Park for a game of Truth
or Dare with my brother Eric and some other chick.
As is typical with fourteen-year-olds, my brother Eric
and I didn't have the presence of mind to dare one or both girls to FUCK us, so we were limited to kisses and gropes
and occasional glimpses of underwear thwarted nudity. Towards the end though, I had an epiphany, and I dared Jennifer
to lift up her shirt and show us her boobs.
BAM!!! My penis rose from the depths of its tighty whitees,
thus assuming a hardness so titanium-like, that nothing less than a puma with diamond coated talons could've scratched it.
Granted, Jennifer was only fourteen, but she had the best rack I have ever seen before or since. Said rack only blossomed
as she advanced into womanhood, and the last time I saw her (the night of this story) her tits had ascended to the queenship
of all Boobdom.
Back to 1994...
So after more than an hour of Jeff trying to talk me out of
going to this girl's apartment, I finally convince him that I'm not "really" drunk, and that Jennifer will be glad to see
me. It was a total lie, but Drunk Mike is about five times as charming and handsome as Friendly Mike, (or so I maintain),
and I figured I could orchestrate a late night rendezvous.
Stumbling up to the threshold, I knock fifty or more times
until the door opens to reveal... not Jennifer, but her younger brother Lance. Lance was about thirteen at the
time, and since I'd watched him grow up, he was delighted to have a couple of cool college guys rooting around in his sister's
apartment.
After making small talk with Lance, I inquire as to his sister's
whereabouts, then to learn that she was at her boyfriend's house.
"Oh yeah?" I slurred, "Do you have his number?"
"Sure do," Lance replied, suddenly excited, "Are you gonna
call him?"
"Look who you're asking..."
So I dial the guy up, and- much to my surprise- Jennifer answers
the phone.
Mike: "Hey girl! What's up?"
Jennifer: "Uh, nothing... Who is this?"
Mike: "It's Mike! You know, the guy you've been in love
with for eight years?"
(long pause)
Jennifer: "How did you get this number?"
Mike: "You gave it to me, remember?"
Jennifer: "No, I don't remember. This is my boyfriend's
house, Mike. I don't think you should be calling here."
(Just then, I hear a deep, countrified voice yell, "WHO IS
THAT?!? THAT AIN'T NO GUY, IS IT?!?"
Mike: "Is that you're boyfriend?"
Jennifer: (first calling back, "No, it's nobody!", to her
boyfriend) she says, "Look Mike, I can't talk. I've gotta go."
Now, Lance had already given me the low down on his sister's
boyfriend, who we're gonna refer to as "Rocky" from here on out. From Lance's descriptions, Rocky was your typical Mississippi
redneck, one prone to violence, jealousy, and ignorance. As such, I felt it my duty to rescue Jennifer from his evil
clutches, so I kept her on the phone asking inane questions until Rocky jerked the receiver out of her hand, (no shit, I heard
the scuffle), and then got on.
Rocky: "Who the fuck is this?!?"
Mike: "I'm the first guy who ever saw Jennifer's boobs.
Who the fuck are you?"
Rocky: "Muh-thur-fucker! I will fuck you up!"
Mike: "Fuck me up what? My ASS?!?
Sorry bubba, I don't swing that way. But how 'bout you send Jennifer over. I'm at her apartment right now going
through her underwear drawer. Tell me something, you don't mind if I hang on to that cheetah print thong she's got,
do ya? You know, for old times sake?"
(another long pause, this time permeated with quick, enraged
breaths)
Rocky: "You just stay right where you are, you son
of a bitch! I'm on my way!"
Mike: "I told ya, man, I don't swing that way. My rectum
is strictly exit only!" ( * click * ) "Hello...? Hello...?"
Yep, he hung up on me, and I promptly hit redial. *
ring ring * ring ring * No answer. Rocky was on his way over to beat my ass, but I was too drunk to
really give a fuck, so instead of getting the hell outta there, I went to the refrigerator and bummed a beer.
Having walked across the apartment complex to say hi to some
girl he knew, Jeff wasn't there when this phone call went down, so thirteen-year-old Lance was the only one present to
be the voice of reason. He wasn't much help.
After hearing what I'd said to Rocky, Lance was super pumped,
thus leaping around in anticipation of seeing me fight. Like most people from Greenville, Lance knew I'd been studying
karate all my life, and he thought I was gonna go "Bruce Lee" all over Rocky.
"Awesome man! Awesome! This is gonna be so cool!
Awesome! I can't wait to see you do that ninja stuff! What're gonna do, Mike? Huh? Tell me, what're
gonna do?"
Basking in the praise of my prepubescent audience of one,
I put my beer down and started warming up right there in the living room floor. Just to show off, I did a few super
fast punches, a few ridiculously high kicks, and then hit a full split, which caused Lance to have his first orgasm.
This went on for a good thirty minutes, and, slowly coming
to the realization that I was shit housed drunk, I apologized to Lance.
"Sorry bud, it don't look like he's coming. But you
keep an eye out here, okay? I'm gonna go find Jeff and see what he's doing."
"Okay," Lance muttered, visibly disappointed that he wasn't
gonna get to see me "whoop butt", as he put it.
Despite the fact that it had indeed been half an hour since
I'd been hung up on, the geographic layout of Cleveland is such that Rocky could still very well be on his way over.
In truth, I was pussing out, chiefly because I knew I was fucked up. The human body absorbs alcohol at a constant rate,
so a lot of what I drank earlier was just now taking effect. I could hardly walk a straight line, much less fight a
sober, pissed off redneck. I'd only stayed as long as I had because Lance informed me that Rocky was about my size,
and I figured- drunk or not- I could take him.
I was wrong...
So I left the apartment and shut the door behind me, then
to pause in the dimly lit parking lot. It was a typically warm April evening, but there was a bizarre stillness in the
air, the ever present chirp of Mississippi cicadas having gone silent. As I've said in other posts, I don't believe
in the supernatural, but I can't ignore the fact that I've always seemed to "sense" when something bad was about to go down.
The aforementioned fight with Robbie Bradley in tenth grade was the first time I experienced this phenomenon, as I actually
felt ill for no apparent reason about ten minutes before it happened. I can site other examples, but I don't wanna give
any more paranormal fodder to the "believers" who read this site.
Anyway, after hesitating for almost a minute, I hear a door
open, and Jeff's hulking frame is silhouetted by the light of well lit apartment. He was about thirty yards away and
to the right, having just immerged from his friend's house.
"Hey, JEFF!!!" I called, only to have him wave and
then answer me in a voice that was not his own.
"COME 'ERE, YOU FRAT BOY PUNK!"
What the hell? Why is Jeff mad at me? ...wait
a minute.
It was then that I looked to my left to see a second silhouette
marching across the parking lot. The guy was stocky and muscular, (like me), and I knew instinctively that it was Rocky.
The Fear hit like a hammer inside my
chest, but I wasn't gonna back down, so I maneuvered around into an empty parking space surrounded on both sides by cars.
Why did I do this? Well, I can only attribute it to instinctive genius. You see, I'd taken karate forever;
my discipline at the time: Shotokan. Most Japanese styles rely (foolishly) on linear movement, so positioning myself between
two obstacles insured that Rocky would have to come at me head on, thus negating his ability to circle off, and giving
me a technical advantage.
Again, I did this instinctively, and I say that because I
knew exactly DICK about real street fighting back then.
Nevertheless, Rocky fell right into my trap, thus entering
the narrow, automobile-flanked corridor and stomping in with his clinched fists pretty much by his sides.
BAM!!! Having dropped into my traditional
Shotokan tournament fighting stance, I exploded forward with a reverse front kick, one/two punch combination that I THOUGHT
knocked the shit outta him. I was later to learn, via Jeff, that while the front kick landed, my subsequent pair of
punches to Rocky's face weren't really punches at all, but clumsy, loose-fisted retard strikes.
That's the last thing I remember about the fight itself.
According to Jeff, Rocky absorbed the front kick, and then
proceeded to unleash a flurry of windmill-style punches. In response to this barrage of beat down, I "turtled up", thus
ducking my head and pinning my fists at my temples to shield my face.
The next thing I know, I'm standing on the sidewalk with Rocky
and a friend of his lurking nearby. Jeff was at my side by this time, having run to my rescue yelling, "STOP!!!
YOU'RE GONNA KILL 'EM!!!"
Now, I don't know what Jeff thought he saw, but I
can't imagine myself ever being in a position where Rocky was gonna kill me. I was drunk and dazed and semi-coherent,
but I didn't feel hurt at all.
Confused, I glanced at Rocky, and then at his friend, and
then at Jeff and asked, "What happened?"
No one answered. They all just stood there looking at
me, their faces awestruck and slack-jawed. It was then that I felt something wet in my hair, and I reached up to feel
the back of my head. My hand came away soaked in blood.
It turns out, one of Rocky's redneck, no-form punches had
opened a one inch gash in the back of my scalp, and since head wounds tend to bleed profusely whether they're serious or not,
everybody was totally freaked out by the sight of so much blood.
It was everywhere, continually leaking down the back of my
shirt to give me my own crimson superhero cape. Still though, I certainly wasn't bleeding to death, and I'd
imagine that the amount (with respect to fluid volume) was far less than someone looses when they give at the blood
bank.
Anyway, the previous adrenaline rush had put me into an almost
euphoric state; and, wiping my bloody hand on my blue jeans, I looked up at Rocky and casually asked, "So, did you bring Jennifer
or what?"
You could've knocked the guy over with a feather. After
all, Rocky thought he'd thoroughly put me through the ringer, yet, there I was, seemingly unfazed and still talking shit.
Thanks, alcohol...
When Rocky didn't immediately reply, I asked him about Jennifer
again, at which time his much larger friend, (his "back up", I assume), bowed up and sneered, "You better quit while you're
ahead, college boy."
"Fuck you, bitch," I slurred nonchalantly, then returning
my attention to Rocky, "So, what's the deal, man? Did Jennifer come or what? Is she in the car? Where'd
ya'll park?"
Rocky still didn't answer, but his friend did, the larger
redneck advancing on me with a snarled curse.
"You smartass little faggot!" he hissed, but Jeff stepped
in-between us and proceeded to disarm the situation by simultaneously telling me to "shut the fuck up" while assuring Rocky
and his friend that I was "really drunk" and "didn't know what I was saying".
Thanks to Jeff's charismatic negotiation skills, Rocky and
his friend left, leaving Jeff to drive me back to his parents' house. Jeff wanted to take me to the hospital, but
I wouldn't hear of it, and so I spent the night in his Mom and Dad's guest room. I was still bleeding out of my head,
so Jeff covered my allotted pillow in Reynolds Wrap so I wouldn't stain his mother's bed linens.
The next morning, I woke up with a mild hangover and no memory
of the night before. It was about 11:30 AM, and the house was completely empty. Jeff's dad had already gone to
work, and his mother was at her sewing circle or something, neither of 'em ever knowing that I'd spent the night.
Jeff himself had gone out to get something to eat for the both of us, but I didn't know that at the time, so I rooted
around in his parents' living room, (in only my boxers), continually wondering why my hair seemed to be coated in
massive amounts of red crusty styling gel.
Jeff had cleaned me up pretty good the night before, so it
wasn't until I decided to use his shower that I realized I'd gotten my ass kicked. As soon as the warm, watery spray
hit my head, the bottom of the bath tub turned a frightening shade of pink. At first I thought that cherry Kool Aid
was leaking from my ass or something, but a quick inspection revealed the gruesome gash in the back of my head. That's
when it all came back.
HOLY SHIT!!! JENNIFER'S BOYFRIEND RUINED MY SHIT
LAST NIGHT!!!
Repeatedly covering myself in soapy lather until the water
was clear again, I exited the shower and stood naked before the vanity mirror over the sink. The bewildered face
that stared back at me was virtually void of injury, except for a miniscule bruise on the bridge of my nose. My arms,
legs and torso were unscathed, as were my knuckles, which threw me into a rage.
"No way!" I cursed, "No way I didn't get a lick in!
What the fuck?!?"
I spent the next twenty minutes stomping around with a towel
around my waist, eventually checking the washer/dryer combo to find that my outfit from the night before was clean and devoid
of evidence.
Burying my dirty boxers in Jeff's kitchen trash can, I dressed
myself (free balling) and then sat down in the living room to watch TV. I was so pissed I could barely see the soap
opera actors on the giant, thirty inch screen, pride waging a back-and-forth battle against hazy reality. The more I
sat there and brooded, the more I came to realize that, yes, I'd gotten my ass handed to me, and that, yes, it was exactly
what I deserved.
Thanks again, alcohol...
Jeff eventually returned with two Wendy's number three combos
in hand; and, as we sat there and ate in the living room, he confirmed my shame. Fortunately, since neither Rocky nor
his companion were students at Delta State, (and since Jeff was and is one of my best friends), the story never got out, and
my undeserved reputation as a "badass" persevered.
Now, you may be asking yourself why I took the time to write
this tale. It's not that funny, after all, and I didn't really give any insight into the mysteries of the universe.
Well, my core audience is composed of martial artists, and I wanted to illustrate two points. One, years of study do
you no good unless you train realistically. And two, alcohol is your worst enemy in a fight. Could I have
taken Rocky if only I'd been sober? I don't know. I certainly could now, but that's beside the point.
The lesson here is that you have to drink responsibly- or rather, you have to understand how drinking affects you.
I didn't learn the latter lesson until I got my ass beaten
beyond recognition outside a bar called "The Channel" sometime later, but I did eventually learn it- and learn it well.
While most of my stories take place when I'm drunk, I've since come to accept what my limits are, and I always try to
cut myself off when I reach the point where my mouth is writing checks my ass can't cash.
That's the moral of this rant, my four loyal readers, so take
it to heart. Oh, and no matter how great a rack one of your ex-girlfriends has, make sure you've got her "go ahead"
before trying to revisit past glories...
