Needless to say, I had been drinking whiskey, when I suddenly ran out before even being close to the drunken state I needed to reach. Considering I had no money, and no job, this was quite a predicament. Many thoughts ran through my head. Such as…….
"How could I get some dam money with out getting arrested? Why isn't booze free? Why do I have to work some meaningless horrible job for 8 - 10 hours a day just in order to survive? Why don't willing virgin vaginas grow on trees? How come I feel the need to drink alcohol constantly? Why does my cat lick my toes in the middle of the night? Why was it 115 degrees in Texas today? How come I have no friends left? If a man thinks too much, questions too much, he will lose what little sanity he may have left I concluded. Best to just drink one's self into a state of un- thinkable numbness."
Quoting myself. But I'm not really me right now. I guess I'm me. I don't know. Don't ask question's asshole.
I begin to dig through couch cushions, through boxes, inside drawers, under my bed, inside every moldy orifice of my vehicle. I managed to scrape up about 5 dollars in change. Now it was just a matter of making it to the local liquor store in my battered rusty truck. My Michigan license plated truck had a gas gage that read the fuel was always full. It was a guessing game as to how much fuel I really had. It's never much fun running out of gas on some desolate freeway, walking 20 miles to the nearest farm house in the dark, only to have some psycho backwoods mother fucking farmer answer his door with a shot gun pointed in my face. There are many lessons to be learned in life, and one was…don't run out of gas.
So my cut off smelly shorts were sagging down from all the weight of the change. My ass crack in full plumber mode. I'm driving down Texas Avenue, head flipping back and forth in search of demon like crew cut styled mustached piggies, who were just dying to bust some poor smuck like me, for his first drinking and driving. Cops love to make peoples lives more miserable. It's just a known fact.
I had been drinking and driving for 15 years. I ain't never hit a stop sign. I never ran over a bunch of pre school kids at a school crossing. I've never plowed into a brick wall ditch. I never smacked into some family mini van, going the wrong way on the freeway. I have never killed or damaged anything with my so-called drunken driving. I've never thought the glowing fuzzy lights around me were a big marshmallow I needed to crash into. That's not to say all the friends I use to have haven't been busted for drunk driving, or worse. I guess some of it has to do with luck.
But u know, everyone has a specialty in life. Some people suck cocks for a living. Some people are politicians. Some people collect your garbage. Some build bombs. Some write boring words on blank pieces of paper. Some take it in the ass. Others make the food u buy. U knows all this already.
Well, I think I'm an artist, and my art is the expertise of driving after drinking sometimes, among other things. If only all the colleges I have attended had expanded their possible majors a little, I'd be a teacher by now in the art of drinking and driving. Knock on wood, in fact, smash the wood into splinters with your two fisted bloody rage. Have a spiritual awaking; everyone else seems to think they are having one, these days.
I make it to the liquor store, just as they are about to close. I dump my change all over the counter, asking for the cheapest half-pint of whiskey they have. The college kid working the counter don't like me much. The feeling is mutual. He places some black velvet Canadian long lost amigo on the counter with a rather loud aggressive slam I didn't care for.
"Fucking change," he mumbles, counting through it.
"It's money, isn't it?, fuckcheese?" I question.
"Mhmm" he mutters.
Man, I'm not a violent person, but at that moment, I really felt like grabbing him by the hair, and smashing his big stupid forehead into the counter about ten times. He's counting my change out with his attitude. My hand twitches a bit, and almost has a mind of it's own, but I push it down with my other hand, and hold it there. He notices.
"What ya doing there?" he questions.
"Nothing, just hurry the fuck up dude."
He nods his head at me, as if to say….. if he weren't at work, he would beat my skull into a beautiful painting of renaissance mush, and he probably would. Human beings are egotistic, cold and self-satisfying creatures most of the time, each with there own little pathetic agenda fed feelings. Boo fucking hoo.
I got a buck left for gas. I drive across Texas Avenue to an Exxon station. I'm behind this big pumped up truck with a license plate that reads "Texas Truck" I have seen a lot of them here in my short time in Texas. I don't quite understand it. I mean people know what a truck looks like, why do they have to write "Texas Truck" on the license plate?
Anyway, I was pulling into the gas station, behind one of these trucks, and for some reason, my horny instincts took over. My eyes focused on these two delicious looking young college type girls walking into the gas station. Dam, I thought to myself, I need to meet a girl. Next thing I know, I slam my front bumper into this "Texas Truck" in front of me. BIG MISTAKE.
I had smashed into it pretty good, even though I wasn't going that fast. As my eyeballs focused on my frontal view of the situation, and my chin smacks against my steering wheel, I see cowboy hatted necks getting whiplashed in fast forward motions…… from my fuck up.
"Fuck!" I yell.
Two redneck mean looking Texas bred burly dudes both jump out of their "Texas Truck"
Needless to say, they don't look happy. I quickly grab a cigarette, my last one, and light it, preparing myself for a beating. I step out of my Yankee salt rusted hit and run dented machine from Michigan.
"U some sort a dip shit, what da heeel do u thinking?" the driver questions. He's a fellow in his 50's I take it. Looks like a hard working farmer. He looks real mean, big tattered cut off plad shirt, with sleeves rolled up, tucked into his wranglers, with the full chew patched stain in back pocket. Dirty sweat dripping down his brow. I don't say anything. I just prepare myself for an ass beating, sucking on my cigarette. Then his passenger walks around to the back of my truck and notices my license plate.
"He's a fuckin Yankee dipshit. No wonder. This faggot's from Michigan."
I don't know of this guy was his son, or some ranch hand, or what. I didn't really care. My adrenaline began to go into animal instinct mode. This wasn't a good situation. Their cowboy hats looked like the devil's horns. My eyes tried to focus on their eyes, stuck in this horrible Texas heat.
"Hey, look fella's, I got insurance, there isn't that much damage, we can work this out." I manage to whimper.
"U one dumb motha fucking Yankee sick looking bastard, ain't ya!" the older one screams at me.
"Look dude, I'm sorry bout hitting your truck, shit happens, lets just exchange insurance papers and phone numbers."
His ranchhand son sticks a big gob of nasty looking chew into his hillbilly bred bottom gums, and murmurs….
"Looks like Yankee boy has quite a mouth on em, needs a good Texas beatin, if u all ask me," he says, snortin.
"Look, I said I was sorry, now lets deal with this situation in a civilized manner, alright!" I yell. I shouldn't have yelled, I knew it would just make them madder. But fuck it. I was getting pretty mad myself.
"Don't be gittin lippy wit me boy!" the older dude yells, grabbing me by the neck, and slamming me against my truck. His little cowboy hatted helper ranch fuck gave me a good punch to the stomach. I fell to the hot gas station pavement, wind completely knocked out of me. Then the ranch hand son hillbilly, spit a big tobacco greenish brown loogie on my face, as I lay helpless in this new land of Texas. All I could do was concentrate on catching my breath. It's a horrible feeling, not being able to breathe.
"Git up boy, we ain't through wit u.," the older dude said, picking me up by the neck, and slamming me into my truck again, and giving me a good kick to the shin, with his pointy cowboy boot.
I was trying to get my breath back, like some wounded lion. I felt the need to kill in order to live. I felt like I was stuck in some African jungle with hungry animals wanting to eat me. Until a man has felt this in life, he will never be a man. I quickly decided to try and talk my way out of this nightmare.
"Please sir, please mister, don't kick my ass anymore. I have some money. I have insurance papers. Just let me get them" I managed to cry. With my throat and vocal box barely working.
"What da fuck u trying ta pull Yankee?" the younger one said.
"Just let me get the money and papers," I managed to say, while still trying to catch my breath. They snorted a little more and began high fiving each other. The don't mess with Texas boys had fucked with the wrong Michigan alcoholic. I quickly pulled my truck seat forward, and grabbed the crow bar I had behind my seat. It was really weird, as soon as I grabbed it, I caught my wind. I gripped that crow bar with two hands, tighter then I had ever held anything in my life, besides my cock, and yelled…
"U fuck headed Texas goofy lookin turds want to play tough guy death games!"
I began swinging the crow bar into the hot air like a maniac. Then I began swinging it into my truck, as fellow gas station customers began to gather, watching. I kept smashing the crow bar into the side of my truck. It made a loud violent echoing sound in my mind, and I had day ja voo again. I wasn't myself. I was a creature who was provoked to death mode. Survival mode.
"What u gonna do wit dat lil toy in yo hand Yankee fuck?" the ranch hand younger one snickered, as the older fello backed off a bit.
The younger one came at me, as if he were some invincible superman. I swatted him square in the jaw with the crowbar. His facial bones let out a loud crack, and his skin was suddenly redder then an exploding bottle of ketchup, like some spurting water fountain of blood. His big dumb six foot 9 frame took a slow motion fall to the steamy cement.
One downs, one to go. I thought to myself. By now, I must have looked twisted; my eyeballs had little particles of blood splattered in them from the first smack of my handy dandy crow bar helper. I was in an entire different world of pure pissed off testosterone
"U hit my fuckin truck, then u got the nerve to hit my only son in da face, u gonna die boy!" the older one screamed, running at me.
What kinda a dumb fuck runs straight at a skinny freak - half-drunk pissed off insomniac man from Michigan, with a crow bar in his hand?
Well, this guy did.
"Keeeeraaaaaaack!"
I connected rather nicely to his skull, like some over paid baseball star cracking his historical homerun. For some reason, the old fuck managed to get up again for a second round. I didn't understand how he could have gotten up. It must be like when a chicken gets his head chopped off, and the body just runs around for a few minutes, as the blood slowly drains out, just an instinctual reaction to a violent situation, I suppose.
So anyway, I cracked him in the head again, and his body fell to the ground, I couldn't help but notice his pupils disappear into the back of his skull as his body fell backwards.. I really didn't want to hurt anyone. I didn't want to kill anyone. I hoped I hadn't. I quickly jumped into my truck, as some on lookers had a slow reaction to try and run after my vehicle and me. One greasy Mexican managed to open my truck door, as I floored it, he hung on some how to my door. I quickly pounded my fist into his face, dragging his body along the cement, gaining speed. He finally let go after a few more smacks to the face. His skin must'a got a nice cement burn, his body flipping over a few times in a tumbling roll. I ran a red light, weaving in-between cars in a race for my freedom. My half-pint of Whiskey riding shot gun, swirling around in the passenger seat, begging to be opened.
I started whimpering like a little girl in distress, as I got closer to my safe apartment. All I could think about was getting a drink in my shivering body. All I could think about was the fact I may have killed a man on this night. I may have taken another human beings life. I didn't like it. I felt repulsive. I felt more alone then I had ever felt in my life.
I drank myself to sleep that night and vomited more then once. When I woke up the next day, I wasn't sure if it was just a bad dream, or had it really happened? I decided I wanted to drink some more, wishing I had a cigarette, wishing I had more booze. Life was very ugly sometimes, but it was never my fucking fault. I was just a victim of circumstances. I sat naked, Indian style in a large circle I had drawn with some chalk, in the center of my new carpet. I meditated for 24 hours, in this circle, trying to clear my mind of the violence.
This story Copyright 2000 Nicholas Morgan.