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JIMBO Jimbo, a name that conjures images of warm tobacco spit-filled soda cans and back pocket circles worn into ill-fit slide down blue jeans with, a loud slurred cursing voice, and a violent streak, as big as Texas. The last I heard he was a police officer, but in the haunted memory of youth he still invokes the image of a vicious Darwinian redneck archetype that never fades away. Although his bile saliva had graced the back of my head on more than one occasion and I had seen him beat others rather badly especially Chris Cooper, whose flat back crotch face crucifixion had seemed particularly humiliating in it's homo-erotic overtone, I had escaped his wrath. Due mostly, to an absence of both pride and reputation that allowed me the freedom to run like a frightened child (which in fact I was) seven houses down from the corner school bus drop off to the relative safety of my front door. Far from the most athletic kid on the block I could still outrun Jimbo, whose lumbering Neanderthal-ish ape like frame, put him at a disadvantage, at least in speed. Mostly, I remember the aluminum foil that he had inserted in and around the ass of his pet Dachshund, and the discomfort it caused the weenie dog, as it rolled around in the grass while Jimbo slurred a threat to beat the living shit out of any kid that dared to offer aid to HIS dog. Despite vast oceans of both time and miles that separate us now and despite myself, with all that I aspire to, I wish him only ill whenever I think back. That son of a bitch. The worst of everything.
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