10 The Beginning. I Write These In Reverse

This story was written on February 6, 2010.

Now, I promised you a kick-ass punk fight story. Why not take a moment before the Big Game to check out this shit?

Let's take a stroll back to Fuckno, California, shall we?

Press Play, and read.



I do not enjoy getting punched in the jaw, and I do not think I will ever find a way to enjoy this sort of thing. Unless there is a copious amount of cocai---- No, I don't think that there will ever be a way to enjoy getting smacked in the head with knuckles.

But I do quite enjoy giving Numbers. Numb-ers. I'm very good at math. I have callouses on my knuckles that I have specifically built up for this practice, and I never let them go to waste.

It's one of life's bennies, when you have the know-how, strength, and brass balls to engage in this sort of behavior. You will end up with scars, and perhaps teef in your knuckles, but this, you see, is simply par for the course.

This is the course of life, like the course of blood from a mouf of broken teef.

You get used to it. You become enamored of it. You begin to enjoy it.

Until you get knocked down by someone more bad-ass than you.

I got knocked down.

Now you see, you White Folks have been much maligned.

White is not bad.

But when you are a Penobscot Native skilled in the art of mortal destruction, and you are also half White, and... you also look quite White, never forget that you will always have two things at your back, which are these two things that are ingrained in your fucking head from birth:

Number 1: I Am A Penobscot. (You must never forget this.)

Number 2: I Am A Penobscot. (There is no way in Hell that you will ever forget this.)

It is in your DNA to maim those who confront you: the attackers who will attempt to endanger those whom you hold close, or otherwise try to harm any single Citizen of your Tribe.

And the Messicans were about to do harm to my little friend, Joey, who always talked big.

I stepped up. I stared at the big Messican who was there to chop down Joey because he had taken the big dude's chick to bed, with out the big dude's permission.

Right, like he would have agreed, no matter how much coke was involved.

Joey didn't believe in permission, never has, never will. Little Lion.

But I believe, and always will, in asking permission to break teef.

My question is asked with my fist.

My question is answered with blood.

I am Penobscot.


___________

When you punch, use the first two knuckles. The other two are called "floaters."

These are not very well connected to anything. They bust all apart. They get broken. I first learned this when punching stucco with an angry fist back when I was 17.

I still will never be able to play the eighth chord on piano with my frigged up right hand.

But this meat package of mine can play some nice chords on your face, my friend.

If you'd like I will continue this story in the TDC Forums.

Come on in and let me know, ya bastuhd.


From a lovely dranking site in Ireland.
"May the road rise up to fuck you in your mouf, ya blimey bastard."


Those Limeys got it all wrong.


Or, whatever.

Salute your solution. Raconteurs.