Hi, Dear willies Enjoyer.
Press play and get your free-time-intoxication going on.
OK?
GO.
There were six of them, there were six of us.
Muy Largo was their boss. He faced down Little Joey, my best friend, who had stolen a small block of coke from Muy Largo's bitch. Fucking Little Lion Man.
Their three, gleaming, pretty Chevy low-riders shined their headlights against our two, but one of ours was Fat Jerry's Mother Fucking Black Hearse. God Rest His Soul. The other was our Green Ford LTD Beast. Fuck Yeah.
There was a crowd outside of this circle. A large crowd. These were folks in the street; come to see what was going on.
Muy had his crew.
Their hard Messican eyes, all of them, stared into mine, like a freaky painting where the eyes follow you. They flitted their eyes all about each of us, looking for the false start. They wore grey flannel shirts over white T-shirts, buttoned at the neck, and then they took these flannels off and draped them over one arm. Their tattoos crawled up their veiny, muscly arms. They wore grey dress pants, and highly polished black dress shoes with thick soles. Their shoes looked like sleek, black knives.
I was about to shit my pants. Wouldn't you?
They seemed to move as if choreographed, but not in a dance-step sort of way. This was not Guys and Dolls. This was Fuck You. You Are Fucked.
They had done this many times. We hadn't.
We didn't have a boss. We were Punk Rockers. But we did not play instruments, except for the bottle, the straw, and the brass knuckle. Anarchists. No one was in charge.
Yet, we were fucking tight. We were not in disarray. Remember this. We had on our Doc Martens, (Fat Jerry had chrome over his steel toes and shins on his boots, can I get an "Amen") and most of us had all sorts of metal spikes in our leathers.
Tellesco and Sean, at the rear, were Simply, Fucking, Huge. Get this: They showed up in red tank tops, loose black mesh shorts, and Gawd-damned Birkenstock sandles. Why you may ask?
Because they would kick them sandles off. They would get mean and all bone-breaking-wildly-thrashing sort of a thing.
Those Messicans had their shiny hair all slicked back. Half of them had a hair net on, but that was their thing back then. They had plans after, with their ladies, at the club. This was simply a Bravado meet.
They ended up being wrong, sadly.
They were bare-fisted, no guns, no knives, except for Muy. He held his knife with the blade down, thumb up, across his chest, arms folded.
Now, Little Joey had fucked Muy's bitch often. He had fucked her quite well, in various positions. She seemed to have enjoyed it. Muy didn't know about that fact. But Little Joey had also fucked her. And she did not like that sort of fucking quite so much. Muy knew about that single thing. It was the reason for this Macho conference.
Muy stepped up to Little Joey, who was wearing his leather with the big circle A on the back. This was back in 1987, a thousand years ago, and yesterday.
Little Joey did not back down. He stuck his chin out, and stared back, up.
Muy hissed, "Where is my Cash Money?"
The movies are wrong. Nobody wants their shit back. They want money. They don't need to get back their drugs to try to sell it. Who knows what shit you cut it with, how diluted it has become?
These Messicans started to show bravado, shifting their legs, flexing their arms. You could tell that they had something stuffed in their belt, on the backside. I was on Little Joey's right side, just behind him. Bryan was on his left. We stood like pillars of Rock.
Punk Rock, muthafucka.
Joey said, "I got your cash money. I showed up to this fake-ass Bravado Macho gang shit with my men to tell you that you will get it. But do you think I would bring a knife to a gun fight?"
Little Joey eyed Muy's big Knife.
"Like I would do that? Think I'm El Stupido? You'll get your money. This is all we have to say to each other." Little Joey wiped his hands to show that he was done now.
This was pretty damned cool, because Little Joey was also about to shit his pants. But he could always talk shit quite well. Count on him for that. That was one scrappy little mother fucker, mean like a bitch. I was getting my adrenaline in check, chewing my gum rapidly, and my arms hurt from the fear, from the flex, from the intensity. I did not throw up.
The Messicans slowed down their shifting, and relaxed their tightly-stung arms.
Of course, we didn't have his cash money, being Punks and all, we'd done it all up, in one way or another. But we'd figure it out later. This was simply the first kiss of Muy, the first Meet, you see. There could be more meets until we got it all paid back.
It was done. We had survived. Except for one thing.
Now here is a song to play while I tell you what happened next.
Sean had the audacity to mention this, "Joey been enjoying that fine Messican pussy you got doing all your work for you."
Muy's eyes grew big. "What the fuck you sayin' puta?"
It was going so well?....?...?
Sean reiterated. "Joey been having some of that fine stuff."
Now, keep in mind, Sean had never lost a fight, and he did not think he would ever lose a fight, and he wasn't about start to find out this sort of thing.
WooHoo.
Muy looked at Sean, then he looked at Joey.
"This True?"
Joey, God Bless him, he stood there stoically, facing this big, angry Messican.
I stiffened up, because those Messicans were all packing heat, and we were not.
They had them heats in their back belts. I mad-dogged Muy, because I didn't know what else to do. What would you have done?
I stiffened, and then the big angry Messican turned slightly and looked at me.
I did not back down, which surprised me, when Muy asked me a simple question.
"Why you Mad-Doggin' me? This between him and me, Gatoita."
I did not know what that meant, but as I felt a massive fear from this spotlight on me, a pimply-assed half-white, half-native teen lost in the desert of Fuckno, Californication, from a huge Messican about to kill Little Joey, I felt a bit of urine seep out.
Honest to God.
I wanted to go home, game over, all done, can I get a nice hug and a warm cup of milk and go to bed?
And then I heard myself say these words, which I should have never said to anyone, at all, ever.
"Fuck You, Bitch."
This did not end well.
It kinda sucked.
You will see.
See ya tomorrow.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Links for ya.
These are pictures of goats that live on the sides of cliffs. It will give you the willies.
Or we can go deep. Like into the deepest park of the ocean, the Mariana Trench.
There you will find aliens, true that. Closer than the next life-bearing planet, ya see.
Living life on the edge may be one thing, but one doesn't have to live stupidly. Like, accidentally showing off with a gun at your niece's wedding and killing the groom.
Here's an artist who uses gunpowder in a better way. Nice website name as well, ya think?
Here's a helpful guide for douchebags with their hat sticker still showing. No, I didn't mean you, pal.
Like, totally awesome dude.
Funny pic of Jay Leno and his sidemen.
In our house, Tim Burton rules. His next film next Thursday is a perfect adventure for him to guide us through. Here's a behind the scenes look. The British purist/adorers of the original stories may hate it, but the greedy bastards of the Cinema Owners in Britland and Italy may stop their public from seeing it. WTF?
Now who doesn't like a good candy bar? KitKats are very good. But I didn't know that they sell 19 different flavors of them. But only in other countries? Hah? Why not here?
On another note, I've never enjoyed putting Q-Tips in my ears, unlike some who actually groan in pleasure as they dig. What am I missing? Maybe I haven't dug deep enough and itched my brain? Anyway, FDA tells us that putting a burning candle into your ear is also not advisable. OK, thank you FDA. It's nice to know this.
Despite facing a possible death sentence, Alabama shooter Amy Bishop is still concerned about her professional life and her position at the university. "Do you know if I have a job? I assume they fired me. Did they fire me?" Naw, everything's cool, dumbass. She's not crazy, just insane.
Do you know anyone who is a bit odd, and could go off like this? Tell us about it in the TDC Forums.
Just like using killer robots in our U.S. Army. That's insane. Robots are not nearly capable yet. CSM has some interesting points to consider.
Or speaking in a dumbass way. Wesley Snipes is not immune from that. Pay your taxes like the rest of us, bitch.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.
---Willies out.
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