Christmas night of '97 I was sitting on my front porch ordering a holiday meat basket from the Jimmy Dean catalog, when all of a sudden, BAM! You come crashing into my mailbox in your purple Dodge Charger going 60mph. I instinctively pulled out my nickel-plated baretta as I jumped out of my rocking chair and rolled behind a decorative shrub. I remember you got out of the car rather slowly, still a little dazed from the accident. Being blind in one eye, I thought that beer in your hand was a molotov cocktail, and I immediately opened fire. You're quick though, I gotta hand it to ya, you had your mag pointed at me and firing before the bottle of Bud even hit the pavement. Greatest scar I ever got was your 5th shot hitting me right in the chest, bouncing off my ribcage, and exiting upwards through my shoulder.
By that time the blood was everywhere, and all the neighbors had closed their blinds, just hoping not to get caught up in all the live fire. I got woozy, and passed out. Next thing I knew, I was standing naked in a dark room, up to my kneecaps in filthy water; the only light coming in through a small window above me. I wasn't even sure I still had an arm as I had lost all the feeling in it, along with half of my lower torso. It was a stuggle just to stay conscious as you beat me with strips of bamboo and screamed at me in Norwegian. I'm arching my back as I write this, with the images of my own blood and tears pouring into the water at my feet, their warmth circling my calves, but never reaching my frozen toes.
I never found out what you were screaming at me that night, but I did learn one thing: Never pull my gun on a pro.
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Date: 2005-11-30 07:42 am (UTC)By that time the blood was everywhere, and all the neighbors had closed their blinds, just hoping not to get caught up in all the live fire. I got woozy, and passed out. Next thing I knew, I was standing naked in a dark room, up to my kneecaps in filthy water; the only light coming in through a small window above me. I wasn't even sure I still had an arm as I had lost all the feeling in it, along with half of my lower torso. It was a stuggle just to stay conscious as you beat me with strips of bamboo and screamed at me in Norwegian. I'm arching my back as I write this, with the images of my own blood and tears pouring into the water at my feet, their warmth circling my calves, but never reaching my frozen toes.
I never found out what you were screaming at me that night, but I did learn one thing: Never pull my gun on a pro.