Aftermath, a taste

TDC WEAW Punk Fight Aftermath

Working on the TDC WEAW Punk Fight Story Aftermath.

Thought I'd post a teaser for ya.



At the time, a certain manner in which to further refine the potency of Cocai--- I mean, a frivolously expensive powder, had come into play on the bleak streets of the high-desert megalopolis of Fuckno, Californication.

And with this new trade, came a strikingly fast and amazingly huge amount of economic power. Some folks had begun to choose sides, wearing bandannas of either red or blue. These folks did not come to a knife fight with a gun. No. They showed, curb side, at your home, while you were relaxing after work with a nice, dry martini, or else while you slept.



They would then proceed to remodel your siding for free, with lead. But "for free" sometimes does not mean, "at no cost to you."


It was after the Aftermath that Muy Largo and his small clan, healing in traction and casts, etc., found themselves looked upon with disdain from these new echelons of power. The only person who rose above the aftermath was the "Flora Du Mal." She saw Muy for what he was; a huge Messican with an even larger ego, but nothing to back it up.

She distanced herself from him.

Also, she never forgave Little Joey for his betrayal of her, either. In fact, she---


But I digress. I promised to tell you about the Aftermath of the Punk Fight Story today, and so I shall.

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Now why don't you sit down with your favorite beverage, steaming or frosty, and/or something else you might ignite, while I put this last chapter to bed for you.

Here is a song for you to get into the proper state of mind for this ongoing True Story Series.








Now listen.

I should have been driving the Hearse. Joey's arm was bleeding, and he was in shock. The Hearse was a huge and heavy vehicle, built for hauling weight, and we had that in the back with Bryan and Fat Jerry, but it was not built for speed and maneuverability. It was built to transport Dead People.

And there were some people whom we had made quite angry. These bastards showed up for the little tea party, the "Machismo," in order to witness the glory of Muy.

And perhaps to purchase some of his wares. They were disappointed, ya think?

Sean and Tellesco zoomed past us on the right, with that Green Bitch Ford LTD with the 429 racing engine. Sean flipped us off. Fucker. He was enjoying this. Why?


Here's why, in case you have forgotten. Recall from earlier stories how I described Sean's propensity for exploring the very edge of safety versus insanity. He walked the edge. If you recall, his experiment in Crack became his downfall. He'd finally met his match.

But not tonight. Consider this: You might feel safe in the company of a young, huge man who held so much confidence in his fighting ability, and you would be correct. If he was on your side, that is.

But the other consideration is that with such physical prowess, this young man went and looked for situations to prove his ability. Not feeling quite so safe? I thought not.

He was always looking for trouble, and he always found it.

And this is what he did next.


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working on the Punk Fight Story END

Damn.

Tired from working the Bingo. But This TDC Thing is so much enjoyment.

Here's what I got so far.

The intention is to play some music that is a direct juxtaposition of the violence that ensues.

Not a hard rap song, but something soothing, to offset the bone breaking.

Like, irony. I chose a nice tune from Michael Buble, who my wife has the hots for.

I was going to go with Frankie, but this seems more at odds.


I have to decide which song is less appropriate for this end of the Punk Fight Story.

You decide.







This is for Muy Largo. Luv ya babe. It was nice to meet ya kid.





I had the last dance with Muy Largo. I took him home. With my fists. But after he was shot. No excuses. I was scared, and acting on impulse, you see. Simply that.





Muy Largo punched at me over Joey's shoulder, and he still had the knife in his hand, blade down. The razor sharp blade cut Joey's leather, on his shoulder, and the tip of the blade cut some meat, next to bone, on the shoulder. Joey would heal within a couple weeks.

Muy smacked me in my jaw with his left fist, and my jaw was made of glass that night it seems, because I fell. Joey told me later that his instinct was to jab an elbow at Muy's arm as it swung past, which made the blade fly through the air on Muy's retraction of his arm back. Joey busted Muy's elbow.

I have no recollection of this, but the fact that I am telling you this, and that Joey is still alive, is proof enough that Joey probably have saved us from being sliced in the faces.

At this same moment, three amazing things occurred simultaneously. Sean and Tellesco, who were chomping at the bit, had already gone off-sides, and were grabbing those Messican weasels closest to the front line with their huge arms, and smashing into the others near their quarter back, Muy.

The third thing was that Bryan shot his little .22 into the air, and then pumped the second bullet into Muy's right shoulder. It was simply luck that this tiny bullet did not end up in Joey. This was all very close range.

You could smell the Jerry Curl or whatever the fuck it was that these Messicans used in their hair nets.


In this close combat, you could smell adrenaline and fear, sweat, personal body grooming products, and refried beans.

This moment was a dense and tightly packed as a year, but lasted for only a split second.

And then the mayhem and screams began.

Here's a tune for you to enjoy while I describe the bones breaking.

Well, it ended up looking something like this.

Wassup, bay-bee?

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.

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 Joey 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 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.

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 shit 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 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. 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.


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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.

I was scared. Punk Fight.

Here's something that I have been working on for the Almighty TDC.

It's not pretty, but it's a True Story.

Here is how it starts, but I will have to refine it.

It must be said that I have the luxury of composing a day or two each week of this sort of blog thing for folks at TDC, and I am truly appreciative of this excellent opportunity.

RIchie does this every day, has done it every day, for the last six years, and I stll don't know how in thee hell he does it.

Hoot does his thing on Thursday, as well.

But,

when you have the opportunity to contribute at TDC, well,

You simply do your best.

Or try to.

Here's my latest attempt, which is very rough.




Talk about sitting on a Mountain of White. Just in time for the Heart of the Winter Games, huh? Well, here's the Heart of another story.

There was this other Mountain of White which you, ya TDC Enjoyer, might recollect from last weekend, which I was sitting on with my Punk Brothers, and it got us all in a shit load of trouble...

...with Men Who Were Quite Angry And Also Frightening. And, we'd been "Sipping On Some Sunshine," for free. Their Sunshine. What would you do?

I was scared, man.

No.

I was Mother Fucking Scared. Scared like about to shit and piss in my pants. Let me tell you about the Punk Fight in Vivid HD Detail.

Let's pause here for a moment while you get your weekend game on however you go about it, you TDC Enjoyer. Sip some Java, chug some Dew, smoke a butt, crack an ice cold brewskie, cough on a big-ass-bong hit, have at it.

Not a single one here at the Mighty TDC will ever point their finger at you.

Here's a song while you get yourself all situated. God Bless the Crash Kings. Buy this music, don't steal, brutha. Rock this here bitch from these crazy fuckers.



Now this True Story is not about so much blood and guts, 'cause that ain't my style. Of course, there was that, and plenty, and I'll describe all that to you, because it's what I do, and it will won't pretty.

But what's most important here is what goes on in your head and your body before such a situation occurs, and when it occurs, and, if you survive, what you do after it occurs.

This True Story ends today, if you will only read on. There will be juice boxes and snacks afterward.

It has always been said; "It's not all about what happens to you. It's what you do about it that counts."

All set?

Now hold on tight. It will get nasty, but I'll get you back home and help you into your Snuggie, bandage and wipe the blood off...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


When I was young, I'd never been involved with gangs before in Fuckno, California, except to look straight ahead as they passed in their low riders, playing "Planet Rock" with booming bass while I nervously pedaled along on my ten-speed bicycle, and they yelled out, "Poota," at me as they crept by.

Here is Planet Rock original. Afrika Bambaataa, you Messican.
True but ugly sounding. Ugggh. This is what played non stop in their low riders over and over again, all day long. This hurts my ears.



It might have sounded more like this to them.




Now, this was before I drove a car. After that, I ran into them more frequently, but not in any car accident sort of way.

Or over them, although that would have been funny.

Or not.

But when we began to ski the flaky mountains of Peru, me and my buds still never knew about them or their "codes."

We were as pale as your pimply ass when you were at teen like us, and green as your face the first time you got overly drunk.

But we were punks. And we got into a mess.