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.