Sunday, September 6, 2009

Late Last Night after Beer and Weed

***

You wanna fight me?

Sure.

Really?

Sure.

So, what is it? You want to hurt me?

Maybe.

Maybe? What does that mean?

I think we have some business we need to work out. Man to man.

By fighting?

It’s one way.

Can’t we just talk? Scream at each other like normal people?

A fight is better.

You want to hurt me, don’t you? You really wanna bust me all up.

Yeah. I think so. I think I want to make you cry.

Cry? Cry?

Like a baby. You like wrestling, right? You’re always on me to tussle. Rip and strip. This’ll be like wrestling. Only we’ll notch it up some. No rules, no tapping out.

Punching? Knock out?

Maybe, maybe. We got serious shit to settle.

Like what?

Don’t fuckin pretend on me. You know. And we’re not ‘talking it out’ this time.

Not talking about it?

No, we’re settling it.

So you want to beat me up.

That’s it.

In the basement. On the futons.

Unless you want us to take this outside.

No, the basement’s better.

I think so. This matter is private. You and me. No point in giving the neighbors a show.

What if I beat you up instead?

Could happen.

What if I am the victor? Then it’s still settled?

It would be settled, yeah. But you won't beat me.

I could.

Yeah, but not likely. I got more muscle, I’m younger, and I’m the one who’s pissed off.

What good will hurting me do?

Some. Some good. I think mostly it will make me feel better. You got it coming too. You needed somebody to kick your ass your whole life.

But you could get hurt. I could seriously hurt you.

It’s why it’s called a ‘fight,’ bro. Guys get hurt. Guys hurt each other. But one guy wins, the other guy loses. It’s not a fine point—things get squared that way.

How bad is this gonna be then?

Bad. It could be really bad. I wanna bloody you up. I wanna paint my fists with you. I wanna damage you.

And make me cry.

And make you squirm and cry. Maybe even knock you out. Yeah, I’d like that. I’d like to bust your nose and knock you out. Haven’t you ever wanted to bloody me up?

Yeah but I didn’t.

Why not? Too civilized?

Maybe.

This is better. Fighting is better.

But we’re talking now. We can talk.

Not much longer.

Okay here’s my theory. You really want me to fuck you. That’s it. We’ll go down to the basement, throw some lame-ass punches, talk some shit, practice our holds, but when all is said and done you’ll be face down on the mattress, your cottons rolled down over that bubble butt, begging me to bury myself in you.

My theory is ‘you wish.’

You just want to feel me on top of you.

No, bro, I think this is what happens: We go down to the basement, we warm up with a few throws, we spar, you get in two or three or maybe even four lucky punches, which make you feel cocky, a little arrogant, while I’m busy finding my center. Then the moment will come that I zero in on you, and—you won’t even see it coming, bro—and then I’m on top of you like hot sauce, and I’m wailing away on you, knees in your ribs, knuckles in your wet squishy face, and you’re crying … like a little kid … begging me to stop, but I don’t stop, I keep blasting, and I don’t stop till that haughty smirk you got on your mouth right there disappears because now it’s nothing more than bloody pulp sticking on my fists.

You’ve given this some thought.

That I have.

We can still fix this by talking about it.

It’s gonna be a fight. A real flesh-and-bones fight. If I could, I’d rip your fuckin heart out of your chest. Hear? We’ll roll out the futons just so I don’t accidentally kill you or something. But we are fighting, for real, serious. You brought this on yourself, bro. And you know it. And if you win, if I end up getting the shit kicked out of me, okay—I can’t see it happening that way, but, okay, I would accept it, because at least we will have done something really real about it for once.

You can’t wait to take a piece outa me, can you? Just look at your eyes. They're lit.

I cannot wait. Those words are true. And it’s gonna feel good, I have to tell you. It’s gonna feel right. So unless you want me to start busting up your house, your Swedish furniture, your glass thingies, we need to head down to the basement.

And fight like savages.

Like wild men, bro, like wild men. Now.



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