m_malcontent (m_malcontent) wrote,

Week 8- No comment

I hurt a guy once.

Little guy about 30 years my senior. Hurt him pretty bad. You don't need to know how bad, I never did time and don't want to, I am too pretty to do well in prison.

I love lots of you, but I don't trust but a few of you...Atlanta maybe, Minnesota....wherever Halfshell is from, couple more.

So this man crawled in a window, threw his jacket over a lightbulb and in a tequila fueled 30 minutes of evil raped a woman just north of 60.

His mistake (again you don't need the names) was the woman recognized hism, a high school acquaintance, so many years ago.
Home visiting his aged father.

He drove a nice sports car, presumably he could have paid for sex, but rape isn't just about that.

I am a mostly pacifist liberal weenie who is afraid of firearms. I went through a phase where the two biggest kids on the block would meet behind the Ben Franklin, just to see what happened, but by then I had long gotten over it.

But when I got the news, I sat. A dentist who was a family friend fixed her mouth. And I sat there 4 hours head in my hands in the place between drunk and sober.

The fuckwits father was a nice man, fed the scrounger cats in the neighborhood and mine if they happened to be around, and they made a point of being around for food.

Old man had gone to Po Folks restaurant...sports car was still at home, probably liked his food with flavor.

I lieu of knocking on the door I put a brick through his front windshield.

I am mostly a gentle man (not to be confused with a gentleman). There are wild exceptions and this was the wildest.

So wild that putting the brick down when he ran out to see about his car was one of the harder things I have done.

I had a roll of quarters in the other hand.

I took my time, this was before the booze had shot my stamina. There should have been sirens but there weren't. Not in East Houston, not during the hours where the good people were at work. Not then, probably not now either.

No sirens but plenty of blood, some piss and shit too.

Never told this story sober before.

It is a weird thing to look back on what we were once capable of.

Sports car lived, if you were worried, but he eventually found his way back to the Pacific Northwest...he never visited his dad in Houston anymore. I am sorry for the old man I guess. I am still not a good enough man to regret that 20 minutes. In a front yard, while you good people worked, kids went to math class, and a misting rain fell.

Beading up on his face, with all the blood, so much blood, and the poor soul couldn't lift his arms to wipe it away.

The scrounger cats sometimes brought the old man or me a mouse, or a baby bird. Sports car looked like that....just like that.

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