Maximum Carnage

That every word of the following is as honest a truth as I can tell is of absolutely no importance. I find it agreeable and in many ways preferable that it be regarded (if it is to be regarded at all) as still another of my perplexing fictions.

I hadn’t seen Jesse for years, and had actually forgotten his existence entirely. He was still an angry looking boy. I think that there must be some secret place in New Castle where all these grumpy youths get their hairs clipped short and a disgusted scowl etched upon their faces. I’d gone to the batting cages in celebration of a fella’s birthday, a fella whom I seriously doubt ever pissed in that girl’s mouth, no matter what the papers tell ya. When I finally caught Jesse’s eye from the distance, a most remarkable doings transpired; his hardened features lost their edge, as if he’d seen a g-g-ghost, and he promptly ran away. This confused me considerably. I took a study of it a moment, and remembered a certain business he’d whispered in my ear, and then remembered punching his stupid fucking face in. Satisfied by the logical causality, I went back to the arcade.

Marc’s mom was good shit cause she had these wizard porno mags, the likes of which I’d never seen before nor again. The pages were of an unfathomably thick gloss, and quite unlike Mike’s titty periodicals, Willies fully penetrated Rosebuds, and then shot out a glob of milky business all everywhere. The ladies adorned w/ this shocking expulsion of goo seemed to consider it a fine thing indeed, a grand curiosity to my 10 year old mind. I was given to have one of these special secret books, Marc was a good friend, and his Mom had a massive dildo.

Marc was rather fond of touting my fighting merits to the other kids; consequentially I was occasionally obliged to bring it as he liked to sing it. I fought dirty & wild. I fought like how a rabid raccoon would fight, which isn’t to say I fought well at all! My main talent lay in my ability to withstand “pain”. This is a matter of relativity & easy explained by algebras. If you grow up scrapping with your brother who is 9 years bigger & stronger, and your step brother who is 7 years meaner & nastier, upon the occasion of fighting kids your own age, they lack the necessary “oomph” to upset your constitution. Almost all the Coventry fights I was in were due to either Marc teasing a guy about how I, a small, shy, bookish character, could whup em, or to this strange objection some kids had to having never seen me cry. (If only they’d known I get begorrahly maudlin w/ a belly fulla booze!) Usually after a fella and I had properly scuffled a bit, we’d be friends from there on, s’how that sorta thing works.

Jesse was different. He took it personally. He was a bit of a bastard from the get go, kinda jerk that was mean to girls, threw rocks, and stole bikes. He was bigger than me, but soft, he’s the only person I can remember fighting out of anger. And as Old Joe would say; I beat the dogshit outta him. Bloody nose, crying eyes, and too stupid to realize that it didn’t have to be that way. He tried to break into my house one night for revenge. Climbed over the part of the fence where Clancy was. His Mistake.

I saw Jesse again 2 years later in William Penn, a big enough school where you might not ever notice someone. Same thing happened, he sees me and like he’d seen the Devil hisself, runs away. Now never mind nothing, I could fight well enough for a lil’ fella, but I wouldn’t even nearly qualify myself as “Tough”, let alone someone to inspire “Fear”. I tried to remember again. Jesse whispers in my ear what he whispered in my ear, and I beat him up at the bus stop for it, him the last person I’ve inflicted real violence upon. But it just didn’t fit. I’d fought him enough times before to know that he always just wanted more afterwards, he’d get his boys, or his older brother, and the whole mess just kept on going. What happened? What did I do to him to make him afraid of me?

Upon the penultimate week of 6th grade 2 unusual things occurred. We’ll only concern ourselves with half of these occurrences. Suddenly one night I found that I could draw things quite as near enough as I looked at them. I’d been a disaster as an artist everyday up until this day, where it had just worked. (At least to my satisfaction) I was drawing from the first issue of Maximum Carnage which had come out that Wednesday.

I assumed that it was a fluke, eventually the sun shines on a whale’s cunt after all. I drew another picture straight away, scribbling as fast as I could, as if the magic spell might break at any minute, and another, and another, and another. I stayed up all night drawing.

It wasn’t until 3 months of drawing all day, everyday that I accepted it probably wasn’t going to disappear as suddenly as it had appeared, and it wasn’t until 3 years in at 181 that I remembered what had really happened w/ Jesse. And with it I learned the Final Secret of the Illuminati...no, really! I finally put it together that I couldn’t have beat Jesse up after his whisperings, as I never went back to that bus stop by then, nor really to that neighborhood...Round them times Don would pick me up and we’d play baseball till Mike got home. (At the Whitaker’s they mix hot dogs in w/ they Mac & Cheese, and you can have dinner anytime you like.) Once I’d gotten my bearings on the sequence of things, I finally understood the memory.

The final bell of 6th grade had rang, I’d pretty much failed every class, other things on my mind. As I’m walking out of class Jesse walks over to me, and whispers in my ear. He tells me that he broke into my house the week before. (Clancy & I were living w/ Virginia at the time) He tells me he saw my Mom’s dead body. He describes in precise detail her days old rotting corpse, a bloated purple lump, oozing blood and puss, as clouds of flies buzzed about the horrid stench. He hissed each word like spitting venom. I listened very politely, and when he’d finished, I cheerfully remarked “Okay”, and left him to his jiva forever more.

(Mr. Wilson explains these things much better than I)

It took me no less than a decade to process just how appropriate my peculiar natural reaction was. She was a good Mom. Only kindness could honor her memory. SAT CHIT ANANDA

There’s a certain notion I’m at great lengths to dispel. I know that it is known by some, but it’s an important enough point that I don’t mind belaboring it.

My childhood wasn’t anymore or any less traumatic than your own. Having looked here, there, and everywhere, I am happy to report that there is no such animal as “Poor Bob”. I don’t consider my past a shame, a pity, or even too bad, and neither should you. These ain’t sob stories of another broken home, but rather tales of the tribe’s open home. Our Home. Madison.