Carpe Que Sera Sera
by Jason T. Kocher June 25th, 2008 - Society »
I never wanted to be a prizefighter. No aspirations…whatsoever.
But I should have known there would be no other course for me, but to be forced into that live-bait role…walking less than a block from my apartment on my way to the Laundr-O-Mat. Its just common sense…
“You gotta keep your head up!”
I spit out a spiraling wad of flem and gauze, blood and tissue, “Yeah…thanks Mickey…Mickey? Mickey, you…when did you become an elderly black lady?”
What the fuck…(spitting more blood)…what the fuck happened!? Where the fuck am I?!
Out of a second flash of what was a stronger haze, my mind and its eye are able to grasp the form of two kids running down the street. Two kids….two kids…
Alright…sure…got it. I was walking to the Laundr-O-Mat to transfer my newly unsoiled clothes, when I saw two kids walking in front of me…dressed fashionably, but conservatively…and slowly…very…very…slowly. I drifted behind them until they parted enough for me to walk between them.
And then I heard the bell…”Fuck?! A bell?!”
But it was too late. Almost before I knew I was in a fight, I was down for a count long enough to let the hit and run shits skirt down the road and out-of-sight…
And all I could see was blood…so much fantastic blood.
Let it be know that if you are planning on getting sucker-punched in the mouth and nose, you should stop taking aspirin about a week prior.
I’m freaking out a little bit, trying to assess the extent of my attack and its subsequent injuries, walking down the sidewalk…spitting blood from my mouth and my hands.
Some lady comes across me with only moderate horror, which somewhat comforts my fears over my injuries. “They ran down that way,” she says pointing in a direction that is a meaningless blur to me.
“Fuck yeah!” I say, “You and me. Lets go fuck them up. Come on sister!”
She says she’s sorry.
Stumbling back to my apartment – should I check mail first?…no already got it – my faculties are returning to me…so much so that I think to smear blood on the door handles of my building to make it look really fucking cool and like a much different crime scene….a much better movie.
Inside, I clean up…real good. Washing away the blood with water and antiseptic, I get a clearer view of my maladies: an inch and a half gash under the right eye, some unidentified nasal pain and blood, and a split lip inside and out.
But what’s this!? Wiping away the last of the blood…I discover that I am still absolutely GORGEOUS! Ha ha…ya little fuckers! You’re probably ugly as all fuck and I’m still…BREATHTAKING!
Oh…did I destroy what sympathy you had for me? Fuck you! I’m beautiful!
So, I am now generally iced and sloppily cleaned up with bandages applied in all the ways they are not intended to be. So…then…I…well…I…um…
Well, nothing like this has ever happened to me so I’m not savvy to the proper protocol.
OK. I’m not dying or losing important pieces of myself…so lets call the cops. Sure.
I dial the local precinct. Some intern they have working there picks up the phone and I go through great lengths to explain to him why I thought to call the cops after someone on the street caused me to bleed profusely.
“You know. I thought…we could talk…hang out. You guys have experience with this type of stuff. You like ABBA?”
The intern coldly cuts through my flirting ways, “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”
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