semi-hard cock hanging out of his undone pants. The cops pulled out their firearms.
The ex-cons said it was consensualâthat Nancy just got jealous. The cops were reluctant to arrest them, and Rich didnât pursue it, so they let them go. The cut on the top of Richâs head wasnât bad enough for stitches, and the bruises eventually healed. Nothing else ever did.
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MUSIC DOESNâT MEAN MUCH when youâre a little kid; itâs just sounds and the emotions they produce. None of your identity is aligned with what you listen to. Youâre a clean pallet.
I was on my way upstairs to my room when I heard laughter booming out of Richâs open bedroom door. My head still ached from the fight. I reached up and felt the soft lumps along my forehead, now all purple and blue. I could hear Rich over Panteraâs fast, rippling metal.
âMy baby brother, he was fighting with twenty little niggers at once,â Rich roared, his voice all high, squeaky, and excited. âI came up and saved him and beat the shit out of a few of âem myself. But, man, Iâm telling ya, twenty of âem!â
âOK, Rich. Fuckinâ superhero over here. Where is that little rascal, anyways?â I recognized the gravelly voice. It was Sy.
I reached the top of the stairs. It was early evening, and a bright yellow light radiated out of his doorway. I peered in to see four guys lounged on his little bed. All of them had long dirty hair and ripped-up jeans. Rich stood with his back to me and his arms flailing around as he recounted the fight. There was an American flag tacked to the slanted ceiling that hung with the pitch of the roof. A large Iron Maiden poster hung on the wall near the window that showed the skeletal Eddie the Head in a straitjacket with three chains attached to his iron neck collar. It secured him inside a padded room, and his fierce eyes screamed out at you. It read âPeace of Mindâ at the bottom.
Syâs hair was a greasy, dirty blond tangle that hung down past his shoulders. His beard was mangy and had a tint of red in it. He wore this threadbare, black Metallica t-shirt, bleached white jeans with rips at the knees, and some white high-top Reeboks. I peeked my head in through the door.
âGet over here, you,â Sy said, waving me in. âThe champ himself!â
He reached out, grabbed me, and threw me in a head lock. I smelled pot and liquor, but I didnât know what the smells were then, and I recognized âem as Syâs scent. He let me go and stood there. I could feel them all staring at my forehead and eye.
âNow what happened, Joey?â Sy asked.
I took a deep breath. âGot in a fight,â I said quietly.
âWell, I can see that,â Sy replied, grinning. âDid ya win?â
âDidnât get to finish,â I said, and glanced over at Rich, who watched me with his arms folded over his chest.
âWell⦠Did you get any good punches in?â Sy asked.
I paused, looked down, and scratched my chin. I riffled through my memoryâthe haze of punches and shoutsâthen I remembered Leroy on the pavement, and I looked back up.
âYeah!â I exclaimed. They broke up.
âSo heâs coming out tonight, huh?â Sy looked over at Rich.
âYep, Ma even said it was alright,â Rich confirmed as he reached over and messed up my hair. âI told her what happened and said it might cheer him up to hear some metal.â
My mind raced with wild excitement of where we were headed. I was sure it was some dark pit of dragons and snakes, smoke and roaring noise.
We piled into Richâs rusty Bronco, and the back was stacked to the roof with large black amps, guitar cases, and a drum kit.
âSy, whatâs the name of your band?â I asked as we squished in the back seat.
âThe Dead Rat Society,â Sy growled. âGot a problem with that, kid?â He glowered at me. Metallica
Major Dick Winters, Colonel Cole C. Kingseed