Tuesday, October 23, 2012

The Punk

Last week, some kid, who looks somewhat like the bastard love spawn of Justin Beiber and Eminem, decided to start harassing me. I bike to work, and for like three days in a row, this little idiot on a Huffy followed along behind me, calling me a nigger, a faggot, and everything else his woefully limited vocabulary could come up with. Kid taunts me, says he wants to ‘box me’ and then rides off any time I approach him.

The little abortion is about 5’5” and about 120 lbs tops, so he has a significant maneuverability edge. So just catching him and beating him, as he so justifiably deserves, is out. I go to the local cops, but having nothing on this douchebag other than a description of him and his idiotically predictable pattern of harassment, there’s not much they can do except put an extra car on that route around the time he is out making an ass of himself.

This past Saturday after work, I finally spot the little turd- it turns out he lives about 4 houses down, and he’s out sitting in the bed of a junker pickup, which is in turn sitting atop the thinning front lawn, smoking with an older guy. The older guy, who I never conclusively identified, but took to be an uncle of some kind, is wearing a t-shirt with an American flag and a wolf on it, so you immediately know the caliber of humans I’m dealing with here. I open the conversation with a friendly greeting: “Hey, is this son of a whore your kid?”

Naturally, the uncle(?) is initially hostile but over the course of a conversation we get down to business. I tell Uncle Jethro that I want the kid just to shut the fuck up and stop provoking a needless fight, because I don’t particularly enjoy beating 12 year olds. This naturally, incenses, the little shit bag, who gets within four inches of my face and shouts that “I’m 17! I’m a man” and again offers to box. I can’t believe this, because this kid looks like he’s still in middle school. I ask the uncle(?) if it’s true he’s 17, and it is confirmed that the little punk, who I learn is named Justin is in fact of legal age to take a fully justified ass-beating. Anyway, I learn the punk’s name because several times over the conversation both the uncle(?) and I break out with “Shut up, Justin!” as he just will not stop talking shit, even while the uncle(?) and I trying to talk reasonably.

I leave it cool with the uncle(?) and as I leave this punk is still shouting shit, still causing a scene. I hope that the older guy manages to talk some sense into this little asshole, and for Sunday, the tentative truce seems to hold.

And I go out last night, run some errands after coming home from work, and the little asshole is perched on his front porch like a white-trash gargoyle. Soon as I ride down the street, he comes after me again, gets ahead of me and fishtails his own baby-sized Huffy to spit gravel in my face, all the while claiming I’m following him. And this shit, from this idiotic waste of skin, goes on for a fucking mile.

Finally, the next time he comes whizzing by like he’s going to ram me for the third or forth time, I make contact and knock him on his ass. That pisses the little turd enough he’s finally going to stand and fight, and thus begins the Duel of the Jack In the Box Parking Lot, a battle that will live in legend. It turns out he can box… .sorta. I mean, he’s kinda fast, but he jabs me in the face four times without even leaving so much as a bruise. I just put the little fucker in a head lock and take him to the ground. He’s nullified, but I’m trying to choke him out, and it’s not as easy as it looks on TV, so nothing really is getting accomplished. I tear the knee of my work pants when I take fucko to the ground, though, which pissed me off, actually more than the punk’s antics.

Anyway, I’m willing to write this off as boys will be boys fuck-headery and I go to the nearby McDonalds, get a meal and chill the fuck out. Turd-boy comes back about five minutes later, storms in with a couple of his meat head buddies in tow. “I’m not a bitch,” is his rallying cry, his version of “Remember the Alamo!”. To this, I respond, “Well, you sure punch like one.” Which I know, is not the most feminist thing to say, but what can I say, I was in the moment.

His two punk friends, of course, are of a similar age and size, are both trying to look tough, and both claim to be Marines. Which is horse-shit of course, because the USMC is not in the habit of recruiting 15 year olds, so I ask the mouthier of the two what his discharge date was, and get a “Why you wanna know that?” in response, and a look that he doesn’t even know what a discharge date is in the first place. I stare the two fake Marine dickheads down and go back in side, call the local cops.

Eventually, one of the local coppers show up, I give him this information and the punk’s address. Hopefully, a visit from one of the local cops will convince this idiot kid to find a better hobby. If not, I figure one of two things happen. Either A) this shitbird gets three or four of his teeny-bopper buddies and stomps my ass one night or B) the next time his idiot decides to box, I beat his ass raw, and have to spend the next 6 months dealing with the local court system. Neither of which I’m particularly looking forward to.

Fucking Kerrville. Fucking Texas. Fucking nest of entitled, sociopathic white trash moron pissants. I fucking wish Al Queda would drop a nuke on this fuckhole the next time I take a day trip to San Antonio.

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