Bully-BoyRevolution John 2015
I loved pushing kids around when I was in junior high and high school. Sure, taking their lunch or lunch money was fun but making them cry too—that was the best. I seem to have been born with muscles and strength and no conscience.
My father stopped trying to discipline me when I was twelve. I pushed him around because he yelled at me so he left the house and returned with his brother and the two of them gave me an ass whipping.
They paid for it. I got them separately; my uncle with a two by four that had his arm in a sling for a couple of months and my father sneaking up on him with a tire iron, hack saw or kitchen knife and watching the fear in his eyes when I coughed so he’d turn around and see me. I didn’t have to lay a hand on him in order to do what I damn well pleased.
I became a professional wrestler at eighteen—was considered a phenom but after two years they dropped my contract when I wouldn’t play ball, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t going to let some moke beat me every time I was told to hit the canvas. Instead I beserked out and broke something on my opponent—usually an elbow or knee.
One day I was sitting in a bar and a college football player I’d pushed around in high school came over to me. “You don’t look so tough. Still feeling your Wheaties, bully boy?” Even though I had no doubt I could take the jerk, I didn’t want to chance putting another challenger in a wheelchair so I left without finishing my beer, his taunts following me out the door like silent farts on an escalator.
I married, had a couple of kids, and had to work and support them. While I don’t enjoy whacking someone I’m not bothered by it either. I’m good at it. One or two every couple of months and I live a pretty comfortable life. I don’t carry or own a weapon other than an old cop’s leather sap and a length of 50# fishing line garrote. Most of the time I walk up to someone and twist their neck till it snaps or push them in front of a train or toss them off an overpass.
My eldest son’s been getting mouthy with his mother so she asked me to have a talk with him. I caught up to him at home just after his high school football practice and before dinner and I laid out the rules about what he can and can’t say or do as long as he’s living off my dime and to my surprise he took it well, didn’t argue or anything but when I turned to walk into the house he smacked me across my back with his Louisville Slugger and told me I should consider this time a simple warning.