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BRASS KNUCKLES
I’m sorry. I know that these are flag waving, SarahPalin, Billy Graham praying, Toby Keith patrioticallysinging with tears in his eyes, ultra-conservativepolitically correct times. But there is still no way to sayit but just like this - I was sitting on the stool, readinga Penthouse, and taking a cocaine rush induced shit whenthe murder went down. It just has taken me until now to get the guts up towrite about it. Hell, to even think about it. It was thesummer of 1975. My high school days had ended just about amonth previously and I had no immediate plans other than tocontinue on what I had been doing for the past two yearswhich was getting stoned and dealing some weed anddesperately trying to get laid for the first time. Contraryto public opinion the two do not mix as I was soon to findout. Not the getting laid part, I meant the dealing andgetting stoned part. I was looking at this lesbian pictorial - Are alllesbians that hot? - and thinking about jerking off when Iheard the front door bust open. Lynyrd Skynyrd was jamming
 
so goddamn loud on
Don't Ask Me No Questions
, that at firstI couldn't hear or understand what was going on. The doorbuzzer had gone off first and I had assumed that it wasjust announcing more folks, hopefully chicks, coming in toparty. Man, was I fucking wrong! The stylus on the turntable scratched across therecord. The music stopped. In fact, it sounded like theturntable was knocked right onto the floor. "Hey dude, what the hell are you doing! Watch thefucking album. I just bought the goddamn thing. Fuckingthing cost 5.99!" Mike was seriously stoned. "Hey! What areyou doing here?"“Just keep your ass in that chair and don't move amuscle you lowlife motherfucker!”My scrotum tried to crawl up into my stomach. I knewwho's voice that was. His name was Cletus la Favor. A localthug, pimp, and drug dealer. Two weeks ago I had brokeninto - technically the door was unlocked - his Corvettethat he had left parked in his driveway. I had been ridingmy ten speed home down his dark street when I had seen la
 
Favor park his car in front of his house and staggerthrough the front door, his tattooed, tree trunk armwrapped around one of his whores.I don't what the hell had gotten into me to do it,probably the nine beers that I had drank, but to my utterdisbelief and joy, I had discovered a half a pound ofHawaiian Bud and a chrome Colt .45 in the backseat, damnnear in plain view. I had ripped off both items but hadn'ttold a soul about it. la Favor was bad news. He had donehard time in Stillwater and there was a local urban legendgoing around that said he was known to strap on a pair ofpersonalized brass knuckles when people were dumb enough tocross him.To my horror I suddenly realized my mistake. Severalnights ago, Mike and I had gone to a small keg party and ina lame attempt to get in the pants of a hot number who wasway out of my league, I had turned her on to a couple ofjoints of the Bud. That had to have been how la Favor hadfound out. The backwater town we lived in got buzzed mainlyon Hamm's beer, white cross speed, and Mexican ditch weed.It wouldn't have taken much for la Favor to put two and twotogether.
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