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Because I knew he wanted to kill me. I could see it in his eyes.
Wanted to kill me, for no other reason than dumb animal hatred and jealousy.
And I knew that, given half a chance, he would.
Now, you got to remember, at 21 I was young, dumb, and full of cum – at least compared with how I am now. I’d been in dozens of fights by that point. Juvie as a teenager, bar fights, at least a dozen nasty street-fighting bouts. I got my ass handed to me a couple of times, but I prevailed in the rest. Sometimes handily, sometimes by the skin of my teeth, but I won a shit-ton more than I lost.
Along the way, I sent a few guys to the hospital. I’m not necessarily proud of it now, but…
Yeah I am.
They deserved it. Each and every one of them.
I was young, dumb, and full of cum.
But I wasn’t stupid.
Moose was in a different category altogether. I’d taken on big guys before, but Moose had 8 inches of height and over a hundred and fifty pounds on me. I was real good in a fight, but I didn’t know if I was that good.
But I was fucking infuriated. Every time he called me a pussy in front of the brothers…
And yet I just took it. And stewed. And fumed. And festered.
The rest of the club had a good laugh at my predicament. My nickname became ‘Pussy Pollari’ for a few weeks.
Club leadership said nothing, just stepped back and watched how I handled it. I went to the president at the time, a bad motherfucker named John Glynn (like the astronaut but spelled different). I told him Moose was trying to pick a fight.
“So give him one,” John said, and walked away.
“What if somebody dies?” I asked his backside.
“Then I’d make sure it ain’t you,” he called over his shoulder.
The casual disregard he treated me with… the disrespect he showed me… the total lack of giving a shit…
That, coupled with the best advice I’d ever gotten – “If somebody dies, make sure it ain’t you” – changed the entire course of my life.
At that moment I swore to myself, no matter what happened, I wasn’t backing down. Not ever again. Whether I got my nose busted, my jaw broken, or every bone in my body shattered – hell, even if I got planted six feet under – I wasn’t backing down.
Ever.
I was sick of living in fear.
The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one.
Yeah, didn’t think a roughneck like me would be quoting Shakespeare, did you?
I’m not. It’s Hemingway. Paraphrasing Shakespeare.
Kiss my ass. I can Google shit, too.
Know that I say that with a wink and a smile.
Anyway, Moose started in on me that very same night.
“Hey, Pussy – Pussy Pollari – tell me somethin’: how’d a worthless little bitch like you get in this club?”
While the other guys stood around laughing, I looked over in the corner.
