In defense of Hell Part 6 (to continue)

But the point I was trying to make before I got all side-tracked is that chance plays a much smaller role in hell than it does in the Garden. I say that because there are no odds about whether I'm going to get high and stay high every damn day. No question about whether I'm going to do any of the crazy things I do here. Everything about my life is an absolute sure thing. Am I going to bully my entourage? Yes! Am I going to intimidate the newbies? For sure! Am I going to do some brainless bag-over-her-head hell chick? Absolutely. I mean, nothing gets in my way: No distractions, no unforeseen circumstances. I am free to do what I want to do whenever I want to do it![1]

 

Still, I need to break away a little here because I feel that a certain point needs to be made. I mean, maybe to your mind I come across in some incredibly bad colors, like there isn’t one damn thing that’s good about me. And honest to God, I don’t like anyone having a wrong impression of me. I actually have done things in my life that a lot of holy roller types might call good, maybe even really good in some ways. In fact, I’ve always been sort of known for my sense of right and wrong, and I’ve always stood up for my friends when somebody pisses me off or interferes in one of my relationships. For example, when I was a punk kid, I had this friend named Richie Darby,[2] a little piss ant kind of guy who really looked up to me and was always willing to do the kind of things I liked doing when there was nothing to do. Well, Richie lived right across the alley from me, so most every day, I’d pop over so we could crawl together to school and s**t. But Richie’s mom was about the meanest and maybe the craziest b***h I ever knew, because every day (and I swear to God this is true), Richie’s mom would hand him his bag lunch, kiss him on the forehead, and then, for no reason in the world, give Richie a pretty good slug in the stomach - Not too hard you know because Richie could still get out the door and whatnot, but hard enough to double up the little guy and make him cry a little, too. I mean, at my young age it was the craziest thing I ever saw,[3] and I really didn’t know if maybe I should do something about it because Richie was my friend, not hers. But righteous young stud that I was, it just stayed in my head and sort of made me feel like she was punching me in the stomach and that made things decidedly personal �" Almost like that b***h was giving me the finger.

So, one day, I cut class early and paid Richie’s mom a visit. I told her that I didn’t like her punching Richie in the stomach, and if she didn’t want me to punch her in the stomach, she needed to lay off Richie. That got her all messed-up yelling at me and s**t, and I really had no choice but to back up my threat. But here’s the thing, when I finally hauled off and punched her in the stomach, I used the thick end of this baseball bat I sometimes carried around for the hell of it; and I guess I also hit her pretty good in the teeth too because I found out later, they had to call an ambulance, and the b***h ended up having to wear dentures. She’s probably somewhere around here now, maybe slugging some other poor soul in the stomach. People like her don’t change even if you knock their teeth out. They’re a lost cause, so to speak.