Some might call the kid a shit-for-brains. But then again, many tend to envy the brave.
I’m not sure what put him in the bed, but I’m pretty sure he’d been there for awhile. But I’m sure that frustration—of being bed-ridden, unable to function—eventually builds up and unleashes, and there isn’t much you can do at that point. Like a dog breaking the choke of a chain. I probably wouldn’t have acted the way he did, but whatever.
You see, there was this biker guy, a father of the kid’s comatose roommate. That was the ostensible reason for the frequent hospital visits, but mainly the biker was there to harass the kid. I’m not gonna psychoanalyze here and make any sort of specious claim about the biker’s behavior, but he really had it in for that kid. And what could you do? Stand up for yourself? The kid is bed-ridden, plus the guy’s a biker. Dusty leather jacket, American colored bandana, white trash ‘stache, the whole sha-bang. Built like a bulldozer, an ominous mother fucker.
So the biker’s been tormenting this kid, presumably poking him, calling him names, fundamental bullying. The kid was crumbling at the start, being a sensitive soul and whatnot, on the cusp of inevitable teenage misery. But then he started to harness his hate, manifesting his rage into an almost regrettable action: spitting in the biker’s face.
Now you see, technically, I wasn’t there for the climatic event. But I can vividly recall the seismic shift in the kid’s face right after, from triumph to fear. And I remember the look radiating from the biker and the sound of his toxic snarl.
Then, a gaggle of bikers stepped in. They engaged themselves in menacing poses, cracked their necks, smacked their fists against their palms. I swear I saw the biker guy lick his lips. Regardless, they were all hungry.
They all took turns poking the kid, a requisite foreplay technique for bullies. Eventually, they all agreed that they should rape the kid. They wanted to tear him apart. And the kid starts screaming, crying for help, but he can’t be heard. The bikers were closing in slowly, a cliché move from a horror B-movie. And then, as if an answer to wishful thinking, the biker’s son awoke from his coma. He started yelling at the rugged men to stop.
“See?” the kid cried, “He’s my friend. Please, don’t do this, not in front of your son.”
I don’t know how you can befriend someone deep in the fathoms of a coma, but apparently this kid did. And the biker considered this plea, searching the corners
of the room with his eyes, as if the inanimate objects and other contents could provide him the answer. Didn’t see what eventually happened, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t good.
That’s why I’m here at Wal-Mart with my former roommate, Lee. We’re gathering up weapons, equipping ourselves with the cheapest artillery we can get, the real blue-collar defense. Sure: we’re fucking hopeless; trying to prepare like we’re on the precipice of war, but never gotten slugged by a fist, not even witnessed an actual brawl. Lee’s got tennis rackets and baseball bats, but I’m not categorizing my weaponry. I’ve got hangers, knives, pens & pencils, kiddy lightsabers, anything to fill the contents of my cart.
Not quite sure if he’s really after us, but I’m guessing he thinks I know what he did. Him and his legion of sickos. I’m a shit-for-brains too. Perhaps I’m lacking the impetus that forced the kid to act, but trying to be as brave. So if those guys really do come after us, we’ll be fucking ready.
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