The Old Days

 In the old days, when they told you not to run, you sure as hell didn't. If you ran, your fate would be far worse. They would hoist you up like a feather-light thing, beat you til the word "mama" couldn't cross swollen lips.

I hate violence. Harm inflicted and for what? Not a new opinion, I know.

In the old days, we were violent back. We harmed their weaker, more innocent associates. Like dog eat cat eat bird. Or big fish eat smaller fish eat smallest fish. Or like lifting Johnny up by his collar, the crippled one, and slamming him onto the road until he crunched, or at least his feet did. They got us back for that one, but we couldn't resist. They gave us the anger so we had to give it back.

I hated that part of my life. And the people too. Red nosed cowards, all of them. Boys that the present forgets existed. I ain't complaining. To be honest, I wouldn't mind forgetting it all myself. Now is a dream, an unreality that's nearly, but isn't. Only then feels real. 

When God created Earth, when it was cooling like jelly and unpopulated still, I think he sat there on that abyssal throne of his and thought real hard about entertainment and meaning. God wanted entertainment, meaning he made cruelty. Stay with me here. Got an idea to say. Not all entertainment is cruelty. But some is. And all cruelty is a spectator sport. Violence, perhaps, can be either or, public or private. But cruelty needs an audience.

Anyway. Forget where I was. The worst part was when they brought the dogs. I didn't mind hurting the little boys, but I couldn't hurt a dog. Little boys, at least in those days, were just monsters stuck in their shells and waiting to hatch. But a dog was never cruel, only violent.

One time - feels like only a week ago - they brought the dogs. Caught Bobby and me off guard down the old alley by the docks. They swarmed me, all loud and movement and the boys' laughter echoing in the background behind the snarls. I just stood there. Got a gash from one here, on my forearm. And they took a huge chunk out of my leg. I swore I would die there, be eaten by hounds. Someone heard the screams anyway. Shot the dogs. Or something. I wasn't really present at that point. Drifting in and out. On the ground.

Still hurts, my body. Glad you'll never experience that. That no one will again. The old days, consigned to the dustbin of heaven. Who takes out the bin down there? Bet the old git makes Jesus do it.