A scene from my misspent youth: All you'll ever be is a faded memory of a bully.
Y'all heard that tune by Shinedown? "Bully?" I'm not a big Shinedown fan, but I dig that tune. But what happens when the victims of a bully's violence get revenge? You've seen movies about it. The 98 pound weakling puts on some muscle and fights back ending his psychological and physical torment. In Back to the Future the climax of the movie was about triumph over a bully changing the course of the characters' lives. But does that kind of stuff really happen? I don't know about the life altering aspect depicted in the movies, but...revenge is possible. I don't think that necessarily makes you better, but it is gratifying. Yes, indeed.
I'm thinking the statute of limitations has run out on this one. I hope it has. And if it hasn't, then I would think that the initial aggressor's actions haven't as well.
My best friend in the 9th grade lived around the corner from me. We got drunk and stoned together for the first times in our lives. On the occasion that we got drunk together I had smuggled out a twelve pack of Coors from my folks' basement. They were given the beer as a gift, but they didn't like that brand and it had sat there by the basement fridge for months. I figured they wouldn't miss it. So I snagged it and took it over to my buddy's place.
We drank it before his parents got home. We didn't chill it because we were afraid of getting caught with it. We drank it warm in his room, six apiece. Yeah, warm stale Coors. It's a wonder we didn't puke all over the place from one, let alone six.
After we downed the last one we were pretty well hammered. My buddy thought it was a good idea to walk over to his girlfriend's house and hang out there. So we walked. It was about two miles I'd say. We got over there and they disappeared into the girl's room for a little while. Her parents weren't home. They then came out and we decided to get back home.
On our way back we walked by a convenience store with a moped parked out front. We took note of who it belonged to and walked on. I'll call him Greg. We got a little ways down the road and into a field when Greg came roaring up behind us on his moped. He came up to us and claimed we had pushed the bike over, which we had not. I don't know where he got that notion, but we knew what was probably coming. Greg, at 15, was already big for a man. Well over six feet tall and also well over two hundred pounds. Pretty solid, too. My friend and I were not yet our adult height and development. Easy pickings for a bully.
Still drunk, I pulled out the insides of my pockets and said, "I ain't got no moped," with a big smile on my face. That was enough to illicit a punch to the gut that knocked me to the ground. Greg then grabbed my friend by the neck, lifted him up and threw him to the ground. Then he took off.
We got ourselves back together and went home. My folks didn't question me and neither did my friend's. We sucked it up and nobody knew about the incident except for us and Greg.
Flash forward two years. Greg had many more victims by then and quite a reputation. I had a driver's license and access to a lot more alcohol.
So there we were one night, my original buddy plus two others getting drunk at my folks' place. We told the other two guys what had happened with Greg and the notion of violence filled the air. We knew where Greg lived. A plot developed.
The three of us loaded up my station wagon. It was me, my original buddy, and one other. We all worked at a pizza place and we had probably a 50 pound bag of spoiled dough with us. We also had some brake fluid and a couple of screw drivers. We headed out to Greg's.
It was probably about one o'clock in the morning. All was silent at Greg's place- no lights on in the house. And there sat Greg's car- a little Chevette in good shape but not for much longer. We parked the wagon on the street and then walked up to Greg's car, pizza dough, brake fluid, and screw drivers in hand. We then laid waste to the poor little Chevette. We dumped the half rotten dough into the driver's seat. We poured the brake fluid all over the car which would take the paint off wherever it touched. We grabbed anything we could on the car and broke it, including the windshield wipers, gear shifter, and turn signal switch. Then we took our screw drivers and scratched up the car until the noise caused someone to wake up and turn a light on in the house. We then took off in the station wagon and sped back to my place.
I saw the Chevette a few weeks later rolling up the road with Greg behind the wheel. It had all kinds of primer on it and a big "For Sale" sign in the window. I remember Greg's car more than I do him. He is indeed a faded memory of a bully. I'm still just me- no altered course that I'm aware of.
= new reply since forum marked as read
I wonder if he suspected you...Probably not.
I like how your story develops. You make very clear what happened to you and how your ending came out of that.
I feel sorry for the Chevette! Gregg? Not so much...
I did spot a couple of errors...I'll PM them to you.
And that was the only thing I spotted...
restaurant was famous for it's "homemade" strawberry pie. With every to go order of a whole pie they gave a can of the spray whipped cream. Well my girlfriend and I saw his car parked at another "girlfriends" house. We filled the front seat and dashboard with whipped cream.
You have then lived through depths of hell Dante dared not spelunker.
