Sometimes You Have to Ramp Up Your Violence

My friends and I went to Kordon’s dance club every weekend and generally had a blast. There was a guy that also went regularly who was just a buffoon. He’d invariably get drunk and do what can only be described as a chicken dance and because of that he earned the nickname, in our circle, “chicken man”.

I never really gave too much thought to him but one weekday early evening I was on a date at the Green Lantern Tavern and there was chicken man and he wasn’t drunk and had an attitude with me. He asked my date why she’d be with an asshole like me. I told him to fuck off and go away. I was trying to enjoy my date and didn’t really want to get into a fight. He accused me of giving him the nickname chicken man. I might have, to be honest. I’m not sure and don’t care. I told him to take his chicken ass elsewhere, but he retorted, “You think I’m chicken?!” and threw a hay maker at me, which I consequently slipped. I popped him with two quick jabs, followed up with a nice right cross which both busted his nose, and laid him out. He was laying on the ground moaning and bleeding, which had a curious, primal effect on my date (do you see a reoccurring theme there?) We’d only been out once before but started grabbing and kissing me, then we left and had animal sex, always a good thing.

About a year went by and I once again found myself at “the Green”. It was my favorite bar in town. The guy sitting next to me was giving me ugly looks and vibes and I told him to cheer up and offered to buy him a beer. His response was, “Do you remember me? You sucker punched me here a year ago!” I realized it was chicken man, but he had easily put on 20 pounds of muscle since our last encounter. It was as if he disappeared and trained for a year to come exact his revenge. Upon retrospect, that’s exactly what the case was. I explained to him that he swung on me first and had a beating coming and again offered to buy him a beer, but he stood and told me that he was going to kick my ass. As I stood up, he swung. His punch was a little better than it used to me, but again, I slipped it and popped him in the face with a succession of blows. He went to the ground and as he tried to stand, I kicked his face, like punting a football. He flew back, then got up and ran out of the bar, and down the street. I finished my beer and left.

Another year went by and I was in “The Red Apple”, which as a restaurant/bar/dance club in the same town. When I came up to the bar for another drink, who approached but chicken man himself...and he had put on about another 20 or so pounds of muscle and asked if I remembered him. The owner of “The Red”, Gary, asked me to not fuck him up in the bar, so I asked chicken man to join me in the parking lot. Chicken man, Gary, and i went to the rear parking lot. At this point it was abundantly clear to me that he was going to keep coming back until he won, and I didn’t want that. He again led with a right and I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him, forcing his head and torso down and began to smash my elbow down on the side of his elbow until it seemed to snap through his skin. He was wearing a jacket so I can’t say for sure. It was probably just seriously dislocated. Gary told him he’d give him a ride to the hospital in exchange for never coming back. Chicken man, in between gasps and screams and hyperventilating told him to fuck off and wandered off down the street, arm dangling spastically. I never saw him again.