A story writing blog

Sunday, September 1, 2013

The Biggest Ass Kicking I've Ever Taken

 I can honestly say that I've taken a movie level ass whopping at least once in my life, the kind of ass whopping that leaves a man stumbling through a crowded bar covered in his own blood. The kind of ass kicking that I am lucky to walk away from without any lingering consequences. Unsurprisingly this story takes place in a bar.

There's a town called Whitby east of Toronto that actually has a really lively night life, weekends always have a celebratory feel over there. The small downtown core gets so crowded with people looking to have a good time that it spills out into the street and the party gets taken outside just about every other weekend. It's important you know that because I want you to understand just how crowded this bar was and how many people were witness to the beat down I took. It's in these testosterone filled environments that a very specific type of asshole likes to lurk, this is the kind of asshole who gets drunk and then goes around looking for fights to get into. He puffs out his chest like a gorilla and glares threateningly at everyone who dares to have a bigger d**k than he does. Good luck avoiding him. If he doesn't like your face he's going to find you and this guy really must not have liked my face because he tried to rearrange it.


I went to the bars that night with a group of about 6 people, we went to a crowded club that I wasn't feeling so I left along with another friend for the more chill pub across the street. It was crowded but nothing like the club we'd just left, we were even able to find a table along the back wall. We ordered pints and settled in, I barely started mine when a group of about 5 guys walked past our table. The second last guy to walk past carelessly knocked over my entire glass and kept walking, the last guy to walk past noticed and sympathetically said that he would talk to his friend. In retrospect I should have just asked the waitress for a replacement glass but when you're 22 you can't just let something like that go. What kind of classless dipshit knocks over a man's beer and doesn't offer to pay for the drink, like...man code. Am I right? I felt punked. I knew I still had the sympathetic ear of at least one of that group of friends so I decided to head down to the small crowded hallway leading to the washrooms where they were standing and have a talk with them. Why were they all hanging around the washroom? I didn't even stop to think how weird that was until just now but that's where they all were; just hanging out by the washroom like a bunch of beer spilling pervs. As well as I can remember this was the conversation that took place in that hallway.

Hey, buddy you knocked my pint over.

So? It was an accident

ARRRRRRRRRRRRGGG that annoyed me when he said that. So he DID know that he knocked over my drink and still never offered to pay for it; he noticed and he still just kept walking. Think of how classless that is. Cool people pay for a man's drink if they knock it over, really cool people make a joke out of it and turn the whole experience into a positive one with a fresh beer as your reward for accepting his apology. Imagine if Bill Murray knocked over your beer, he'd turn that into the night of your life. He'd pay for your table, he'd knock over his own beer comedically, it would end up on the internet and everyone would ask you about it.

This guy wasn't Bill Murray. He was the opposite of Bill Murray, he was Murray Bill. He knocked over a man's drink and refused to pay for it even when he was confronted about it. 
You're paying for it!

Noooo. It was an accident.

That's as far as that conversation would go because appearing from around the corner was THE asshole. I never turned to look at him, I kept my glare on the man who owed me money. Out of the corner of my eye I could make out a big, fat, sweaty gorilla charging my way.

Get the F**K out of here right now.

(Never turning his stare from the man who owed him money, dismissive of this new threat)
F**k you.

I dare you to say F**K me one more time.

(while turning to face his attacker)
F**K Y...

He hit me. I didn't even have my head turned towards him, he took the coward's opportunity for a sucker punch. When you get nailed with a heavy blow like that there's no pain, there's just a buzzing. A vibrating. Confusion. I was on the floor, I realized I'd been hit and tried to get back up. More buzzing. Everything was blurry, I felt really tired. I remembered what happened, I knew I was hit by someone standing over me shouting with the crowd. I knew I'd been hit several more times when I was down, wide open. I was told later by a witness that after I was hit the first time he followed me to the ground and punched and kicked me a few more times in the face. I wasn't out though, I never went out. He hit me with everything he had and he couldn't keep me down, that's what I take away from this fight. I wasn't going to stay down, I was pissed. My plan was to get up, shake it off and get revenge as soon as I was able to get my body working again. I got to my feet, at that point the hallway had filled with spectators and the bar was in an uproar. I was COVERED in my own blood and couldn't walk straight. I remember my instinct being to get some space, I needed to recover for a minute. I had to get some motor control back before I went after what I could now for the first time see was a large, fat, drunk hillbilly who was at that point taunting the hostile crowd. I moved to take the fight outside.

I was drenched in my own blood and wobbling around as I tried to make my way out into the street; fully intending on continuing this fight. The bartender was screaming at my attacker that he's been in too many fights in his bar and now he was banned. I made my way to the door, my attacker was in tow. RIGHT when I got to the door I ran into my other friends who had just left the club, I still remember the shock on their faces. They were looking at a zombie who kind of resembled the friend they had last seen only minutes before. Right behind my friends were the police, one friend guided me into an ambulance and begged me to press charges, I regret to this day that I didn't listen to him. There was a part of me that wanted to find this guy myself and another part of me who genuinely couldn't remember how the fight started and was having trouble processing information. The police saw that I was in no condition for questions so they told me to take their card, go home and recover and call them in the morning if I wanted to press charges. During that time my other friends had gotten into a confrontation with the group of guys who spilled my beer and the fat hillbilly who jumped me. The hillbilly ran to his car and sped off with the chicken s**t who knocked over my beer and the two spent the night blowing each other, probably. Outside the bar waiting for the cab home I was approached by people who saw what happened. They offered what information they had on the guy, I never got his name but I know he has a twin brother also from Whitby and the two were well known for starting fights in the area.

The next day, clear headed I used the card the officer gave me and called to press charges. He didn't answer, I left messages, he didn't respond. I always hoped that knowing he was a twin would narrow the list of suspects enough to where I could track this guy down myself but it never worked out. Everyone I knew from Whitby had never heard of him, his trail ran cold and eventually I had to let it all go. I hear Christians say they forgive their attackers, I hear survivors saying they've managed to forgive acts of violence against them far more severe than getting popped in head from behind by some smelly orangutang but I am just not wired that way. I hate that guy. I'll always hate that guy, I'll never forgive what he did. It was cowardly and dangerous. If anyone is reading this and knows a twin from Whitby who liked to get in fights every weekend, look him dead in the eye for me and call him a 'bitch'. Then call his twin brother over and do the same to him.

-Thomas Holler-

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