Excerpt from The Bloody Aftermath of a Riot

chapter of my Dad's biography

"It was an odd night. I heard my Father screaming at the television and saying curses that even god would cringe at. I walked into His and my Mother's bedroom and asked 'Dad, are you alright?' He was staring at the screen, I could tell He was working on a new poem, probably another one about how life is fleeting and how we are all under a sentence of death but I knew when to keep my distance especially when I saw that half empty bottle of cheap wine next to Him. I wasn't afraid of Him, I knew I could take Him in a fight because He's f****n' old and I knew He wouldn't lay a hand on me but He had this way with words that could wreck someone if one wasn't prepared. I'm not saying He ever said cruel things to me but man, He always made me rethink the way I looked at things and that is what I needed, that kind of subtle cruelty was what made me the failure that I am today and I'm not ashamed to say that. I stood there and said 'Dad! Dad!' It took me awhile to get His attention. He looked over and asked 'What?!' I said 'The book Dad, the book...I need some more stories.' He filled His glass with wine and said 'Okay, I got a few for you, Son. Sit down.' There was little lighting in the room, it was like that scene in that vietnam movie where Marlon Brando is talking about 'The Horror...the Horror...' then he gets sliced apart by a machete wielding Martin Sheen. I collected myself and I let Him start the conversation. 'I couldn't get through that Hemmingway book For Whom The Bell Tolls. I liked his writing but I thought that book was bullshit. I could do better than that. Hmm...Germany, now that was a country you could embrace. I never wanted to leave, life was easy to live there. With a few hundred dollars you could have a good time there and I did. Those roads that I hitchhiked across were a wonderful reminder of what was out there but I never fell into that ex-patriate crap about 'experience.' It was just a week or so off from the job that I signed up for and nothing else, Son. I dreaded and still sorta looked forward to going back home to Houston but I didn't want to talk to those old friends from the neighbourhood anymore. Never liked them that much in the first place. I have never liked anyone very much. I have never enjoyed anyone's company. When I was in the barracks, I read while my fellow soldiers drank their money away and went home with empty pockets. I had a sizeable sum when I got out the first time. I had a plan, a purpose, I knew I didn't want to wind up like they did. I wasn't ever afraid of work but I knew what my work was worth and I wasn't going to settle for slave wages. I did that when I sacked groceries before they called me up to serve and I swore to myself that I would not ever go back to that. Don't get me wrong, I had did indulge my selfish interests over in Europe but to a point, a point where I knew when to stop and go home. This is a new poem, Son...I want you to edit it and put it in your book about me, tell me what you think about it and make sure that I look good when you tell this story..."---from The Bloody Aftermath of a Riot: The Biography of Randall E. Pretzer Vol. II by Dan Pretzer