The Ways of a Righteous Dude (Part Five)

A Story by Paris Hlad

So, one day, I cut class early and paid Richie’s mom a visit. I told her that I didn’t like her punching Richie in the stomach, and if she didn’t want me to punch her in the stomach, she needed to lay off Richie. That got her all messed-up yelling at me and s**t, and I really had no choice but to back up my threat. But here’s the thing, when I finally hauled off and punched her in the stomach, I used the thick end of this baseball bat I sometimes carried around for the hell of it; and I guess I also hit her pretty good in the teeth too because I found out later, they had to call an ambulance, and the b***h ended up having to wear dentures. She’s probably somewhere around here now, maybe slugging some other poor soul in the stomach. People like her don’t change even if you knock their teeth out. They’re a lost cause, so to speak.

Anyway, I remember when I told my little sister Cupcake about that incident. She told me that I was a hero and hoped I didn’t get in any trouble. I mean, what would she know, given that she was just a little kid, but that meant a lot to me, even though Richie never knew it was me who took down his mom. I mean, that rotten b***h didn’t tell a soul because I definitely would have hurt her a little more had she snitched. Anyway, you’d think the Gardener would take things like that into consideration when she sends a guy like me to hell - You know, the good stuff. But, one of the things I learned very early in life is just how much others are willing to mess with you to make themselves somehow look good. I mean almost everything that anyone has ever said about me is a lie in some way, and I've got some pretty good examples right here. You see these papers? These are the notes that my rehab counselor made when I was doing that hard-time for the bingo heist. Maybe you’d like to hear some of the crap she wrote about me and then maybe I can set the record straight. I’m not a moron, so I know that the whole point of a counselor writing down stuff like this is because some other wise-a*s is probably going to read it. So, they try to look like a genius by throwing in a bunch of smarty-pants lies to make things more interesting. But I’m what they call a stickler for the truth, and I absolutely hate liars. I mean, if you can’t tell the truth about someone, then maybe you got a bunch of lies about yourself that you hide from everybody else because you’re such a weak moron. Here’s my first example.^{^[1]}

Curiously, Bobby continues to believe that he is more of an existential victim than a “justice-involved person.” He refers to a time when he was a student at the Ruins Hill Parochial School and supplied several boxes of stolen, days-old donuts as gifts to friends who assisted him in a poorly planned attempt to incinerate their sixth-grade classroom. In an interview conducted by the school’s psychologist, Bobby lamented the fact that, although he considered himself to be well-liked, he did not feel as though others were willing “to go the extra mile” with him and hoped to eventually get even. He was permanently expelled from the school a few days later when he tried to "call in his favors” �" This time with the intention of murdering one of the nuns. He stubbornly maintains that his intentions should have been viewed more favorably because he “actually would’ve done” what the other children were “probably too chicken-s**t to do.”

First, I didn't try to burn down the classroom. I set off a few firecrackers in a waste bin and the small amount of fire it caused sort of spread to some curtains and loose-leaf paper and s**t. It was a harmless joke and not really a big deal since some of the kids found the whole thing funnier than hell and started running around doing some crazy things themselves. Second, I never “lamented” that others didn't back me up. I said that I was going to get even with the little dumbbells that ratted me out. I mean, honestly, I think my classmates had a very good understanding of me, at least more than that idiot psychologist at Ruins Hill or the counselor I had in the joint. Oh, and by the way, the donuts were fresh, not days-old like that b***h said. What a liar! Anyway, here's another example of the bullshit I’m talking about.

One of the more mystifying aspects of Bobby’s interaction with others is his inability to distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate methods of winning their friendship. By the third grade, Bobby was regularly throwing children to the ground, climbing on top of them, and pounding on their chests until they renounced their religious faith and prayed to him for mercy.^{^[2]} As one teacher noted, "Bobby's violent behavior is a desperate cry for help. He is a kid who needs love and perhaps is willing to kill for it."

This is entirely bullshit! Giving some little dope the “99” was not exactly my idea of winning friends, at least in any normal way. I mean, the whole purpose of climbing on top of someone, and pounding on his stupid chest is to let him know who the boss is. I mean, yes, it's fun as hell, and yes, it's pretty humorous sometimes, even a little sexual in some ways; but that's not the point. The point is the rush you get from seeing a buttercup’s recognition that there's no escape from you. I mean, for a punk centipede, I was built like a brick s**t house, and I've got about a million fists to pound with, so giving some little dope the old "99" came easy and sort of natural to me. I mean, didn’t someone famous once say that “anatomy is destiny?” But sometimes the dudes who analyze a lowlife will lie to themselves because maybe they’re too afraid to acknowledge the reality they face in dealing with a guy like me. It’s an understandable lie, but, really, it’s the worst kind of dishonesty there is. I mean, my rehab counselor probably knew that I made kids pray to me because I truly enjoy observing the helpless suffering of others. But it was probably less of a head-trip for her to believe that I was expressing a need for love because that was something she could safely internalize. Why? Well, because that’s the only kind of fake world she was capable of living in.^{^[3]} Here’s my last example.

[1] A grandmaster of deceit often harbors a special hatred for garden variety liars. He cannot tolerate them because their unskillful dishonesty puts everyone’s lies at risk of discovery.

[2] “The 99” was occasionally practiced on the students of Jenny Lind Elementary School in the late 1950s - Paris included! Bigger kids would grab smaller ones on their way home from school and put their faith to the test. Most times, the victim gave in and bonded with his tormentor. Paris once saw a comic version of this outrage, when a boy turned the tables on his attacker, climbing onto his back and compelling the fiend to tearfully recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

[3] Mr. Adelman was the most popular teacher in Paris’s school. He befriended all the worst kids in his seventh-grade class. Paris never liked the guy because the kids he favored were the least worthy of reward. One of them threw his dog Buster against a wall. “Mr. ‘A’ seemed like a fake!” Paris said. “He could have liked better kids and could have had better reasons for liking them.”