Swimming With Octopi

The other day, my boy Johnny wanted to go out and throw around some pigskin. Alright, I said, I’d let my work pile up just a little longer to spend a little time with the kid. So we go out, we decide to drive to the little dinky part right around the corner. He gets out, I get out, and we take the little oddly shaped ball from the back and walk to the middle of the field. We throw it around some, and I tell him to go long. “Go long,” I repeated. Little Johnny does. I throw him the ball. I throw too hard. The ball goes way above his head. The idiot kid decides to look up and run after it anyway. Of course, he runs and runs and runs, and finally he bumps into none other than the little punk that lives down the street. Of course, he looks at my little boy and curses him out. “Great,” I muttered to myself. Finally, Johnny gets a chance to stand up for himself. I look over. I don’t take a step closer. The thug - I think the local kids call him Blake - shoves little Johnny to the ground. Blake starts yelling.

I see Johnny slowly get up. He gets halfway there. Blake shoves him to the ground again. Johnny just lays there. I see him start crying. “Holy Jesus shit,” I say. The kid’s a fucking pussy. Didn’t I teach him how to throw a punch? Johnny tries to get up again. Same result. This time, he starts yelling at Blake. I hear a whimper and a “get off me you asshole!” That followed with a loud cackle. Johnny finally gets up and throws a punch. I took two steps toward them and gasped. Did I just see him try to slap Blake? I teach the kid to throw a punch, and he gives him a fucking slap! I’m ashamed. I’m embarrassed for my kid. Blake retaliates with a beating to the ground. 

Johnny’s now writhing in pain and calls me over. “Dad! Dad!” I pretend not to hear. The cries are louder now. “DAD!” Blake looks over at me. He sees me slowly pace over. He gets visibly scared. He starts to stammer. “Mr., I’m sorry… I didn’t… I…” He trails off. I give him one look and mutter a single word. “Git.” The other boy scampers off. I look back at Johnny. His face is turning into a blueberry. I help him up and slowly walk him to the car. He limps the entire time there. I look back at the field and I notice the football. “Fuck it,” I said. The boy probably won’t need it any longer. I can always buy a new one.

We get to the car and open the trunk. Johnny starts to explain himself to me. “Dad, I -” I cut him off. “No need, son. You’re sorry, I know. Sometimes, we just have to deal with assholes.” I take out the crowbar from the trunk. I turn to Johnny, who looks relieved at my assurances. I take a swing at his head. The kid drops like a sandbag. The crimson rushes out from his temple, and some of it gets on the bumper as Johnny falls. Oh shit, now I have to clean my car. Johnny lands with a thud, but then starts shaking. Almost like he’s having a seizure. I strike him again, and again, and again. I look at my work, and Johnny is still. Lifeless. Dead. Satisfied, I put the crowbar back in the trunk and slam it closed. I get in my car, turn it on, back out over him, and head home. I’ve never raised such a fucking pathetic disappointment of a son in my life.

The other day, I went to an apothecary to seek treatment for a bad infection. No sooner than when I entered the door did a cloaked man swing at me with a metal pole. I quickly swooped down, barely missing contact with the cold steel by centimeters. The cloaked figure raised the pole again for a second swing, and I took the moments I had to parry it. Catching the pole while on its trajectory towards my head, I quickly disarmed the costumed foe and struck him to the ground. 

Thankfully, the infection was in my leg, and although it hurt to walk, I didn’t have to move very much to avoid the attacks and subdue my assailant. I had several questions, but the most pressing and easiest to answer was tended to first. I removed the hood from my antagonist. To my surprise, the mysterious figure was not a man, but indeed a very attractive, voluptuous, callipygous black-haired woman. I stood over her, aghast at the revelation. Towering above the lass, how laying on the ground, we locked eyes, and I lost control of my sensibilities. Out of nowhere, and quite uncharacteristically, I muttered, “I would hit you so hard, the first person to pull me out would be crowned the King of England.” She may as well have been the apothecary; that night, the pain from my infection was virtually nonexistent.

I’ll start treating you better if you can do a better job of convincing me that you’re not complacent with being ignorant. 

Usually, when I’m trying to verbalize something, I have an uncanny habit to try to find more than one way to express the same or a similar meaning. This almost always ends up badly, because now I have more than one thought in my head struggling to be vocalized. They’re like process threads vying for the same resource (my voice), which ought to serve only one thought at a time. In reality, what happens is that two thoughts make their way out of my mouth and then I just say something nonsensical.

For example, if someone were to ask me “hey, do you know where James is?” I may instantly think “the fuck should I know?” and “I have no clue where James is” simultaneously, and what comes out is “I don’t fucking clue about James”. I wish I was making this up, but it just seems like some peculiar problem that only I suffer from.