They say that pain changes a man. For better, for worse, we all knows it's some bullshit line the ones who get pushed around use when they can't do much else.

There isn't a tragedy in my life, so to speak. There were situations that showed past others, a few that weathered me down, although the light always shines through.

Take this affliction of mine. I grow fur, I have one Hell of a hankering for raw meat, and I sometimes feel the urge to bite those who put me down. That isn't all bad, right?



So they think I'm a complete id'jut, everyone who knows me. They bally back and fourth about how they suppose I'm dumb, what sort of things I'll stoop down to, but they don't know me. They don't know that I've got big plans in store for them, they can't figure upon the malice in my heart.

Some would call it a self defense mechanism; I seem harmless, yeah, even a negative force against myself at times. Yet, I watch them all. I sit and plot for the day when I can rob them of their valuables, their loved ones, everything they hold precious. Give me enough time, and I'll have them under one thumb.

The spoils go to the greatest tactician.



I'd fought in in the Vietnam War, dropping into Laos from a plane, getting high as fuck, murdering peasants for a paycheck. It didn't matter to me who had to die. Men, women, children. Entire villages would be razed to the ground if deemed necessary, food supplies would be destroyed or poisoned, all for freedom. Yeah, I got freedom all right. Stepped on a landmine in a marsh, nearly had my balls blown off from the shrapnel. It's cool being a hero, isn't it?

Came back home to North Carolina, now deemed unfit to continue my service due to the fact that one of my legs was cr'icked and fucked all to Hell. Couldn't really give a shit, as I was just glad that I didn't have to use a compression system to get it up for my oh so beloved Maybelle. Whatever, so I started working the rounds at an illegal titty club. I know what you're thinking, but no, I wasn't the hot piece of ass on center stage. Naw, I busted skulls and sent rednecks flying if they got a little bit too handsy.



Now, back then, I had two vehicles. A International Harvester Scout that'd always break down at the slightest of provocations, and my '69 Mustang, which I bought just after getting back home. I'd leave the Mary-Lou, the Mustang, at home and take the Harvester. I didn't give two shits if someone busted that piece of junk all to hell.

After getting off from my shift and beginning the drive back home, wouldn't you know it? A long coil of smoke rising up from the hood, the shakin' and ratcheting that gave the indication that I was up shit creek without a paddle, and there I was...on the roadside, in the dark, and there was a spooky mist clinging to the ground. I'm not even making that up, it was like a vampire movie or something. So I get out, and begin to walk the rest of the ten miles home.



Well, I nearly got eaten by a wolf. There is no other way to word that. Dog knocked me down, chewed on my limbs for awhile, then it just ran away. Left me on the roadside to associate with the mosquitoes, the question of mortality, and to consider what was to happen next.

I passed out, woke up in a hospital. They said it was a miracle that I had survived at all, that a local farmer had found me and brought me over. My wife and daughter were there, and I was glad. For the time being.

I made a full recovery, no, more than full. My bum leg from the war? Ladies and gentlemen, Jesus blessed, it healed right up. I was no longer gimpy, and I could run down even a deer. Yeah...a deer....



They're gone now, my family. My home, I don't know what happened to it.

Now I've got my weapons and my booze for contentment. You might find me in an alley, a bar, or sleeping in a pile of trash.

You just better know I don't hold back.