Part 2


Sitting there in my Accord, lights flashing behind, I discovered that--aside from my free slice of Sicilian Delight pizza sitting passenger seat--there were many perks to having been befriended by Giovanni. I had just visited that fine establishment (where he's manager) and was en route to my place when some prick cut me off.

Yeah. Some asshole in a fancy new Jetta, pulled out of a shopping plaza just in time for me to slam on the brakes. Then, as if cutting me off weren't enough, he just crept along real slow like while I clenched my teeth, impatiently waiting to re-reach fifth gear. In the meantime I noticed the vanity plates. Fucking vanity plates. You know what they said? STDNT DRVR.

Ridiculous, right? What kind of stupid idiot has STDNT DRVR as their vanity plates, I asked myself. Probably some stupid idiot named Star-dent Dreevor was the natural response. Whatever happened to creativity? Originality? You don't broadcast your name on your car; you put something like I DRIVE A HONDA across the windshield and wait for the babes to pile up.

So I did what every freedom loving American would do: I got on his ass, popped the clutch into neutral and revved the engine. It didn't have the calming effect I'd expected; I decided Star-dent should be run off the road. That would make me feel better.

And while screaming at him and his mommy in their fancy Jetta with the double steering wheels soothed my scorched nerves, it only ended up making things worse. Because I wasn't fully concentrated on my surroundings I didn't see the sheriff hiding beside an abandoned gas station; long story short, I got pulled over.

Johnny Law followed his preliminary procedure, pulled the whole license and registration bit, disappeared in his cruiser and returned before noticing the Sicilian Delight box.

"Listen up Shit Head. You can either take this ticket for speeding and reckless driving or you can gimme that slice of pizza and we'll call it a day. What's it gonna be?"

Good deal, I thought, but man was I hungry! And all there was at home were a few cans of coffee grounds I'd saved for a special occasion. And by no means was today a special occasion; I considered my options. On one hand I could peel out--leave Johnny Law stun-faced with a mouth full of pebbles and sand--while I scarfed down my slice doing sixty on the highway, and then, when the fuzz caught up, I'd wrap the Accord around an oak tree. Instant celebrity status.

Something like that would make Raymond Chandler shit his pants.

But on the other hand, I could just hand over the slice, go home, have a few bowls of coffee ground stew, and be glad the copper hadn't ticketed me. Then a new, more amazing, option reared itself. I could give up the slice, turn around, and head back to Sicilian Delight for another!
After all, wasn't I friends with the manager?

"OK" I said, "You win. Take the slice. I can just go back and get more anyways. I know the manager. No big whoop."

Johnny Law's demeanor changed to something distantly resembling friendliness.

"You know Giovanni?"

"Yeah. You too?"

"Do I!? My kid brother's only the manager of the Rent-A-Center over on Fairway Boulevard. They get together on weekends and . . . " His eyes went wide as something inside clicked. "You . . . you're him aren't you?"

"Him who?"

"The one. The one they call Dragonfly. Show me your hands."

I did so, allowing ample time for him to soak up the red indentations left from weeks of clutching Wii remote and nunchuk.

"Oh man" he said, "Oh man. I'm so sorry. Look. Forget this happened. Just go home and enjoy your pizza."

I told him I would, though under one condition, that he hunt down that Star-dent prick and run him off the road real proper like. Luckily he and I shared the same disgust for foreigners, noting the peculiar name and car, and so he was more than enthused to do me that favor. It was then that I took stock of the situation I'd just found myself in and its preceding events.

See, it all started with a simple bet involving me, Giovanni Manicotti, and a few rounds of Wii Boxing. Next thing I knew, invitations to underground parties were sent my way left and right.
Giovanni had likened the gatherings to those depicted in Fight Club, and in a way they were.

I can't tell you how nervous I was waiting for him to pick me up that first night. He hadn't given many details of the party but those two words--Fight Club--made my rectum quiver with fear. Seriously folks, think about it, have you seen a scarier documentary than Fight Club??

Wearing a white dress shirt and a new pair of purple sweatpants I stood in my driveway thinking I'd been conned when a totally bitchin' Neon came roaring up. Impressed as I was I knew my Honda could whoop his any day, but kept that to myself; no need to bite the hand that feeds you. When he'd screeched to a stop I opened the door, got in, and was greeted with a question that pumped me up more than Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch.

"You fuckin' ready to party or what?"

Never had anyone asked if I was ready to party, let alone while using the F-word. With Groff it was always "It's party time!" this or "Let's party now!" that. And just like that my anxiety was lifted! Hell I'd fight anything I had to at that point; women, children, women, you name it.

"Awwww shit yeah" I said.

"Good. Then put this on."

It was a blindfold.

I didn't understand and Giovanni, the perceptive bastard he was, picked up on it right away.

"Dragonfly, you gotta understand this. Right now you're an outsider. Not too many people are given the same opportunity to go where we're going tonight. I mean, if it were up to me, we wouldn't be doing this. But. It's not up to me. You gotta be up to par with what the rest of the Brotherhood expects. And these guys, well, they're pretty heavy dudes. I don't want to piss them off so you sure as hell don't want to piss them off either. Follow?"

Giovanni was right. Last thing I needed was a bunch of fat slobs angry at me.

"Look" he continued, "You just have to wear it for the ride. Once we're there, you can take it off."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

So whatever. I had a pretty sweet bandanna over my eyes for half an hour. I could deal with that. The trip really didn't seem too long anyways. Before I knew it we'd stopped and Giovanni was giving me the OK signal. He shut off the car and I heard the rumblings of a stereo. Having removed the bandanna I saw two rows of cars parked before a double-wide trailer. The music came from inside and like moths to flame we followed.

"Just stay cool" Giovanni said as he opened the screen door. Easier said than done. The inside of the trailer had been gutted so that it consisted of one long room with a bedroom at the far end. Between the two ends were a few couches, a fridge, a buffet table loaded with food, a beer pong table, a big screen TV, and, for some odd reason, a scale like the ones you see in a nurse's office. I tried to ignore it but it was impossible avoiding the stares cast my way. Giovanni leaned in and pointed out a few people.

"That guy there, that's Chad. He runs Fair Acres Real Estate Firm. Wanna know where we got this trailer? Look no further. Now. Standing next to him, why, that's Gene. He manages the Rent-A-Center during the day and provides us with whatever furniture or appliances we need at night."

"He was at Earl's the other night!" I cut in.

"Yep" he said, continuing his spiel, "Over there, by the keg is Marty; owner of Frosty Fresh Beverage Discount Center. Seeing a pattern here?"

I did and it wasn't pretty.

"Ugh, yeah. This wallpaper's hideous!"

"No! Remember what I said in the car about heavy dudes?"

"Yeah, but the only one here pushing 300 is Marty!"

"What I meant was these guys are pretty well connected. Get on their bad side and you'll find yourself driving three counties just to do your shopping. Capisce?"

"I capisce all right. But, you know, what does any of this have to do with Fight Club?"

"Glad you should ask" he said before turning to the crowd. Then, in that same booming voice he'd used from the night before, he spoke . "Ladies and gentlemen! The golden boy has arrived!

To Be Continued...

**Commercial Break**


Tetragrammaton--- Click at the right where it says Henry Rollins Show Video. It's Episode 203.


Give Your Love To A Cowboy Man.




Stay tuned for the exciting, nail-biting, conclusion of Watch That Man (or Gladys The Gladiator)!

Watch That Man Part 1
or
Gladys The Gladiator




When it all comes down to it, what would you do for your best friend?
In a room furnished with 40 watt light bulbs, a tube television, cracked ceilings, and bare walls, I found myself asking that question. In a room surrounded by the chaotic cacophony of blood-thirsty men gripping greasy dollar bills, flaying through the air like blades of grass in a hurricane, I stared down my opponent, thinking "How did it come to this?"

Groff and I'd had a falling out over who got to drink the last beer. One thing led to another, words were exchanged, and next thing I knew it was afternoon, my head was bumping like the sub-woofer in my Honda, and all I really cared about was brewing some coffee.
With the butt of my palms massaging my eyes and the thumbs rubbing my temples, I tried remembering what exactly it was that Groff had gotten so upset about; when nothing came I stripped down and took a long hot shower.
Roasted coffee grounds filled my nostrils as I walked from bathroom to kitchen; I poured that black ambrosia into a travel mug, added milk and sugar, took a long gulp and felt my brain breathe.

I swear nothing gets me harder than hail like coffee.

Half a pot later and things were coming back. An argument. Groff yelling that "Old Mill sucks" and how he's "switching to Budweiser!" Me losing my cool and kicking Groff out. Him leaving. And me on the living room carpet crying hysterically, belting out Kathy's Song between choked gasps.
Back in the real world I realized sitting around the house all day would do me no good, so I hopped in the car to drop off a few rolls of film at a local super center.

God must have been smiling on me that day because instead of doing just that and returning home, I decided to peruse the electronics department. I got to the end of the aisle and there it was, staring back at me from a white box.

It was a Nintendo Wii.

"My God" I thought, "who needs best friends when we've got Wal*Mart?"

Hands shaking, I found the nearest employee, unsheathed my credit card, and made a hasty purchase. Within an hour I was home, decked out in red sweatpants and wife-beater, playing the shit out of some Wii Sports.

Thus began my addiction.

A week or two must've passed, I'm not really sure, before Earl got in touch with me. He was having a triple-kegger and I was invited. Being that I have a boner for beer I couldn't possibly decline, so I got off the phone, put some pants on, and prepared myself to party.



Imagine the most kick-ass kegger.
Now multiply it by three and you'll have a good idea what Earl's bash was like.

Chicks, passed out naked, in the front lawn; dudes throwing up out of trees; THIRTY BEER PONG TABLES; and vacuum cleaners everywhere!
That was just the beginning.

Earl was in the kitchen, by one of the kegs, with a group of girls. I heard him say, "That's what SHE said" and they all laughed. I laughed too, adding a "dames" before rolling my eyes and sighing with great masculinity. In fact, I oozed so much testosterone one broad in particular informed me I didn't have to yell, which was a great relief. I thanked her by way of the wink; however, she just grimaced and shuddered.

Dames.

I put my hand out for Earl and he shook it.

"Wanna cup?" he asked.

"Fuck! Yeeeeah!" was my response and, again, I was asked to stop yelling. Not that it mattered though; Earl whipped out a red Solo, put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Walk with me."

"I've got something I want to show you" he said, taking me down a hallway, "Something you're gonna love."

Up the stairs and through a door and before us both was a flat screen, hi-def, television almost as long as the wall itself. Some schmuck stood a few feet away from it looking like he wanted to fight, while, behind him, a giggling group shared the couch with a hookah. I did a double-take and realized that schmuck was playing my favorite game: Wii Boxing.

"How'd you get this setup?" I asked.

Earl laughed. Then he said, "Let's just say I have my ways. Oh and speaking of which, there's somebody I'd like you to meet."

He motioned toward one of the couch dwellers, and a rather refined looking gentleman stood, then approached us. His hair was slicked back, his sideburns shaved into lightning bolts, and he rocked a totally bitchin' diamond earring. This guy was ahead of the curve. He introduced himself.

"Name's Giovanni Manicotti."

Something told me he was Italian. One glimpse at his Soprano's t-shirt confirmed the suspicion.

"Rich Garfunkle" I said, "but you can call me Dragonfly."

"Ummmm OK" he said, glancing at Earl.

While they undressed each other with their eyes I focussed on the schmuck playing the Wii. A total newb; he hopped around the room swinging with reckless abandon, shouting taunts at the screen. Boy, what I could've taught him in one round. Giovanni must've sensed my interest.

"Like what you see?"

I nodded.

"Tell you what. As sponsor of this party, if you can win five matches you'll drink for free."

The smirk I wore worried me. Did he have any clue I was about to hustle him? Either way didn't matter, I was gonna win me some booze.

"OK" I said, and both Wii remote and nunchuk were placed in my hands.

"And hey" Giovanni added, "Don't forget. Only a fool neglects the safety strap. Wear it."

I had enough time to tighten the strap before the first fight began. Their idea of a joke was having me play as a short black woman named Gladys, but whatever, I wasn't about to let that phase me. One of the couch-dwellers started a "YOU SUCK!" chant and everyone in the room followed suit; I turned my head to look at them just as my opponent, a computerized scraggly looking stoner named Ryan caught me with a quick uppercut. Gladys reeled back, stumbling to her left. The chant continued, among outbursts of laughter.

This I took for what it was: a blessing in disguise. Little did they know I was playing possum, waiting for the right moment to strike. Gladys took a few more shots to the face while I acted all worried, saying stuff like, "Oh no! I think I'm gonna lose!" and "How will I ever win?"
I even let Ryan knock me down once, heightening my illusion of cluelessness. All that changed though once Gladys had regained her footing.

I bit my lower lip, spread my feet shoulder's length, and set in on my opponent. He swung a hard right. Moving with my hips I dodged; a quiet hush overtook the room. Swaying back and forth I dodged another punch, but this time Ryan left himself wide open and I was quick to act. With catlike reflexes I jabbed the remote, smashing his stoner face in, then followed up with a right hook to his abdomen. Three bars of his strength gauge disappeared. Someone behind me gasped, "What the!?!" but I didn't look to see who it was; I just kept hammering away at poor little Ryan, toying with him much like a cat does a mouse before sinking its fangs into its neck. More comments arose from the rapt crowd:

"Whoa! This kid's amazing!"

"Oh my God! He's doing it! He's doing it!"

and

"Hey Earl, where's the shitter?"

With time in the third round running low I ended his misery with a punch to the gut and an uppercut to the chin.

He buckled like a seat-belt.

Everyone in the room went wild, now chanting "You DON'T suck! We were wrong!" over and over. I raised my arms in triumph and, on screen, Gladys did so as well. Turning around to face my fans brought the realization that more people had come to watch, among them the broad I'd previously winked at. She now stood, leaning in the doorway, licking her lips and running her hands over herself provocatively. I mouthed the words "Let's hump" and made some provocative gestures of my own, pumping my groin back and forth in the air with hands at hip level. She responded by way of the wink and I knew she was all mine.

Giovanni ended the excitement with a bellowing call for silence. Amid the chaos he had stepped up onto a coffee table where he leered down at me with arms crossed.

"So you think you're hot shit, huh? Anyone can win the first round! Don't get too cocky, Dragonfly. Remember, you have four matches left. Still think you got what it takes?"

The room groaned in response, but I wasn't shook. Making as if it were something to be mulled over I cocked my head to the side, rolled my shoulders, licked my teeth, and mustered up the toughest "Yeah" ever muttered.

"We'll just have to see" he said with slit eyes, "We'll. Just have. To see."

In case you can't tell, it was pretty intense. With Giovanni doubting my Wii skills, I was left no choice other than to prove my worth. After all, there was free beer and the admiration of a hot babe on the line, not to mention my pride; I faced the TV, pressed the A button, and resumed the gauntlet with renewed vigor.

Up next was Marco, a bulbous nosed Italian wearing the dull expression of an all-too-content idiot. Knockout. First round.

Then there was Daisuke sporting a confident smile, which made it that much more enjoyable seeing him splayed across the mat after two knock-downs.

After that Victor stepped up, radiating Ruskie intimidation with his mole and drunken lope. He gave me a run for my money, managing to send me face first into the mat in the second round while not wanting to stay down himself. Fortunately I was able to put an end to the fight first thing in the third.

And finally Luca, my most challenging opponent. No matter how many times I clipped him that stoic stone-faced son-of-a-bitch kept coming back for more. Talk about frustration; halfway through the third round I had to remind myself to relax and lay off the offense. Time was against me and in my frenzied state I swung more than Helen Keller up to bat. A quick shift in strategy had me swaying back and forth, dodging punches, until just the right moment when I could land the final blow, securing my position among the greats; Muhammed Ali, Mike Tyson, "Smokin' Joe" Frasier Crane.

And then, just as I saw my opportunity, I jabbed the Wii remote expecting to smash that prick's face in, when the bell clanged.

End of round.

End of fight.

There was sweat dripping all over my chest, my forearms were cramped, and all I could do was wait for the decision. A screen popped up displaying numerals for each round with little circles indicating which person won which.

First round: Luca.

Second round: Me.

Folks were crying at this point, arm in arm, holding each other up; one person screamed "The suspense is killing me!" and jumped out a window. He was mourned by all of us.

Everywhere I looked faces were crinkled in determination, shining with hope, all silently rooting for ME. How does one begin to describe the feeling that wells up inside during such moments? Well, they could comb through countless dictionaries and thesauruses in search of the correct, all- encompassing, terms that fully describe, with poetic clarity, what it's like when a houseful of college kids--America's finest--are cheering you on. Then they could make a list of words worthy of the task, crossing out those which aren't up to par until, finally, they're left with two which convey exactly how that felt.

Those two words?

FUCKIN' AWESOME.

So anyways, the screen flashed the third round results and they were in my favor, meaning I won the match, the bet, and the hearts of everyone at Earl's that night. A swarm engulfed me and I was raised up, carried through the house to the tune of "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow", but since everyone was so drunk they dropped me going down the stairs; I crashed into the banister, rolled down, and smashed my head on a wall at the bottom. Miraculously, standing there before me was that hot little number who had graced me with her wink. She outstretched her hand, which I took, and helped me up.

"So you're the one they call Dragonfly, huh?"

I nodded.

"What are you? Some kind of enigma?"

"Nah baby. Better. I'm a custodian. Now let's get to a broom closet so I can sweep you off your feet."

Her expression told me she was a bomb-pop and I was asphalt in the hot July sun.

We banged till boredom set in, then we banged again just for old time's sake.
It was late by that point, the party crowd had dwindled down, putting me in the mood to go home and drink alone, so I went looking for Earl to say goodbye. He was passed out in the most heroic of poses: shirtless, belly up on the linoleum, hand clenching a tap which spit little white bubbles of beer foam.

No use in sticking around, I thought, so I made for the front door. Two steps outside and my path was blocked by someone in the shadows. Stepping forward, I saw it was Giovanni; he offered his congratulations.

"That was pretty good what you did back there."

"Yeah, I know."

"Listen. I'm sorry about my actions earlier. You really are an outstanding athlete."

"Think nothing of it. Just, next time, lay off the Hatorade."

And with that I sidestepped him, my craving for alcohol and solitude growing with each second.

"One more thing, Dragonfly."

I turned, "What's that?"

"Ever heard of Fight Club?"


To be continued . . .