The Epic Fight

My youngest brother and I got along fairly well as kids. I guess because we were close in age, we had the same kinds of issues to deal with, so we didn't focus as much on bothering one another. You notice I said "as much",  because every once in a while we did have our issues.

One such issue started out as an ordinary trip to the grocery store and it ended up in bloodshed. My little bro was at the grocery store with me and I guess he got a wild hair to start picking at me just for fun. I was chuckling about it until he did it for about the 100th time. Then I warned him that I was starting to get peeved and that he should stop it. I think this egged him on because he increased his efforts. By the time we made it home I was about to blow a gasket. I had warned him and warned him, and yelled at him and still, the dummy kept picking at me. I finally reached the boiling point and before he could even react, I threw down my bag of groceries, and began wailing on him for all I was worth.

I knew that I had better get in as many punches as I possibly could before he could react because he outweighed me by 50 pounds or so, and he was at least 5 inches taller than I was. All it would take would be one punch from him and I would be dead meat. DEAD MEAT. I'm not sure how many times I hit him. Judging by the fury that I was feeling, I think it must have been about 275 times. He managed to get up off of the ground and throw a response punch and with that, I went down. And I started screaming. I screamed like I had just had my arm ripped from my body. I screamed like a little girl. I screamed because I knew that once he grasped what I had just done to him, he would pound me into the earth so far, I'd need a shovel to get out - and I didn't want to die. I wanted my parents to rescue me!

I knew I was a goner. But dang it! He made me so mad and I warned him; and he wouldn't quit; and I hauled off and hit him as hard and as many times as I possibly could to show him a lesson. It turns out that I gave him a slightly bloody nose and a black eye. One for the sisters!!! But he also gave me a black eye. I had to get my Mom to peel my contact lens out of my eye because the force of his punch knocked that sucker onto my cornea so much, it was stuck. (Do you feel sorry for me). As Mom was picking my contact lens out, my Pop was thundering down the hallway towards my little brothers' room - with blood in his eyes and steam coming out of his ears. My Mom rapidly abandoned her brief stint as an eye surgeon and tried to stop Pop from murdering my brother for hitting me.

That's when things went into slow motion. I realized that Pop was going to kill Scott and I didn't want that to happen. I threw the first punch (or hundred of punches), so for all intensive purposes, it was my fault. Of course, Scott knew that he was facing imminent death and that I was in great trouble as well so he started yelling like a little girl, too. We were both crying and pleading for Pop not to kill both of us. We were actually even trying to get each other out of trouble! I have always wondered if Pop got a chuckle out of us pleading for one another's lives. There we were - both of us with black eyes, both of us crying, both of us pleading to save the life of each other. I would have laughed at the situation. Heck, later that evening, I laughed about it. I also laughed because Scott's shiner was bigger and darker than mine. He was amazed at the number of punches I managed to throw before he came to his senses and realized what had just happened. He even complimented me on my pummeling prowess.

All I can say is, don't make me too mad because I beat up a boy once. And I could probably do it again.