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It was a little after 11:30 in the evening, on a Friday. The air was warm, but a breeze blew over the downtown scene, making it quite comfortable. Live music flooded the streets with an amalgamation of twangy electric-acoustic guitars, warbled, off-key barfly musicians, and the various conversations and shouts of excitement of the drunkards staggering from bar to bar on the main street running through town. It was in one of these bars, that I happened to find myself after an evening of distress. Who says you can't drown your sorrows? Or at least kill them with alcohol poisoning before it affects you.Disclaimer:
This story contains adult language and situations. Read with caution.
It had been a shitty day, in a long, shitty life. People say life is short, and I laugh at them. If you were sentenced to life in prison, would you shrug it off, thinking 'Oh, this isn't so bad. This will be over in no time at all!' and go about your merry way? I highly doubt it. I'm now coming on the age of 78, and life is long, and shitty. And just when you think, 'Man, this really can't get that much worse,' God decides to slap your sense of irony like a cheap whore.
It wasn't any sort of special occasion, though, and no particularly horrible event had happened. Hours of self-reflection and introspection left me feeling lonely, worthless, and unproductive, so me and my two friends Crown and Royal decided we'd take care of these feelings. Me and my friends Jack Daniels and Crown Royal got sick of drinking in my shitty one bedroom apartment, and decided to hit the town.
I fumbled with the key to my Saturn before finally unlocking the door and more or less falling into the driver's side seat. I righted myself and held the key for a moment, wondering if I could make it the few miles into town. I was in no condition to drive at this point, let alone go and drink more. The first thing to slip when you start drinking is judgement, I've heard. I can kinda see that now. I finally started the car, and proceeded a bit too slowly towards the art district a few miles from my apartment.
Here, you could find all those college kids dressed in jeans and long-sleeved solid black shirts, walking around peering in all the queer little shops, staggering from one bar to the next talking about Quentin Tarantino or some other pretentious fuck. I usually avoid them and laugh when they've passed me by on the sidewalk. I drew many 'What the fuck are you doing here?' sort of looks, since I didn't quite fit in. I was pushing my mid-thirties, and a life of alcoholism, cigarettes, and fast food hadn't been kind to my appearance. I was a little thicker in the waist than most, but not exactly fat, and I had thick brown hair.
And so it became that I was sitting in The Mad Hatter, pouring dark, manly, expensive drinks into my head. The kind of drink that costs around 10 dollars a shot, and you have to describe the flavor, or bottle, because after one or two, you can't coherently pronounce the name. Those kinds of drinks. And those kinds of drinks hit me pretty hard after a while. I ordered a beer, in a frosted mug, and did my best to pretend I was sober as I walked out on to the patio of the bar to listen to the musician and smoke. I must have done a good job, because no one offered to call a cab, or tried to take my keys, but at this point, it was a wonder I was still alive.
So on the patio, between each Camel Light and twangy, almost Bluegrass sounding song, I began hearing a sort of chant. Someone was droning on about how Jesus died to save our immortal soul. But not in a religious zealot insane kind of way. It was more like a genuine warning. Like he was concerned for our well-being as humans. I peered over my shoulder, and on the corner of the New York Avenue and Woodland Boulevard stood a group of 4 men, holding signs about the good Lord, and how good he truly was.
I finished my beer, as any self-respecting man would, in one fell gulp, and my vision immediately began to swim. I began having lapses in my memory, and suddenly became distinctly aware of the fact that I had no god damn idea where I was. I stumbled backward off the patio, and when fellow patrons came to my aid, I told them I merely slipped. One skill I've found useful over the years is the ability to speak at least somewhat properly when I drink. It was then that I fell back in to reality, and remembered what I was on about.
I took a moment to focus my eyes and regain my wits as best I could. I approached the young men with the signs, and accepted a small flyer they offered me. I folded it thrice and stuck it in my pocket, and began debating with them about my agnosticism. Brother Justin, as he called himself, offered me a piece of gum, and we walked to the bus stop a few yards from where they were standing and sat down. He said he could smell the alcohol on my breath. I said I could too.
At this point things began to fade in and out. I remember it in snippets. I remember talking about the difference between a soul and a spirit, and how dolphin's murder and rape each other. I remember looking down at my watch, and noticing it was 12:30. I remember we were talking about how it's a sin to attack someone. I remember them telling me that not everyone is as tolerant of them as I was.
Sometimes God slaps your sense of irony like a cheap whore. And I'm living proof of this. At that point, another patron of The Mad Hatter came across the street. He was in his early to mid twenties, and looked like a god damn beach bum frat boy. He was wearing sandals, a polo, and cargo shorts, and a frayed-brim hat.
"I'm fucked up, man!" He called to Brother Levi. "Is that shit a sin?"
"What..?"
"Is it a sin to be fucked up, man..?"
"Uhm... Well... Yes, actually. As you can s-" is all Brother Levi got out before this intolerant asshole. This scum of the earth. This... Heathen... Attacked him. He slapped the bible out of Levi's hands and proceeded to headbutt him in the face. Brother Levi was by no means a small or weak man. He stood a few inches taller than me, and a few inches wider at the shoulders. It was no wonder they brought him along on this.
Levi's hands flew up to his nose as blood dripped from his chin. The frat-boy began shouting something about not shoving religion down his throat. Brother Justin and I sat and watched. I couldn't help but think when was Brother Levi going to drop this guy? When was he going to give him what he deserved? And at that moment, Brother Levi's hands dropped to his side, and he made perhaps one of the biggest mistakes of his life.
"Matthew, chapter five. Verses thirty-eight through forty-two."
"What'd you say, bitch?"
"You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you."
The frat-boy knee'd Brother Levi in the stomach, and he fell to his knees. I remember a sound, like someone hitting a mound of dirt with a baseball bat. A dull thud that sort of rang out. Then an audible crack. The frat-boy had kicked in Brother Levi's ribs, as was evident by his shallow, labored breathing, and the pained look on his face. I was now aware of rage that had been growing inside of me.
These men didn't mean any harm to anyone! They weren't being perverse in their message, or unkind in their ways! They were innocent and just! And I felt the power of God seeping into me! The power of the Lord Almighty! I stood from the bench and charged the frat-boy, tackling him into the middle of the street in a fury of fell blows to the face. I felt skin compact and soften beneath my fists, and cartilage give under his nose. I felt bones around his eye sockets splinter. I felt my own knuckles sliding back into my hand, as I missed and struck the concrete. I felt blood on my hands. His blood and my blood, and the Blood of the Son. I felt the hands of the Father pulling me off of the frat-boy. I heard the voice of the Holy Spirit read me my Miranda Right's.
I felt the cold fires of hell slam shut around my wrists. I heard the clanging hollow of the depths of Hades as the door of the squad car shut.
Weeks later, a judge told me that I had murdered the young man. The police told me I blew a .30 on a breathalyzer. They told me that if I had had a few more drinks, I would've died. They said it was a miracle that I was able to move at all. I laughed at the word miracle, and the police officer gave me a funny look.
People say life is short, and I laugh at them. If you were sentenced to life in prison, would you shrug it off, thinking 'Oh, this isn't so bad. This will be over in no time at all!' and go about your merry way? I highly doubt it. I'm now coming on the age of 78, and life is long, and shitty. Especially when you're in prison for the rest of your life.
I've got a parole hearing in a few days, but I doubt they'll let me out. I just can't help but feel that I've been wronged. Even in the eyes of a bunch of Christian groups I've committed a terrible act. I'm still an atheist, because I refuse to believe in a God who would let me suffer my whole mortal life, and all of eternity, for protecting one of his crusaders. When people ask me if I've sinned, I tell them.
"Define 'Sin.'"
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Originally Posted by johnthegrungekid
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