Short Stories

Killer

Do you want to hear a true story, a true story about a high school bully? I was sixteen, in high school, there was a fellow called killer, Steve Killpatric, alias KILLER! He was a couple of inches taller than me, though it seemed like a foot, big and mean looking, messy yellow hair and teeth to match, cowboy boots, sloppy clothes, and loud, mostly loud.

For some weird reason he picked out me to bother. “There’s that fuckin hippy Anderson” he would announce for everyone to hear. I really wasn’t much of a hippy, didn’t have long hair. But in ‘69 not many of us did, mostly just bangs, tried to make it look long. I did wear hippy clothes, talked kool, (far out) and hung out with other social outcasts (freaks).

Killer would humiliate me right in front of everyone. His friends and him all sittin’ together, I would try to slip by unnoticed. Oh no! “Hey Anderson give me a quarter ya fuckin hippy”. I had seen a fight before, it looked so humiliating, every one standing around yelling for blood. But I didn’t want to get in a fight at all. Remember, peace, love, hippy? Well old Killer had my number and it just made his day to make me quiver!  Where did he get that name any way?

Well one night I went to a party, and it was dead as dead. So me and my buddy were just leaving. I opened the door and guess who was standing right there, face to face?  KILLER! Drunk as a skunk he shouted with joy “look who I found, the fuckin hippy”. He grabbed me by the neck, dragging out onto the porch and pushed me backwards against the hand rail. He was laughing and yelling about what he was gonna do to me! The porch was several feet off the ground, and was leaning back, way back. Then, in a breath, I’m fell backwards over the rail. My leg caught killer and we both went off the porch together in a move that would dazzle Bruce Lee! I did a little tricky bar flip and landed stumbling to my feet. But killer went up over my head and landed flat on his back, knocking the drunken slob out cold. All his friends like a bunch of cowboys at a rodeo were yellin’ “get up killer, ya gonna let that hippy do that to ya?” I had the chance of a lifetime to jump on him and really let him have it. But actually I was still afraid that he was going to get up and let me have it. Amazed, I stood there looking at him, brushed myself off and headed for the car. Ya know what? I never heard another word out of killer.