The Dumbass Chronicles – Leave Nick Alone
by Tommy Batboy
There’s an old saying that says everything happens in three’s. If that’s the case, douchebags of the world, please stay the hell away from Nick. You don’t want to be the third troll to try and pick an unprovoked fight, or if you are- just remember I told ya so.
The strange and curious case of d-bag number two started on a perfect early summer night. Team Rhino fighter (and resident hottie) Jordan McDonald had just won via 1st round TKO, the after party was awesome, Nick and our buddy Rob were properly socially lubricated, and even though I’d drawn DD duty, I got to drive Rob’s M-3, top down, chilling out, and Rob encouraging me to rip it through the gear box. Life is good.
Enter the toolbags.
Sitting at a red light in downtown Myrtle Beach I hear a voice behind us.
“Hey fuckers, yeah you, you fuckers, you want to fucking go?”
I turn to see a Civic full of drunks, one of which is leaning out of the back car window to yell at us. Why is he yelling at us? None of us have any idea. We had not seen this gentleman all night, nor did we know him or anyone else in the car, he just thought it was a good idea to yell. “Yeah you! Fuckers, let’s fucking go!”
“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! WHAT?!” Rob busts out, laughing the drunken cackle of a man who cannot believe a perfect stranger would utter such words for no reason.
Since Tackett and I had been working covert Ranger Ops in Vegas let me take a moment to ask the question, what is it in the water these days that makes the youth of America think this is a good idea? Has the bulk of plant Earth totally, completely lost situational awareness and perspective on when it’s a good idea to fight?
We didn’t say anything to these guys, they are in a car behind us and we had never seen them before in our entire lives but yet this dude starts flapping his gums. Oh and the car you just started yelling at has two Army Rangers and a guy who has Brock Lesnar’s mass and twice his aggression when it’s go time. Genius idea assclowns.
Rob’s completely justified laughter only spurs more shit talking from our new acquaintance. The light changes and their car speeds off. Sober and wanting nothing to do with a car of drunken morons, I give them a little distance before putting the car in gear and heading down the street after them. Unfortunately, the next light is red.
I stop behind them.
The car door opens. Shit talker’s friend gets out of the car, at a stop light, at 2am, on a major street in Myrtle Beach, SC.
“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath.
“What the fuck?” Nick says from the back seat. The buddy starts walking towards our car.
“What’s so funny?” He asks, stopping right in front of Nick’s position in the back seat, driver’s side.
“Seriously, are you fucking serious?!” Nick asks the now slightly perplexed guy. Nick shakes his head, let’s out a heavy sigh and in an oddly calm and low voice cuts right to the chase: “I think this is really fucking dumb, but if you guys want to fight then I will get out of the car and fight you all right now.” It was the kind of deadpan response that said, “This may be Myrtle Beach, and we may be from out of town, but we are not your dad’s golf buddies.”
Shit Talker’s friend, his bluff completely called, turned to look at me.
“No one is fighting anyone,” I calmly tell him. “Your buddy talked shit, we laughed at him for it, that’s it. Now go back and get in your car,” I finish with my “don’t fuck with me, I’m an NCO” voice on full display. Rob starts giggling.
Shit talker hangs his head, and without another word of any kind, heads back to his car, jumps in, and they speed off. Nick finally erupts.
“What the fuck is it?” He asks Rob and me. “Is there some sign on me that says ‘fuck with me,’ really? I swear to God the next retarded motherfucker who tries to start shit with me for no fucking reason is getting pounded! I’m sick of this shit!!!”
Somewhere lurking, is douchebag #3. When we will run into you and what mutant form of popped collar, self entitled, drunken lunatic fringed, basket case you will be – I’m not sure. I do know, however, that messing with the 5’8” by 5’8” Italian in the Ranger Up shirt with a shit eating grin on his face is the last thing you want to do. So, honey bunny, as the great Samuel Jackson once said “Bitch be cool.”