With Friends Like These...

Image stolen from the Dude Write site.
I don't know where they stole it from.

The dudes over at Dude Write have a slasher theme happening this week (since it is the 13th week) and it immediately reminded me of this story. However, I feel that I have to offer a disclaimer and a warning with this post. First, the disclaimer: I was not present for the following events. It is a story that my brother Trevor has told many times. I have heard it so many times, I am sure I can piece it together. Next, the warning: This post might get a bit graphic and since I haven't searched for the images to use with it yet, I don't know how bloody it might get. After the post about playing chicken, reader Marianne requested a heads up before subjecting viewers to such violent images. Even though this post is being written to be linked to the tough guys at Dude Write, there will be women reading as well, so I want to be polite. Be forewarned.

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Guys have certain rituals that may not be understood by the fairer species. Everyone has seen a guy punch a friend, casual acquaintance or even a stranger in the arm. The female equivalent would be to hug or jump up and down while screaming. This is just part of the bonding process that allows men to show affection towards each other without losing any appearance of masculinity.

In some contexts, this practice evolves into other forms. Back in the days when I frequented bars, it was not uncommon for a male to talk to another male while discreetly holding the flame of a lighter to the butt of the man he was talking to. Within a few seconds, the heat would raise the temperature of the denim to a degree that caused the victim to jump. Then, rubbing his seared rear, he would laugh with his friends as he joked that he had been gotten.

Not all men use the lighter to the butt prank, but they are practitioners of some similar practice that is common among their group of friends. This story is about one of these practices that had evolved into something ridiculously stupid a bit less subtle.

Several years ago, the bar that my brother hung out in was filled with men who had developed the practice of poking each other in the back of the knees. The purpose was quite simple. It was supposed to startle the victim and make him jump so everyone could laugh at him. Ladies, please don't judge. Most men are pretty easily entertained. Drunk men even more so.

The practice was fairly simple. Approach a man standing and talking with other men. Place object to poke him with directly behind one of his knees and then wait for him to step back. When he hits the object, the unexpected sensation causes him to jump and laughter ensues.

It didn't take long for the practitioners of this prank to discover that not just any object would deliver the intended result. For instance, a finger would simply cause the victim to turn around and ask, "What are you doing?" It might even get you punched. Using a pool cue wouldn't get you much more than a smirk. However, something sharp generally got the desired effect. A well-secured toothpick could supply hours of entertainment.

Eventually, someone ingeniously used his pocketknife to get the same result. Since most of these guys always had one on them, it quickly became the tool of choice for this favorite prank. That was how the practice of mixing alcohol and sharp objects came to be commonplace at this particular tavern.

One evening, John whips out his knife to steady it behind the knee of Brad to start the festivities. As he approaches the intended area, Brad jumps back in the midst of the story he is telling. The unexpected action causes the freshly sharpened blade to sink over two inches into Brad's flesh immediately severing an artery.

The blood is spraying out of the new wound and the people standing around are stunned silent as Brad is trying to figure out what just happened. John snaps out of his stupor and grabs some napkins. He and Trevor begin trying to stop the bleeding.

The two of them usher Brad into the bathroom to patch him up because everyone knows that the restroom is the most sterile place in a bar. Actually, they needed some privacy since they needed to remove Brad's pants to better access the wound.

Once in the privacy of the restroom and Brad's pants were removed, there was nothing to stop the trajectory of the still-spraying blood. Trevor and John had blood on their faces, shirts and all over their arms and hands. It was flowing freely down Brad's legs and they quickly realized they would not be able to fix this.

When you stab your friends, you should be better prepared.

As Brad is attempting to replace his pants, John and Trevor are using entire rolls of paper towels to clean the excess blood off the floor. The mess is everywhere and there are dozens of blood-soaked rags littering the floor. John slips in the blood, knocking Trevor and Brad both to the floor covering them in even more sticky mess.

They hear a scream and look up to discover a horrified man clawing to get back out of the bathroom. He had walked in to find what appeared to be three blood covered men (one with his pants around his ankles) fighting on the floor of the bathroom. He thought he was witnessing a murder.

As they help Brad out of the bathroom, John admits that Brad really needs to get to the hospital and tells Trevor to take him. Trevor exclaims, "I'm not taking him to the hospital. YOU stabbed him! You take him."

John was really concerned about getting in legal trouble for stabbing his friend in a bar, so they concocted a story about Brad cutting himself on some sheet metal. Due to loss of blood, Brad was losing consciousness, so they threw water in his face so he could wake up long enough to learn the story. Trevor still insisted that John take Brad himself, but did allow John to use his truck since it was older.

John drove off with his pale friend and Trevor returned to the bar for a much-needed drink. However, the bartender handed him a garden hose and sponge while silently pointing toward the bathroom.

When The Cat's Away

For the last year, I have spent a substantial amount of time outside of my house. I seems that I have become very busy. A variety of things call me to leave the comfort of my castle. I have a wide array of ways I make money, and most require me to go somewhere else. I am involved with church activities. I leave to go counsel people. I spend as much time as possible with Red. I assume most people have life events that keep them busy as well, but it seems that I am spending more and more time away from the house.

I am not complaining about my schedule and would not even give this a second thought if it weren't for the fact that I have a teenage daughter. Kirsten has a rich social life and is out of the house doing exciting things almost daily, despite her belief (common to many teenagers) that she has no life or friends. However, even with her busy schedule, she does occasionally find herself at home. Since I am always running as well, she sometimes finds herself at home when I am not there.

Myself, Kyle & Trevor

Kirsten is sixteen, so she is old enough that she does not need me there to tend to her every need. However, I remember being a teenager and having the house to myself. Although, in my situation, it wasn't just me. I had two brothers who were just as willing as me to slightly bend the rules when our parents weren't around.

We lived in a big two-story farmhouse and the second floor was all ours. It had our bedrooms and an extra room which we used for our TV, video games and whatever else we wanted to do. A steadfast rule, usually enforced by our mother, was the prohibition of girls from ever going upstairs.

As a parent, I understand the reasoning behind this rule, but as a teenager, I thought it was unreasonable when my friends came over that we couldn't hang out in the game room upstairs if any of our guests were testicle deficient. This was one example of a rule that was not necessarily followed according to my parents' wishes when they were not in the house. We even allowed girls past the game room if they were willing  begged to see the other rooms. 

Sometime during my teenage years, we got our first satellite dish. It was one of those huge 12 foot monsters that made your house look like an outer space communication center. It had to be rotated to point at the specific satellite you wanted to pull a signal from. This was before the days of scrambled channels and subscription fees. If you owned a dish, you had access to every cable channel.

Obviously, there were channels we were not allowed to watch. I don't just mean HBO or late night Cinemax, but the more adult audience specific channels, like Playboy or Spice. These channels only came on late in the evening, but on the rare occasions that Mom and Dad had gone out and left us at home, you could be certain that the dish would be pointed to receive those channels for at least a portion of the night.

 In addition to these and many other violations of the rules, the worst infraction(s) happened one year when my parents left for vacation and left us at home. I don't remember why we didn't go with them. We always had in the past, but this one was just for them. As an adult, I now understand this decision as well.

As Mom and Dad went through the chores that were to be done each day (feed animals, wash dishes, etc.) and warned us to behave ourselves, we honestly didn't have any devious plans to disobey them. After one of the many times that my mother threatened reminded us, once again, that we had the house to ourselves and we were good boys who knew right from wrong, my father, in his infinite wisdom said, "Denise, once we leave, they're going to do whatever they're going to do." My father was much smarter than I gave him credit for at the time.

Within a few hours after they had left, we began to realize the freedom that had been handed to us. The first incident of that freedom happened when I had done something to my brother Kyle, causing him to chase me through the house. As I jumped into the next room, I closed the door behind me to slow his chase, but he came through the door anyway without taking the time to open it. The door was ripped off its hinges and our chase (for the moment) stopped. Luckily, Kyle is pretty handy and was able to repair the damage and we rehung the door.

We hadn't planned on having a party, but as our friends learned that our house was adult free, it happened. I don't want to try to sound like a victim. We welcomed the idea, even if we hadn't thought of it. I will give the details of this party in my next post. Too much happened to try to include it all here.

Now that's
a knife!

Two days before the party, we were playing a game in the front yard. Both of my brothers, Kyle and Trevor were standing with a dozen other teens, beers in hand, playing a game of chicken.

Chicken is a very simple game. Two people stand facing each other about three feet apart. One person throws a bowie knife at the feet of the other, trying to get as close as possible without actually making contact. Extra respect is given to the person who can penetrate the side of the shoe and still not contact the foot. A participant immediately loses if he actually hits the other person or moves his foot when the other person throws. This is called being a 'chicken' and removes you from the game for someone else to take your place.

After going several rounds and the knife getting closer and closer to their feet, they began to raise the stakes, both to scare the other person and to impress the people watching. Kyle started throwing the knife with an underhand toss rather than throwing it straight down between Trevor's feet. This was especially difficult since the blade has to stick in order to get the scoring point, but he was doing it successfully each time.

Trevor did not appreciate this technique since Kyle had to toss the knife up causing it to come close to Trevor's body and sometimes even his face before it would drop and sink into the dirt. However, that was part of the strategy designed to get the other person to move. After Trevor demanded he change his method several times, Kyle performed a beautifully executed low toss, which caused the blade to come up just under Trevor's groin. Trevor did not move.

Trevor bent down to pull the knife out of the ground. When he stood up, he had a smirk on his face and we all saw the look in his eye. We all knew what was about to happen.

Kyle stared hard at Trevor and through his teeth whispered, "You son of a bitch."

Trevor smiled as he raised his arm. He quickly let it drop and sank the blade in the center of Kyle's foot.

Kyle let out a howl, but stood his ground. He then looked at the crowd and yelled, "Did I move? I stayed still, right?"

Several members of the awestruck crowd agreed that he had not moved. He then pulled out the blade, handed it to Trevor and said, "You lose."

He ran into the house to patch up his new injury and we could already hear the blood sloshing in his boots as he moved. After a few minutes, I went in to check on him and was appalled to discover the trail of blood across the carpet and spray of blood on the bathroom wall from when he had swung his leg up into the sink.

I yelled, "Look at this mess!"

Kyle retorted, "Look at my foot!"

I looked at the bloody mess of the sink and the crimson settling into the carpet. "Uh, yeah. That looks awful...look at this mess!"

While Kyle tended to his foot, Trevor and I started cleaning up the blood before it dried hoping that would keep it from staining the carpet.

Now that I am a parent, every time I come home after my daughter has been home without me, I check the 'recently viewed' list on Netflix, examine the condition of the door jambs and demand to see her feet. I have explained that these inspections are for her own protection and necessary precautions for me to perform as a responsible parent, but she doesn't seem to understand. I don't tell her why I am checking because I don't want to give her any ideas.

So far, all inspections have been to my satisfaction proving that my daughter has never tried anything. Hopefully, she never will.