November 11th, 2015 By Boone

Last night, I went out to get steaks and beers to celebrate the impending birth of a buddy’s son.  The last thing I remember was the blunt heel of a bare foot ramming solidly into my upper front teeth. Then I was out cold.

This morning, I came to.  Everything was dark.  I was completely disoriented, cold, wet, and practically naked.  I lifted my body from the awkward tangle of at least two others. It hurt.  My legs ached and my face and neck were scratched to hell.  The pain could have been left over from baseball bat beating I’d suffered three days ago — the dude got in six blows before I knew what had hit me, and then he took off.  At this point, who knows.

Mornings like this have become normal.

So here I was again, lost in the dark, body aching, struggling to make sense of my surroundings.  I took a couple steps in no particular direction, and that’s when it hit me, SON OF A BITCH, I’ve got the Q at Ranger this morning.

I got my shit together quickly, as I’ve learned to do, and I managed to find my way to the Elizabeth Traditional lot just in time.

Most of the usual suspects showed up.  Spoons wasn’t there, but he doesn’t even show up for his own parties, so no surprise.  The D was missing.  No, not Missing De, although he was absent too, The D that…nevermind #comments.  Ballz was tapering for Thunder Road, which makes complete sense.  Kiser is on the DL again, not that that has anything to do with RAnGEr, except for the fact he sent a nasty pick of his swollen groin to Cindy #thatwasmeantforjenny. Hans said Frans is burned out and as soon as he sells the last pair of kicks out of his trunk #purplemambas, he’s going into hibernation with Sean May and a Costo pallet of spare ribs.  Haywood is still down on the steps at Freedom #calltheobserver. Mr. Miagi must have gotten KO’d in Rochester #johnnylawrence. Mandy Baker didn’t make it, but nobody’s seen Mandy Baker since Mandy Baker tried to sell those win/win financing terms at Wells Fargo #69.  Snoop was up late watching a bootleg copy of the new Peanuts flick, or he got dropped again. Gisele must have been teaching Wolf and Mr. Bojangle (singular) how to wax, cause they weren’t there.  Chaser was still cleaning up orange peels after reffing the Metro/A51 futbol game #thanksfornothingBC.  Sampler moved to Raleigh #plantitdeep. No WaeWae, so no BFF drama.  Steve pussed out for the 63rd week in a row.  So did Fat Gus Malzahn.  And Scrubway.  But I digress.

We ran around the park and to the castle.  11s in the rosemary, dips/derks.  We backwards ran down the street and back. We ran the castle — stopping at the top and bottom for 10 merkins, 10 knee ups, 10 merkins — 7 or 8 or 11 #marv times.  We ran to the basketball court, locked shields, and announced.

I got home post workout, and the house was quiet. Then I heard footsteps, bare feet on the wood floors, and before I could turn toward the sound, I was ambushed.  It was the baseball bat again.  This time, I managed to fight the bat away from my attacker before he took off.  But the next thing I know, he was wrapped around my head like a freaking rabid racoon, clawing at my face and gouging my eyes.  Damn, two-year-olds have sharp fingernails, and those feet are relentless in the middle of the night.

My buddy has a lot to look forward to.