The Bat Man

One night, my friend Jim and I went out drinking and driving; just because we were young, wild and reckless. His father was an alcoholic and it was easy to steal his booze. We'd done it many times before, with no concerns for the school-day next to come. We'd drink and drive into the night, where we'd embark on the most nonsensical nocturnal adventures, carry them out, and then laugh about them in the comfort of some dark riverfront park, anonymous, alone, stewed. This night, we'd cut the air stems off tires, pulled out plants, turned over trash cans, and consumed more than a full quart of double-strength rum. Jim's driving was beginning to suffer, so he pulled into a park hallmarked by its canals for the hundreds of private boats that were moored near the posh homes set in from the actual riverbank. It was his intent to sober up, a process he initiated by guzzling the last remaining rum. Always the heavier drinker, Jim could consume gargantuan amounts of beer, wine, whatever. But the super-powered rum got the upper hand. His speech was slurring badly, his head lolled from side to side, and his eyes moved in different directions. Then he slumped over, unconscious. While I was trying to figure out how to get each of us home without winding up in a world of trouble, he gurgled unhealthily and upchucked not only the last few ounces of rum, but the sour remains of his long-ago dinner as well.

Ever the true friend, I secured the car keys and found some gym towels in the trunk. Hauling him (flailing and retching all the way) down to the water's edge, I slopped him clean with a wet towel, and when he woke up and could see to his own needs, I went back and cleaned out the car. In a while, he staggered up from the canal's edge and insisted that he could drive. He sat in the driver's seat, whereupon he swooned again and fell out onto the shoulder of the road.

At this hilarious and inopportune moment, Fate poked its displeased finger into the situation by sending us a hillbilly and his girlfriend (also a hillbilly) who drove by, looking for a secluded place to screw in the dark. About 50 yards after they'd passed us, he jammed on the brakes and burnt his tires in reverse all the way back. I could hear them talking loudly. Then he burst out of the old truck.  He was a really ugly, six-and-a-half-foot-tall, heavy set monster in a plaid shirt and blue jeans (not the stylish kind either), carrying a baseball bat. The girl rushed out too. She was about four-and-a-half feet tall, scrawny, stringy-haired, sunken-cheeked, and brandished a wicked looking knife. In the darkness, the gorilla/bear bellowed, "Why you sum-bitch! You bastard! You killed her! You little sum-bitchin' killer! I'm gonna kill you!!"

(I should point out here that Jim was one of the first rebellious long-haired artist types of the mid-sixties. His parents encouraged his creativity and tolerated his non-conformity/conformity rather than wound his sensitive little psyche, which was now laying alcohol-benumbed in the dirt. Neither of us was overtly burly or classically manly, and with his long blond hair Jim could easily have passed for an unattractive girl. This brain-dead, inbred, jar-headed son of the soil could never have seen him as anything but a woman.)

It was clear to me that these two ignorant fools actually thought that Jim was a girl and that I had killed "her." I realized that this could very well be the last moment of my life. I said, "No, no. He's just passed out drunk......."

"Shut up you murderin' little bastard!" the four-toothed hag shrieked, "Git 'im Bobby! Kill that little bastard! Kill 'im!" And with this encouragement the horrible monster rushed me, swinging his club in the air.     

My response was primitive and simple, I ran like hell. Of course, the old rule (that there is no better way to make a dog chase you than to run away from him) is always true, and the prehistoric brute chased right after me. Up and down the hard-packed unpaved canal roads and into the neighborhoods we raced. I even ran up to people sitting on a few porches and asked for help. One woman screamed, a man said, "Get off my property!" An elderly couple sat and stared silently at me. I never got any help at all.

But, as Jim was an art student and good at it, I was just as good on the track team, and the evil yokel hadn't counted on that. He got winded, but I was still fresh (and feeling no pain, thanks to the rum) so I circled back to the car to see what was going on. The little witch had revived Jim, he was standing and chatting with her. When I got there, she ran off to meet her darlin'. I could hear her explaining things to him, "No Bobby! It's okay now. Everything's okay. It's a guy, not a girl. They're just out here drinkin'! It ain't like we thought!"

The two murderous jackasses came shuffling up and the male critter said, "Well, it's okay now, no hard feelin's, shake." He held out his hand. I looked at him and said, "Fuck you..........asshole."

He instantly raised the bat again, and his vicious little woman said, "Just shake, dammit!" So I did. They got back in the pickup, drove a 'ways into the park, looped around and drove towards us again, but this time on the way out. The truck slowed , Bobby leaned out of his window and yelled, "FAGS!" then sped off into the night. Jim asked me, "What the hell is going on?"

Still the true, compassionate friend, I didn't give him any crap (well, not much anyway), for his foolishness.  Instead, I calmly explained what happened, and inevitably he did sober up and we both got home safely. We laughed about our near-double-murder, and I think we went drinking the next night, ....and the next.

But I learned that there's a whole cadre of do-gooders out there who will gladly kill you, just to stop you from committing a crime. I have since been accosted by several more of these Errant-Knight-Templars, all of whom were willing to brutalize me because they thought I was doing something wrong. "Hey, what the hell's that sum-bitch doin'? I'll git 'im!" But, I carry a handgun now, and a gun trumps a bat.

Less on main street and more often inside the Washington Beltway and on most college campuses, today's do-gooding, bat wielding dimwits wear a politically corrected hat. Instead of riding around at night in an old Ford pickup, they now creep through the marbled halls of knowledge and power, looking not for murders or robberies, but for racism, social injustice, sexism and the like. When they find it, real or deliberately imaginary, they attack it with deadly evil force, hurling every vile name and false charge they can, as if they were the angels in a war between Heaven and Hell. Too overcome with their own hate and rage to see themselves for what they are (brutal bullies), they transfer their own evil to others, and then demand from their victims that very self-loathing guilt that they refuse to adopt in themselves. The politically correct community is worse, 'way more evil and intellectually more violent, than anyone they accuse of being bad. Their cries of sexism are sexism, their cries of racism are racism. The Liberals are the very Nazis that they hate so much.          

Hiding in the heart of every Liberal is an ignorant, psychologically misshapen killer, willing to destroy anyone or anything that doesn't fit into the Liberal Sociologist plans for total world domination.  Mockery,  Deconstruction, Spin, Slander and Character Assassination, Revisionist History, Social Disobedience and Shame-Mongering may have replaced the baseball bat in the hand of the intolerant destroyer, but the Arrogant Hate is the same.  Liberals are spooky, evil creatures.  Their souls are filled with a dark, supernatural rage.  They're the most dangerous people in the whole World.

Comments: keller@trilobyte-mag.com