2003-11-08 - 2:34 p.m.

The Red Right Hand.

I lied. This is not the �epic� entry I�d promised last time. I�m finding it quite physically difficult to type this entry, let alone one that took me days to write.

Did the typical, �Saturday go down to the water and read comics� thing this morning and ran into Gareth, a resident of Tent City who I�ve been talking to quite a bit lately. Today we were talking about his conversion, his �Re-Awakening� and impending subservience to �the� gospel.

It was a timely discussion, as I�d just finished a lengthy reply to Ms. Lovejoy prompted by the assumption that a 15 line comment I�d made, re: Organized Religion, was my �argument�. It wasn�t. I laid some groundwork what my argument is, and that was that. Religion and spirituality are things to be discussed at length over days and months, not prosaically through email and notes.

So we�re talking, and there�s a ruckus from inside a shelter. A guy screaming at this woman. Then they both start at it. Gareth and I pause and look (he�s sort of a Warden there) and then I hear that sound of violence that makes every cell in my shoulders and chest sink 1 cm lower - the Colds.

There was the sound of something dull connecting with something soft. Several times. The proceeding silence of shock. Then the crying. I�ve heard it before. I eat these fuckers for dinner.

I stomp my black leather over to the shelter and open the �door� and open it. I see a girl with a bloody nose and a split lip, blood all over her dirty jacket. And I see the guy standing there. The fucker with the vacuum from the other night! I SHIT YOU FUCKING NOT. He�s on one knee and I punch at his ear, grabbing him by the greasy shaved-head pony-tail dragging him backwards from the tent.

�I�� *thuK* ��TOLD�� *thuK* ��YOU�� *thuK* ��I�D�� *thuK* �BREAKYOURFUCKINGLEGS!� *thuK**thuK**thuK**thuK**thuK*.

Gareth said, he was a Crank fuck. Shook my hand and said they�d not have to worry about him for a while now.

My punching hand is sore and swollen and I�m a pretty useless left-handed typist. (ed note: I�m ambidextrous, and Kung Fu is a true �multi-limb� form, but when given the opportunity, my left hand is the �locking hand� and my right is the �punching hand�). The first two knuckles on my right look like a pair of indigo and scarlet, 14oz ball-peens, instead of the normal 8oz versions. The backs of my hands look like somebody stepped on them � puffy pink.

No way of hiding this one from my Keeper.

Sigh. Why me?

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.