This "new" project I began almost six years ago. I've always wanted to write an unconventional love story, and for many years considered how I could go about doing it. Nothing ever came to me. But then Kye and I moved here, to remote southwestern Oregon, and my life, tumultuous as it has been, began to come together in many ways. When that happened it occurred to me that my own life could serve as a worthy template (I felt; you may end up disagreeing with me) to the as-yet-begun story.
The title is both lame and good. I'm sure as time goes on I'll have multiple opportunities to change it. For now this project shall remain A Love Story.
The chapters are very roughly edited. Please forgive any issues. And enjoy.
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Chapter One
Eight Years Ago
~~*~~
“Third and six,
Warriors stalled on their thirty-six. Five minutes left to play, fourth quarter.
Comin’ to you live from Warrior Stadium. The story of the game is this: the
third-ranked UCLA Bruins have owned the line of scrimmage for most of the game,
at least where and when it counts.”
“Agreed, Jim. Unless the Warriors can
generate a better push up front, this one may be in the books.”
“Snap clock down to six ... five ... four
... Tellenson in the shotgun ... two ... one ... snap.... Look out—! ...
Tellenson sacked for a thirteen-yard loss!”
“Whoa, my, did he get smacked by the Bruin’s
free safety! I’m surprised he can even get up after that! ...”
Marcus McDougall took
a swig of the half-empty fifth of Jack in his lap as the heater blew in his
face. He turned up the radio against the noise and gazed out at the dark field.
“... Bruins hold a fairly solid ten-point
lead. Samuels out for the punt ... Booming, high, end-over-end kick; Bruins’
Sharpstend clear back at the five; wow! Fair catch called ... What a great
punt! We’ve got a time-out on the field. It’s UCLA 23, Rainbow Warriors 14. We’ll
take a moment to check in with our sponsors. This is the Warriors’ radio network....”
He took another
swig and for no reason revved the engine of his Camaro. It roared over the beer
commercial.
“Fuckin’ pussies ain’t
gonna show,” he grumbled. He took another drink, belched, and set the bottle on
the passenger seat.
“Welcome back. UCLA on top of Hawaii
“What do you say, Merle? Think the Warriors’
defense is up to the task?”
“They’ve been all night, Jim. The Bruins’ have
the nation’s number one offense. The Warriors have held them to two hundred
sixty-six total yards and less than sixty on the ground. They’ve given up three
huge plays, but that’s it. Last week the Bruins ran over the Sooners for three
hundred-plus and two hundred in the air. The Warriors defense has been up to
the challenge. Now if only the offense could find a way ...”
“They need to find a way to spring
McDougall. Number nine accounts for one hundred sixty-eight of the Warriors’
two hundred twelve total yards, and both of their touchdowns. Still, he’s been
held out of the end zone since early in the second quarter.”
“Doesn’t matter how many yards you roll up
if you can’t show anything for it.”
“That’s absolutely right, Merle. I’m certain
Gideon McDougall would agree. He must be very frustrated right now.”
“A win keeps his name in the Heisman
conversation. If the Warriors drop this one, his name will drop out too.”
“You’re right, Jim, as unfair as that is.....”
“C’mon, bro,” said Marcus.
“You’ve got this. Get the rock back and shove it down their fuckin’ throats.
Well, it’s about fuckin’ time....”
The single
headlight grew as he watched. He unrolled both windows, turned the car off, turned
the volume on the game up as loud as it would go, and stepped out.
The sedan rolling
slowly towards him was an Olds or something similar, and at least thirty years
old. Rust spattered its faded white paint. It’s hood was dented, and one of its
headlamps was out. It stopped fifty feet in front of him. He leaned against the
hood of his car and waited.
“Bruins at the Warriors’ twenty-eight. Three
and change left to play. Rolfs drops back, hands off to Carmichael
... FUMBLE! It’s a mad scramble ... Warriors’ recover!”
All four doors of the
sedan opened at once. Out of it stepped one, two, three, four ... five guys.
Three held tire chains, another a crowbar. The driver ... carried nothing.
Marcus glanced down
and noticed the bulge in the pocket of the driver’s cargo pants.
Nope. Not nothin’. Fucker’s packing.
The five approached
slowly. That made him grin.
“Gonna make this a
fair fight, Eddie,” he called out over the game, “or are you too much of a pussy?”
Eddie reached into
his pocket and pulled out the pistol and aimed it at him.
Marcus didn’t
flinch. “Just for that, you fuckin’ dick, I’m gonna pay extra attention to you
when I get around to ya.”
Eddie held the gun
steady, then chortled and handed it to one of his homies. “Put this in the
car,” he ordered. “We won’t need it. I’m gonna finish him with my bare hands.”
His comrade took
the weapon and walked it back to the sedan, came back.
“Tellenson back, hands off McDougall ... BIG
HOLE! McDougall down the sideline, fifty, forty, thirty, twenty, ten, five,
TO—THE—HOUSE! TOUCHDOWN, GIDEON MCDOUGALL!”
The gang heard it
too. They said nothing.
Marcus McDougall pushed
himself from the hood and began walking towards them.
“Gideon McDougall isn’t finished yet, folks!
Two forty left and they’re going for two ... Listen to this crowd!”
Eddie laughed. “Rainbow
Warriors. What a fuckin’ gay name. That’s the best your brother could do, play
for a gay-ass team like the fuckin’ Rainbow Warriors?”
“Tellenson hands off, McDougal to the
goal-line ... SCORE! He just barreled through that Bruin defensive front seven
like nothing was going to stop him! Just like that the Warriors are now within
one, 23 – 22! Very gutsy call by Coach Ephy....”
The banger to his immediate
left swung his tire chain the moment Marcus got within range. Marcus barreled
into his arm before the chain came whistling down, which it did harmlessly
against his back and ass. He brought a swift elbow up into the dickhead’s nose.
The banger’s head snapped back and he went limp.
Tire chain in his
grip, he wheeled and snapped it at Eddie, who, almost certainly drunk and high,
only realized what happened—
—too late. The
chain cracked into his face and he dropped to his knees, his nose and forehead spurting
blood.
His scream was
muffled. “YOU FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE!”
Crowbar guy was
next. The other two, swinging chains, seemed anxious but not quite ready to do
battle. They struck at him, but from a safe puss-ass distance, and hurry
backwards after each go. The dude holding the crowbar, though, wasn’t so scared.
He circled behind Eddie, who screamed mindlessly in the dirt.
Marcus kicked Eddie
in the ear and he slumped silent and still.
Crowbar guy lifted
the iron in his grip and came around his leader with a yell for his friends to
join him.
Marcus swung the
chain. It wrapped around the bar as it came down. He jerked with all he had and
the weapon came loose. The banger swung and connected with his jaw, but it was
a love tap for what he’d expected. The fuckhole bullrushed him.
“McDougall BIG HOLE ... thirty, twenty ... down
at the eleven! Gideon McDougall has Hawaii
Marcus fell, the
gang jerk on top, but managed to get the chain around his thick neck. He threw
an elbow that connected with the asshole’s over-cologned face and pushed him
off and got to his feet. One of the chains held by the final two came whistling
down. It didn’t connect with him—more by luck than anything—but right on the
crown of this fuck, who bellowed and passed out, a huge bloody gash separating
his hair from his scalp.
Marcus threw the
chain in his fist aside. “Go for it,” he growled at the assailant. “GO FOR IT!”
The asshole gave his
chain another swing, this time from the side. It connected full force in
Marcus’ ribs. He felt the crack and knew at least one of them had broken. It
didn’t matter. He swung his fist and it connected. The banger’s nose, instantly
broken, blinded him. The other chain swinger stood there like the dumbfuck he
was, the chain in his right hand circling like he was a fuckin’ cheerleader,
well out of harm’s way.
The other tried
swinging his chain again, but couldn’t see. Marcus kicked his knee out from
under him. It bent obliquely and he fell bellowing. Marcus kicked him to his
side and knelt on his back and grabbed his hair with one hand and smashed his
free fist into his face with the other while glaring at the other, who’d
stopped swinging his chain and stared in frozen horror.
He spied the handgun
then. The asshole under his knee had kept it in his fuckin’ pocket!
With the jerk’s
hair in his right hand, he picked the piece up with his left and pulled the
trigger. The coward shrieked and collapsed with a shudder, the chain in his
grip forgotten. His right thigh just above his knee was a spreading purple smear.
“Hand-off McDougall, reverse field, looking
for a hole ... FUMBLE! The Bruins recover! Gideon McDougall, just inches from
paydirt, fumbled the ball, the first of his career, the Bruins have it, and
this one is over! Oh my, what a heart-breaker! The crowd can’t believe it! The
stadium is in shocked silence!”
Marcus stood and glanced
around at the five slumped in the dirt. The one with the bullet wound was still
yelling; he went to him and punched him in the ear, then punted his face until
he shut up.
At that moment the
sheriff arrived, lights flashing.
Marcus McDougall went to his Camaro and
turned off the radio.
“Oh, well, bro.
There’s always next week.”
~~*~~
