Jonesing For Pain: Part II

As I explained in PART I of this little saga, "Growing up, we had family friends, the Jones. They lived on the other side of the town. Not "the other side of town". "The other side of THE town". We lived about 2.5 miles southwest of town. They lived about the same distance northeast of town. They had 3 kids that lined up in ages & genders with us, and our dad's went to high school together. That said, we didn't really hang as families a whole lot."

Let me stop here and say, that the youngest boy, Kyle, has always bugged me. He is loud. He is unfunny. He is one of those people who know you didn't like him, but will not STFU or go away. Kyle is the only person who I have ever asked if they wanted out of my car. It was moving at the time. I had no real intentions of slowing down. Sure, he was "held back" in kindergarten and ended up going to a special school for a while to deal with his hyper-active disorder. People tell me he's misunderstood.

I understand him just fine.

While I currently wish him no ill will, in fact I see he horse won at Maywood the other night, but I won't mind if our paths never cross again. So of course, he's one of my brother's best friends.

The incident I am about to describe isn't the only reason I dislike Kyle, but it sure doesn't help.

Once again, maybe 6th grade, Kyle, my brother, Geoff, and I were playing cops and robbers or war or something. We all had fake guns, and were hunting each other. I was sneaking down the back stair case in the dark, trying to out maneuver the younger kids when suddenly, Kyle somehow teleported behind me…

>KRAK-A-TAU<

Little eff'r had taken his plastic rifle and swung it with all his might, shattering the plastic rifle butt against the back of my skull, like you see in those cowboy movies.

I'm not sure if I blacked out or not, but the next thing I knew I was at the bottom of the stairs with a huge welt spurting blood.

I'm not sure I've been back inside the Jones' house since.