A word to the wise ain't necessary--it's the stupid ones who need advice.
-Bill Cosby

I don't know why anyone would give a shit about my story, but I suppose I can give you the gist of the ugly thing. No need to go into too much, I don't want to encourage any fucking pity parties. Others have had it a lot rougher and will keep doing so. So don't anyone that reads this get any ideas.

I was born in a shithole, basically. Figuratively, obviously. But it might as well be literally. My parents were both worthless. My dad spent his time either drinking or going to drug parties, my mom pulled any guy home and into bed that even looked at her twice. Hell, I don't even know for sure if my dad was my real dad or not. Doesn't make any fucking difference, I guess. Nobody she ever brought home was worth shit. That's one thing they all had in common. Another was that they seemed to think that I was a great punching bag. She seemed to be drawn to the violent type. If she had a guy over and I got in the way or.. God forbid.. asked for food or something, I'd end up getting the shit beat out of me. But on the bright side, my dad never hit me. So I guess I'm lucky. I didn't have abusive parents.

Understandably, maybe.. although some don't understand and never will.. the anger from this shit built up inside of me. For years. I couldn't do anything, I was always smaller and younger and not able to do anything but take it. You don't know how heavy that can build up inside. How years of being treated like that can make you. The anger kept growing and growing. I kept fighting it because I was scared shitless about what might happen if I blew. Mainly I was afraid of getting killed by whoever I blew up at. Not that death didn't seem like a good alternative at the time, but I have a well honed survival instinct. As worthless as everyone around me made me feel, I still wanted to live long enough to learn not to be so worthless. Maybe someday I will. Who can tell?

Well, as the time went by, I got bigger. I got stronger. And the anger kept growing. I didn't know how to release it. And I didn't know if I should. But it got to the point that I had no choice. When you hold something in for that long, something that strong, it has to eventually come out. So it came out in a really big way. And from then on my life turned way around on me.

I can say here that it was a dark and stormy night. It's true even. About ten o'clock, thunderstorm, power out.. great setting for a horror movie. But then, my whole life was a horror movie anyway. I was 15 at the time. My mom had her current boyfriend over for the third night in a row. Almost a record with her. He was a big motherfucker, and had a nasty temper. And everything I did, he didn't like. Didn't matter what it was. He came out of my parents' room as I was trying to read a book under this skimpy fucking candle, and he was pissed about something. Hell if I know what it was. Or care. He went over and grabbed my book, ripped it right out of my hands. And knocked the candle over. Then he backhanded me, throwing the book to the side. He yelled something, but I don't know what it was. I didn't make out the words. I felt this rush run through me, making me hot all over. This rage that I had been denying for all that time. I remember hitting him in the face first. And feeling his nose break under my fist. It felt good, I felt satisfied. And that egged me on to more. I hit him, I kept hitting him. I don't know how many times I did it. All I know is that when I finally stopped he was laying on the floor. And he wasn't moving and he wasn't breathing. I knew he was dead without checking for a pulse. Hard not to figure that when his face was pretty much a bloody pulp. And he didn't get one shot off on me. Sure, I'm proud. Don't I seem that way?

Well, I did what any kid would do in that situation... I ran. Grabbed my stuff, what little I had, and took off. I never looked back, never intend to. I ran, walked, kept away from streets and any public places as I left. I just kept walking. A few months later I found myself in New Orleans. I'm not saying from where, the city where I'm from isn't important. I hung around New Orleans, I kind of liked the atmosphere. It's not a bad place, although the weather can be hell. But maybe that's my self-imposed punishment. Or one of them anyway. I got into trouble here and there, worked when I could and ate when I could. I wasn't there long before I met Miguel. You know all about him, everyone who's read these stories does. So I don't have to go into it. I caught the fever that he tends to give people about his cause. And I joined up. Maybe that's partly pennance. Maybe. I've been there ever since. I don't know that I've done much good, but I suppose it's possible.

Oh, my temper. I should say something about that as well. It hasn't gotten any better at all. It kind of stuck where it was when it came out. I don't live angry, but when things happen that make me that way, it gets bad. Really bad. Sometimes I feel guilty for what I do, but when it's to someone that I'm sure deserves it, I don't feel bad about it at all. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. Rafael's fiancé Amanda, just by her reaction when I talked about it, she doesn't think it's a good thing. I'm sure a lot of people don't. But they keep their mouths shut about it. Maybe they're kind, maybe they're afraid of me. I don't know. But I am who I am and even though sometimes I want to change that, I can't. That can of worms got opened and I can't get the lid back on. Part of me doesn't want to, I think. Part of me feels this awful guilt about it all, and I feel sometimes like I have to pay for what I've done. And sometimes I do things to make sure that I do pay. Maybe I'm just a pathetic loser, who knows? In any case, I'll keep doing what I'm doing and being who I'm being. I'll take care of Legs as much as I can, and if I see that little asshole Auntoni around, I'll attack him again. I have no problem about that, I'll feel no guilt about it. Does that make me bad?

Anybody can become angry--that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way--that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.
-Aristotle

Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.
-Joseph Joubert