The feud between Mark and I has officially ended; settled like men with switchblade knives. My crew and I rumbled Mark and his boys in the parking lot of a run down tavern in Aurora. Granted, my gang may have been outclassed and out danced, they are, after all, just a motley bunch of ex-con drug addicts; but when you are in a knife fight, what counts is whom you cut and how deep you cut them.
The knife fight went something like this: Mark insisted that we hold hands instead of the traditional binding of the wrists with a bandanna (or as us choreographed fighting gangsters call it a “doo rag”). Our collective crews encircled us, making sure that our rumble would end in a bloodbath if anyone tried to escape. Somewhere in the distance, heavy guitar riffs were played as we circled around each other like vultures over a fresh kill. Mark struck first, slicing off my right nipple and sticking me in the pancreas. I countered stabbing him in the kidneys, head, neck and chest area. When the dust settled, Mark was on the ground bleeding and I stood over him, arms raised in victory. We then proceeded to limp into the bar and did Jagermeister shots until we threw up. From this day on, I will always admire the tenacity and heart of young Mark. He fought like a cornered pit bull with its nuts cut off. My respect for him will be carried out until my dying day.