When You’re A Jet

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.

If you want to learn how to knife fight click here. There is also a book written specifically about knife fighting.

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