I'm not scared of shit

 “He aint that big, but the fucker has enough crazy in him to smack the shit out of you.” Dylan brushes the marigold hair out of his eyes.

But I'm not scared of shit and I tell him that.

He laughs. “Whatever man, it's your funeral.”

This gets me good. I've got some crazy in me too, and I WANT it more. Plus I know I can handle some shit. Dylan should too. For example: about a year ago, a couple of us went out to a bar. The place was fucking grimy, but they didnt ID and it was a favorite of ours. Some big fucker was talking shit. “I guarantee not a single one of you hairless pussies could even stand after a single punch from a man like me.”

So I taught him a lesson I'd teach any overly-macho testosterone junkie. Im anything but a pussy. I bet him all the money in our wallets I could take a hit from him and stay standing. It was any easy bet in his mind, he had about 6 inches and a hundred pounds on me. Plus I was carrying about double his cash.

He aimed for the jaw but swung low, drunk bastard. It hit me straight in the neck. Still, my friends cheered as I smiled and extended my hand for my winnings. The dude might have been an asshole, but he was good to his word, and I walked away with 38 bucks. He bought me shots off a credit card for the rest of the night, and his friends offered me a couple lines. When I was properly wasted he came to me with another challenger, about 5’6 and heavily tattooed. The new beefhead was named Puke, I shit you not.

Puke wore a well-worn Carhartt jacket, and an even more well-worn look of disgust. Even though I was taller than him, I have to admit I was intimidated. See, Puke might have been small but one drunken glance told me he would hit hard. But I’m not scared of shit and I told him that. He warned me he would hold back as we walked out into the bar parking lot. I laughed, but inwardly I was pissing myself. We shook hands.

Next thing I know Puke’s coming at me with a fucking crowstep! For those of you that don’t know what that is, it’s a little hop somebody as they lunge into a punch. And it’s a sure sign that they mean business. This time, the fist collided dead with my temple. I’m not gonna lie, the world went black and I immediately regret my decision. I went down, and so did Puke, the momentum of his blow carrying him right on top of me. There was an audible gasp from the crowd..

My head was swimming, but before I even knew what I was doing I stood back up. The crowd was silent. Suddenly I couldn’t help but grin. Hell man, I wasn’t dead! “Alright!” I sounded more confident than I felt. “ALRIGHT!” The crowd shouted back at me. Once more Puke shook my hand. Then he coughed up all the money in his wallet. And that was that. The rest of the night was a celebration and a blur, either from the drugs or the possible concussion. All I remember after that was vomiting on myself in my friend’s mom-van.

I was in immense pain. I was in immense revelry. I regret nothing, and now, I'm not scared of shit.