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      Humiliating stories of being a pussy in London Town - The pre-teen thug and my poor face

      March 3, 2009

      By ADAM WHITE

      jellymouse
      I’m a pussy, yes. But I didn’t go to private school and I don’t like Belle and Sebastian - so I have no excuse. I’m just a pussy. And so are my friends. I have quite a lot of stories which revolve around other people exposing the pussy-ness I try and hide behind my bad-ass music taste and this is one of them.

      Early in 2009 me and two friends were walking home through Hackney drunk. Somewhere along the wobbling line, we came across some traffic cones. Pissed and bored, my mate James started picking them up and dragging them onto the main road. I started shouting at him, something like: “What the fuck are you doing you prick? Are you a student? Who are you rebelling against? Buses? Ambulances? Grow up and get a fucking clue you lame cunt.” He freaked out and ran over as if to punch me in the face. I wasn’t scared because he, like me, wouldn’t punch a fly; even if it was right up in his grill. I pushed him before Dan jumped in and split us up. James stalked off in a fug of pissed-up arrogance, while I, emboldened with a sense of pissed-up self-righteousness, stood shouting at his back. He was being a prick.

      As I was shouting though, another, shriller voice appeared behind me. “Hey! Pussy!” it shouted, recognising me for what I was. Behind me was a little boy, probably about twelve, with a thick Irish accent. Now, as a pussy, I don’t normally deal well with conflict, I normally tuck my head between my shoulders and run away; keeping my legs straight so I don’t look like I’m running; (in my weird pussy mind, running might be seen as an act of pussy’s rebellion that deserves punishment). However, I was in the middle of a fury. “Enough,” I thought, “screw this little kid and his assumption that he can scare me”. I shouted, (amateurishly): ”Fuck off or come here and say that again.” He started coming here, clearly intent on saying it again. Dan looked at me pissed off. It may have been a short-arse child advancing on us, but it was also the kind of short-arse child who wandered through streets at three in the morning and shouted at strange, angry, drunk men. Clearly courage wasn’t a problem for him. But I wasn’t that worried, maybe Dan could kneel behind him while I pushed the kid over his back?

      As he got closer though, another figure strolled round the corner. Fuck. Even from 200 meters I could tell it was his big brother. His big, hulking baby-eating psycho of a brother; a guy who’d taught his little brother that strangers were a thing to scare, not to be scared of, and took him hunting on the streets. Behind him was another brother, though this one was barely over ten. What a fucking family. All three started shouting at me, picking up pace as I stood paralysed, hoping their vision was based on movement. Dan took side steps away from me until he was far enough away to seem unconnected, (but not so far that he wouldn’t be able to collect my teeth when they snapped out of my mouth - that's friendship).

      The twelve-year-old loudmouth marched up and sparked me in the jaw. It hurt like hell and I pushed him away. “Oi! Don’t touch my little brother” shouted the largest of my bullies. The kid punched me again, and even though I’m a total pussy, I pushed him off once more. Now the big brother had caught up with us; he grabbed my throat and, like a pussy, I apologised. The twelve-year-old punched me again and I rocked back into the street, but didn’t do anything. Behind me was a long empty stretch; my flat was not far away, but running didn't really seem an option. So instead i stood there, inhaling my balls as he punched me again. And again. My mouth started to bleed quite a lot. By this time Dan had realised that he probably had to do something, so he had ambled up to the biggest brother and appeared to be laughing. Meanwhile I was being pummled in my mouth and on my nose, and after every punch I was just helpfully repositioning my head in the firing line. Still, I reasoned, better to be beaten slowly to death by a child then eaten by Goliath.

      Through the fists and the quickly swelling bruise on my eye I could see Dan was having some success at striking a deal and eventually, as my legs were starting to go, the big brother wandered over and pulled the little shit off me. Unfortunately, by this point the even littler dude had started to feel left out, he sprang up and nailed me in my open mouth. I thought I was going to pass out, but the fact that I was there being beaten-up by a kid unable to grow a single hair beneath his mono-brow left me feeling a bit lame, so, in a crazy attempt at self-deception, I mumbled something like: “Ha. He’s got a good punch that one.” As though we were all friendly parents watching a child play sports. This, while I’m spitting blood on the floor and shaking with unused adrenalin.

      Dan strolled up, perhaps enjoying the fact that he seemed to have the ear of these monsters while I was simply their wet whipping-boy. He pleaded with the eldest and the ten-year-old hit me once more. This time I did fall over. A puddle of blood grew quickly beneath my face on the pavement and ran onto my T-Shirt. I was lying approximately 200 meters from my flat.

      “Okay, okay” said the eldest, as Dan opened a packet of fags. “Leave off.” He turned to Dan, “Give us a fag though.” This seemed a great deal to me, but Dan, like the thick prick that he is said no. I shouted something at him, but to be fair I was probably incomprehensible. “Give me a fag. I could just take the whole lot”. He was being more reasonable with Dan then anyone had been with me, but Dan didn’t seem to understand. “No,” he said taking a quick, gross, series of puffs at his Marlboro Light, “you can finish this”. He dropped the cigarette on the floor and took a step forwards towards me. An enormous fist cannoned into his cheek from behind and honestly, I’ve never seen anyone fly into the air so high. He pirouetted before coming crack-down on his face into the curb. The mid-sized lunatic ran over, reached into his pocket, took his fags, kicked him in the stomach, stamped on my hand, and they all ran off.

      The next day my bruises didn’t look so bad. Dan had to get his jaw realigned. What a pair of fucking pussies we are.

       

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