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Excerpt from the Book
Chapter One
The Witch
“Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” From The Wizard of Oz.
THE EVENING HAD BEGUN INNOCENTLY enough. What seemed but a typical carefree Biloxi afternoon would soon become the catalyst for the wreckage of me.
The year was 1977 and Pioneer Super-tuners everywhere were blasting the mainstream sounds of KISS, Boston, Heart, Fleetwood Mac and of course Frampton Comes Alive. I, on the other hand, seemed drawn to the darker more sinister sounds of Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, Alice Cooper, Uriah Heep, Deep Purple and such.
Rushing out from our house, I mentioned something about a sleep over at “Witch’s,” then piled into my green Volkswagen “hippie van” heading east on Pass Road.
Note to parents…If your child ever comes home and informs you that they would be spending the night with a dude called “Witch” take whatever means necessary to stop them!
Witch had been my friend since the eighth grade. I was the only friend he had, due mainly to the fact that everyone feared him and winced in agony at the mere sight of this abomination. He stood around 6’4” in the 5th grade, but his head was the size of a small child’s with long unkempt blonde hair that sprouted wildly like a human Chia Pet.
I first encountered Witch at Popp’s Ferry Elementary School while playing pee-wee football. Legend had it that a giant man-child was running roughshod on the football field, killing defenseless running backs and wreaking havoc on linemen assigned to block him. I heard parent’s were protesting his presence at the games, even forcing their child to stay home on days when scheduled to play his team.
I was a step ahead of my parents, just in case they were not aware of this behemoth and the pain he could inflict on unsuspecting quarterbacks, the position that I happened to play. Yes, I planned on developing an unfortunate stomach ache on that brisk October evening, becoming unable to take snaps from my trusty center Mitch Willowhole at some point during pre-game warm ups. I fully expected Witch to be rolled into the stadium in a lion’s cage, his torso smeared with wolf’s blood, eating raw meat, smoking Lucky Strikes, and bellowing obscenities in my direction.
As the sun faded behind the silhouette of Mary’s Drive In and luminous energy permeated the night sky from rows of splendid gleaming bulbs, I realized I needed to take my seventy fifth pee of the evening and started for the emanating urinals beneath the bleachers.
I crept in and began to peel off layers of pads and clothing when I heard a heavy click-clack sound echo through the corridors of an outdated concrete structure. The dungeon-like door creaked open and I spun around in surprise to see the great beast. The Witch stood within arm’s reach of me, holding a wine flask full of ill smelling liquor, a pack of Kool longs, and silver Zippo lighter.
Our eyes met and I quickly glanced down, realizing I was still clutching my pathetically shriveled “twig and berries.” (Imagine the genitalia that a frightened gerbil would sport and you have the visual.) The awkward encounter ended after what seemed a lifetime when I heard him say, and I quote “Hey pencil-dick, you better pray I don’t see you on that field.”
I puked in my throat, swallowed it, tippy-toed past the concession stand, and sprinted to the neatly manicured bushes surrounding the giant score board. While my fellow lambs readied for the slaughter by playing a spirited game of bull in the ring, I clutched the face mask of my battle scarred Riddell helmet and pondered my options.
Suddenly, the piercing sound of my name being called to join this pre game ritual alerted me and without reproach, I flung my headgear as far onto the Lee Street cow pasture as humanly possible.
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