Getting The Boots

Getting the Boots

 I really wish that this wasn’t a true story, but unfortunately it is based on real events.

I was greedy.

 I always had been. I supposed that is why I was the kid who had to buy the husky jeans. Even when I had grown out of being the fat kid, I wanted more.

 More things. More clothes, more girls, more recognition, more respect.

 I would take any security job at the time. I did bodyguard work, I bounced, I patrolled apartments, I secured poker games.

 The name of my company was Legendary Security, but it might as well have been A.F.A.B. because I would do anything for a buck. That’s the actual name of a company in Atlanta so don’t try to steal it.

 Anyway, I was working 7 days a week. I would work at any club no matter how ratchet, or dangerous. I really believed in my own immortality back then as well.

 As fate would have it I went to work at a grimy, gangster club in Mississippi.  It should have been a piece of cake. The club was small enough to fit into a single-family home. In fact, it was smaller then my first apartment.

 However, it was the place to hang out in Meridian at the time at least if you were of a certain gang affiliation.

 The schedule called for there to be two security guards there at any given time and the club paid me, as the contract holder accordingly. I was paid $22 per hour for two security officers. Normally I would pay my guys $80 for a 5-hour night, which meant that I would only pocket $20 for them. I know what you are thinking how can I say only? Well I did warn you that I was greedy right?

 I figured that I could hire a novice to work with me, I mean I got 1001 hands for a buster that gets out of line, and I only needed another body. 

I took advantage of the fact that jobs in Mississippi don’t pay well.  I contacted a big guy that I knew, and that I knew could use the money. I told him “I am going to pay you $10 per hour” I didn’t mention that it would only be $50 per night. I didn’t realize that he would be upset about that. I mean its not like jobs in Mississippi grew like the endless patches of Kudzu, and the few available paid $7-$9 hourly and if you were on the $9 side people would say “So and So has a good JOB!” Based on that I figured that my large stand-in would be happy, I would collect the other $12 per hour as well as being the 2^nd security officer.

 I had done it hundreds of times, I had even had to face some real situations with guys that I hired for cheaply. Those two guys had performed acceptably given the fact that the night life was not really their line of business.

Night one went off without a hitch. We got paid and being generous I gave the large stand-in 3 crisp 20-dollar bills. I introduced him to the fact that we got free drinks at the end of the night. I thought he was suitably impressed and I could count on him to be there on night two wearing the tight assed security shirt I had given him. 

No such luck he called me 15 minutes before the time we were both supposed to be there.

 His heavy Mississippi accent was accentuated by the gold that topped at least ½ of his teeth.  “Aye Main, I sho pre-she-ate you. I anit gone come ta nite, that shit dane-jis.” I was angry. I didn’t have time to replace him.

 I figured “Forget it. I’ll collect his money and mine!” I figured it couldn’t be more dangerous than any of the hundred clubs I had worked in New Orleans, Chicago, and New York. It couldn’t be more dangerous than the small clubs I had escorted the “Tag Team” to. 

 Now remember I was in my early 20’s and I was invincible. 

 I began my night angry. Angry was an old friend and had served me well many times.

 I walked the tiny club strong arming the marijuana smokers into paying for the privilege to smoke inside, I enforced the club’s rules, and I told people what to do.

 As usual someone objected to doing what they were told to do, and I grabbed my old friend angry. “Aye bruh, I am not asking you to move your stupid ass. I am telling you. Move. This anit no fucking conversation!”

 If you don’t understand the dynamic of gang culture, then you won’t understand why the man I was speaking too couldn’t just it let go. He aimed a drunken swing at me and my friend angry and we made him pay for it. 

 I gave him a backhanded left to the bridge of his nose, followed by a devastating right jab in nearly the exact same spot. I was in my element.
 A good fight.

 His friend seemed to take issue with the ass whooping he was receiving and decided that it fell to him to rescue his comrade. This one was stronger, less drunk and closer to my size.

 I gave him the unadulterated business.

 Amid a particularly punishing combo, He yelled out “ALL MIGHTY!” 

I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the Vice Lord cry for assistance.
Assistance came.
 Assistance came, from everywhere.

 I was being punched, kicked and otherwise assaulted on all sides. It seemed like the waitresses were attacking me. I won’t lie and say that I was winning at this point or even doing well, but I was still on my feet.

  Until I was struck by a bottle.
 I fell to one knee knowing that should I fall I would be “Stomped Out” or in the Mississippi vernacular I would “Get the boots” I wasn’t trying to let that happen.

  So, at this point I’m crouching and attempting to fight off these human sized hornets. Another blow to the head from a bottle and I woke up outside.

 I don’t really know how long I had been unconscious. I know that the promoter that was supposed to pay me had not and was nowhere to be found. 

My body hurt. It was difficult to breathe.

 I was wet and smelled like beer and urine.

 My eyes couldn’t focus, anger had deserted me. I found him as I realized that someone had literally urinated on me. Somehow, I made my way to my car.

 I felt beneath the seat my .357 wasn’t there! I couldn’t make my thoughts align. 

 I was headed to my house for more artillery. I hadn’t driven a half mile when I realized that I had a shotgun in the trunk. I spun around in the middle of the street. 

I sped back to the club. I hit the door like Arnold Schwarzenegger in commando. Everyone had left except for two women who could have easily been my back-up, an older man, and a little person.

 I don’t remember driving home. I don’t remember anything that happened in the next two weeks. I found out when I woke up that I had made it home. 

My mother had attempted to call me the next day. When I had not answered she came by and when I wouldn’t answer the door, she called an ambulance.

 I remained in a coma for two weeks, I had 27 hairline fractures in my face and skull, my orbital bone on the left side was broken in three places, and 4 of my ribs were fractured.

I haven’t done security alone since. There is nothing fun about “Getting the Boots put to you.”