Andrew Daily resides in Greenville, North Carolina, a small town towards the coast that has contributed the brothers Flythe to our Jar, one in the form of cycle courrier and dad, one in the form of visiting rock star. This past Saturday the latter brohams band was playing at the RTA annex, a house show that eventually ruined his keyboard due to the amount of BEER being thrown in the air in a post-scavanger-hunt hoopla. Like SpeedStreet for track bikes. Either way, among the crowd of thighs and brims was the outstanding individual 50 Pence. You see, he is like 50 Cents in that he's been shot a bunch, but he's way more ol' timey.
Some time ago in the quiet American Ville of Green, NC, a local gang composed of six or seven 15 and 16 year olds decided it was time to validate their status as a collective menace to society. What better way to initiate a life of crime than a full on spree including weapons and everything? On this night 50 Pence was hanging in the backyard of the latter broham Flythe's condo. A bonfire was snapping and from what I can tell it was the same as any other brew-ha-ha that some of us have been to. Enter Pirates, stage left. From around the house the gang of ganksters emerged guns drawn demanding all things deemed valuable that the unassuming party-goers had on their persons. Yes, a full on bandito attack in our collective backyard. Young 50 backed into the shaddows. He watched as anger and confusion led its march into the field of friends and fun that had been fine without such uninvited guests. In self-preservation, for what else can we do, he was able to exit the scene without being noticed. He made his way to the front of the house.
On the front porch he attempted to contact the younger, keyboard playing Flythe brother. His call went unanswered. Alone under a burning 60 watt he stood while armed teens roamed the property taking what was not theirs. Suddenly one of the gunmen is approaching him, double-barrel aimed towards his face. Closer and closer the gunman...
50 Pence is no joke. Built like a Greco-Roman with a healthy mop of dark spirit on his dome he exudes a power that would not like to be attacked...
Gun in his face, demands being made. Something snaps. That something that says, "You know, this isn't right, and curse putting up with it." In one move one hand grasped the barrel of the gun and the other removed the action from the attackers grip. One more move and he was shucking back the pump and aiming at the young banditos knees. He didn't want to kill him, he didn't want that on his conscience. That didn't matter. No slug in the hold. Not loaded. Empty. Click.
He slammed the butt of the gun against the head of it's previous owner. That sent the guy to the ground, but he got up quickly, faster than one would expect. This is the point where the power of positive thinking kinda went out the proverbial window. With the one goon getting up another was approaching fast from behind and before anybody knew what was happening a shiv was shoved deep into 50 Pence's sweet meat. That's right, he got stabbed in the ass. He felt his index and middle finger go knuckle deep into the wound and his first thoughts were, "I can tape that up and be in class tomorrow," and, "That's all you got?" He even said aloud at that moment, "That's all you got?" It wasn't. From the reserves of the b-team depths came goomba number three. A classy fellow brandishing a .357 Magnum. Four shots. One in and through the left shoulder, pivoting young 50's body 180 degrees, exposing the back, then one in through the back and lung eventually stopping midway up his spine. Four shots from a .357 at point-blank range and no kill. Total amatuers.
50 fell to the ground laughing, the power of positive thinking kicking back in full swing. Not for one second did he think he was going to die. He crawled in some random direction and then eventually a sheriff with a dip in his lip was standing over him saying, "Damn boy, you got shot." A screaming lady was in his face shouting demands and not helping. He called the sheriff closer and closer and with one lung's breath told him to please get the screaming b@&ch out of his face. Another person was doing their best to hold his blood in, though it was pouring out of three holes in his body and covering one simply made the others pump harder. He knew he would survive, was surviving, and would walk away from such nonsense. He did, within 4 days to be exact. Today his lung works fine, fine enough to puff a grit and tell the story of what happend that night that destiny brought the likes of goofballs to his experience. You can still feel the bullet lodged next to his spine. Youn can move it around and stuff.
Nobody else got shot that night, though 3 weeks earlier the same mobile goonies had used the same .357 to shoot a 15 year old girl. She lived, too. Of course.
Eventually the same evening that young 50's blood got to venture into the material world the car-full of speeding teens got pulled for blowing red lights, or like energy draws like energy, whatever you gotta say. Anywho, the bag full of wallets with photo ID's made it pretty easy to put the kids at the scene and eventually in the place where your told, "No talking! That means, keep the conversation to a minimum!" The place where you cant choose when and where you'll go.
50 Pence and I sat on cinder blocks and talked while the party raged on and on. Mosh pits full of transvestites ruined keyboards with BEER throwing dance moves and fool-hearted hipsters climbed the tree of death built by this man (so please be careful) and took in the view of the Jar through PBR'd vision. 50 and I got to the point and it was agreed upon that there is no real world and spiritual world. They are one in the same. The real is spiritual and the spiritual is real. We talked about using our hands for work and the value of silence, the pleasure in making things better and the party, how it serves to distract for a while, and for that we can be greatful, but that it's noisiness and ignorance are not stopping the rain from falling on our heads.
50, meeting people like you in the Jar makes me feel alive and sentient. You are a fine artist and one of a guild that's comprised of a few. Thanks.
Photo credits as follows,
Dark and blurry - Jordy
Clear shot 1 - 50
Clear shot 2 - 50
3 comments:
holy.
Dr. Whomp, I know, right?
sounds like mortal combat without the cartoon images....
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