The Day I Got Into A Knife Fight With Myself
With my newfound responsible lifestyle, complete with a doting fiancé and adorable light-skinned children, my life just isn’t as exciting any more. The stories just don’t flow out of me the way they used to.
Who am I kidding? The truth of it is, me and wifey get into some pretty outrageous shit together. She’s on some private shit with her responsible job and all, so I can’t be out here droppin dimes on her.
Like last weekend when I had a panic attack at a Lowell house party filled with semi-pro football players. I was convinced the Boston Bandits were setting us up to tie me in a corner and watch her get used like a Revere Catholic school girl. “If we don’t get out of here now, we never will. We can jump on to the backyard from the porch and make it to the car in 20 seconds. Take your shoes off.”
…Or the weekend before when I convinced her we were going to a club in Salisbury just for a change of pace, when deep down I knew it was a strip/swingers club. We sat down for our first drink as some guy sauntered over and placed his hand on her lap, introducing himself as Phillip. She spit her drink out. I said, “No Phillip!” Like I was chastising the house cat to get off the bed. The car ride home sucked as I had to explain where I brought her. Poor thing.
So how do I solve my dilemma? I dig in the crates. I share some throwback stories with you that don’t involve my
swinger loving wife.
This story takes place 11 years ago. Although 27 years old, I had plenty of more douchebag in me. I rocked bandanas, bedazzled Dj ON&ON shirts, and matching head/wrist bands. I was at the height of my alcoholism, smoked haze on a regular basis, and was content on sharing my penis with any female over 18 years and one minute old.
I had just moved to Boston from Lynn, where I spent my days working as an appliance store salesman. Interesting game, the appliance game is. The way I ensured getting a decent paycheck was to sell whatever products paid “spiffs”.
A spiff is basically a financial reward the manufacturer gives the salesman for selling their shit. For instance, G.E. could have two stoves that cost $600. However, us salesmen have a Spiff List that tells us which one of those two stoves gives a $20 reward. So as I’m telling Mrs. Rottencrotch and her bratty kids about the two stoves, I’m just thinking of the $20 in it for me if I guide her to the right one. Every Friday, the reps for Maytag, Whirlpool, Frigidaire, GE, Thermador, Sub-Zero, and Viking would come in, blank checks in hand. They would each pull me aside and give me gift certificates to the Ground Round across the street. Was this shit even legal? It felt like I was working in The Boiler Room of the appliance game.
Come to think of it, I would have probably bought a house and comfortably retired, like our head salesman, Arthur Greenbaum. Artie was damn good. He could sell Nike’s to Ripshop. Yes, that good.
All the dirty appliance money in the North Shore didn’t mean anything to me though. I needed to be on the radio, in the spotlight, on stage…the big time baby! (MORON!)
Stuck in Lynn for reasons I don’t care to divulge, it was my mission to be the biggest dj in Lynn. That’s right, Central Square today, Central America tomorrow. That’s a bad thing I just did there, cuz central Square and Central America are pretty much the same thing, but you know what I mean.
I landed my first gig at Maximo’s, a Dominican dive bar which was a front for heroin distribution. Maximo was 82 years old and couldn’t see 5 feet in front of him. Incapable of saying “David”, he would bark the same orders at me every night.
“Daybee! No hippa hoppa moosik! Daybee! Stay out the rrrroom in the back! Daybee! Ju stay longer…I pay ju the same!” He was a sweetheart. His son was another story.
His name was Kelby, who was married with four kids. Bad ass wife. However, Kelby was steadily smashing Carol, or C Murder as she was affectionately known in Lynn.
So I met Carol while deejaying at Maximo’s. The place would close at 2, and she would stroll in at 1:45 every night. She was 6’1″, pretty face, chiseled arms, and always dressed like a glamorous prostitute. You can say it, she looked like a tranny.
She would always have a different chick with her, equally sluttified and dripping of sperm soaked regret and shame. They would grab a table by the dance floor in this dingy ass club with red lighting and bowling alley flavored carpeting as they sipped cognac from wine glasses, completely unaware of their trashiness.
One night this drunk group of chicks is harassing me to play some Spanish music. I keep refusing them. The nerve. Spanish music in a Dominican club? They want Spanish music? I’ll play Big Pun. Carol walks over dolo. First time I would interact with her. She asks what the problem is. One of the birds chirps something about me not playing Spanish music. “This ain’t no Black fucking club!”
Carol, from Barbados, and black as baby Jesus himself, proceeded to drag every one of those bitches throughout the club. Punches, kicks, elbows, suplexes… It was like a Power Ranger dipped in Tello’s gear just entered the room. When the carnage was over, she turns to me and says, “Now play some fuckin reggae music.” I did, and that was the beginning of our friendship.
C Murder and the best refrigerator selling dj in Lynn were fast friends. She would provide security for me. I saw her fight grown ass men on three occasions, and win. She prostituted, sold coke, dated married men, and fed her kids cereal all day long. A good woman in my book. In all the time I knew her, there were two times shit got a little weird, and I had to run the fuck out her crib. The first was when she tried to give me a massage and it freaked me out. It felt like Vince Wilfork was rubbing my shoulders.
The second involved Kelby, the married club owner. He came over her crib for a few drinks after the night was over, as people frequently did. Me and Carol are chillin in her kitchen and Kelby walks in. He sits down, blows some lines, and sips on some tequila. He’s staring her up and down on some creepy shit. Uncomfortable, I proceed to annoy everyone by excessively discussing race, religion, and politics. Out of the blue, Kelby flips over the table and rushes her. Carol instinctively rushes him, and they start strangling each other. Carol grapples with him for a hot second and pushes him on to the floor. She runs to her room. Me and Kelby are in the kitchen looking at each other as he gasps for air. Carol enters the room with a BIG FUCKING DILDO!
Kelby gets on all fours as he mumbles gibberish. She starts spanking him with the dildo.
Holy shit. This is a thing they do.
Carol looks at me and asks if I want to watch Kelby get fucked in the ass.
Otherwise, like I said, Carol and I we’re great frangs.
Fast forward to why I’m telling you this God damn story. I move to Boston, and lose touch with Carol. I’ve been dj’ing on Salem State Radio, put out some mixtapes, and frequently rock at the Choppin Block in Mission Hill, where I met Knife. I’m beginning to make contacts and get recognized. I’m now pretty much a full blown douchebag. So at one of these Choppin Block nights, I meet Virtuoso.
Long story short, Virt invites me to his studio and wants to build on making a mixtape. I go over there and before long, establish that I’m going to be his dj. At the time Omnipotent Records is doing well on the underground tip. They have a roster of mc’s, and albums in the works. One of the albums is a joint project by Bomshot and Jus Allah.
Jus Allah, a member of Jedi Mind Tricks, had a falling out with his group, and somehow ended up in Boston with Bomshot. I didn’t have too many interactions with Jus, but it was easy to tell that he was a little off. We all went out to Chicopee for an Omnipotent showcase. Jus Allah gets on stage and screams “Chicopee throw ya guns uuuup!”
We’re in Chicopee.
Anyhow, we get the word that Del Tha Funky Homosapien wants Virt to rock some shows on his Deltron tour.
Nice. This is just what I was looking for. I’m the dj for an artist in demand, I’m affiliated with a relevant record label, and I have some out of town shows booked with a hip hop icon. This is my squad. I’m down for whatever.
First show is at B.B. Kings in New York. We get out there, chill with Del, Opio, A+ and Casual on the tour bus, do the show, and everything is lovely. Later on, around 4AM, we find ourselves in a Manhattan diner. Virt’s man gets a call from Bomshot and Jus Allah, who are going to meet us at the diner. Cool.
So they get there, and Jus gets to talking about Vinnie Paz.
Now forgive me, but I know I was wasted that night, and it was over a decade ago, so I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I’ll tell you what I walked away knowing.
I need to get a gun, a bat, brass knuckles…anything that will defend myself from the dark forces of Vinnie Paz’s world.
I was such a fucking retard.
I let a certifiably paranoid schizophrenic convince me that I should be prepared for imminent rap war.
As this great meeting of the minds proceeded into the wee morning hours, I was astounded by the network of enemy combatants I would have to square off against. More Henny and weed would surely make me understand things better. Vinnie Paz was affiliated with Army Of The Pharoahs. Army Of The Pharoahs was affiliated with 7L & Esoteric.
Dun dun duuuuuuuuunnnnnnnn.
I must be prepared to kill 7L & Esoteric.
Let’s take a step back for a moment. It’s quite arguable that 7L & Eso are the two kindest human beings on the face of the planet.
It’s also arguable that they had no knowledge of my existence on this planet.
I also dare to say, 7L & Eso never had interest in participating in rap rumbles over….I don’t even know what the shit was over.
So here we go.
When we get back from the Del shows, we’re scheduled to do an in-store performance at Newbury Comics in Peabody. Virt has a new album out, I’m his show dj, and at this point, if you asked me to get an Omnipotent tattoo on my nose, I would do it.
Again, the night and convo are hazy, but it was brought up that we may run into 7L, Eso, and affiliates because there were people on their team that lived in that North Shore area.
Holy shit. It’s about to go down.
Of course 7L & Esoteric are consumed by my whereabouts and completely plan on leaving their comfortable universes for an opportunity to square off against team Omnipotent in a Newbury Comics store in Peabody. I know what I have to do.
Give Carol a call.
Fast forward to the day of the in store. We’re all gonna meet up at Virt’s and roll to Peabody together. I show up completely wasted, ready to re-enact a scene from The Warriors.
I walk in, huffing and puffing, holding my record bag, and a crowbar. No lie.
Carol walks in behind me in a red mini skirt, belly shirt, high heels, and an orange faux fur.
Everyone in the room stares at me in amazed silence.
A short drunk crowbar wielding dj, flanked by his tranny bodyguard. Instagram didn’t exist then. The world was robbed of sharing that image.
Virt: “Why do you have a crowbar?”
Me: “Fuck you mean! Them dudes ain’t gonna catch me slippin!”
Virt: “What dudes?”
Me: “You know…7L and all them!”
Virt: “Dog, nobody is going to be there, why are you buggin?”
Me: “All that shit we were talmbout the other night – Jus Allah said…”
Virt: “We were wasted. We were just talking shit and high as fuck. You can’t take what he says seriously. What are you doing? You can barely stand up.”
Me: “I’m good.”
Virt: “Who’se that?”
Me: “That’s Carol.”
Everyone gets up in silence and walks out the door, ready for a peaceful journey to Newbury Comics. Virt has me reassure him that I can get it together by the time of the performance.
Me and Carol climb in the back of someone’s whip. We proceed to drink E&J and White Zinfandel all the way to Peabody.
Somewhere in Saugus, I ask Carol if she thinks the crowbar is a little too much.
She does. She pulls out a 9 inch switch blade and tells me I should hold it.
Meanwhile, I’m sure Esoteric is happily at home relaxing with his dog, and 7L is flipping through an H&M catalog as he sips herbal tea.
Back to the car.
I’m so wasted I’m seeing double. I want to see how big this blade is. I start yanking on it. I try pulling it. It’s a switch blade, all I have to do is press a button. So wasted.
Finally, I manage to open it, and as it opens I jerk my hand in some weird way that causes me to SLICE THE PALM OF MY HAND.
Blood everywhere. On my jacket, my pants, my sleeves….
Let’s revue. I’m the only one in this entire entourage that believes I’m a cast member in West Side Story. My scantily clad female accomplice is dressed like a Tampa escort, and is on the way to an underground rap in-store in fucking Peabody. In my preparedness to assault two of the nicest guys in the world, I slice my hand open and am profusely bleeding in a car.
Just wanted to make sure you’re with me here.
We finally arrive, and convene in the parking lot. Everyone is mortified that I managed to assault myself during a 30 minute car ride with the blood stains to prove it. Virt tells me to get myself together and everyone leaves Carol and I in the parking lot.
The two of us build over a cigarette.
“I dunno…lotta cars here. Anyone could be here. I ain’t tryna get jumped. Fuck that, I’m bringing the crowbar.”
I then decide how I’m gonna make my grand appearance.
You know how Huckleberry Finn used to carry his lunch? Tied to the end of a stick draped on his shoulder and shit? Well, that’s what shit I was gonna be on with the crowbar and my record bag.
The crowbar is steel. It’s heavy. My record bag weighed a good 30 pounds. I stoop down and hoist the shit on my shoulder. Bad move. It hurts so much I need to throw the bag and crowbar on to the ground.
I look up to see several people peering out of the Newbury Comics window, soaking up the spectacle of a blood drenched maniac and his prostitute struggling with a bag of records and a crowbar.
Time to roll.
As we enter the store, I’m highly vigilant, in an extremely inebriated way. I’m waiting for Esoteric to pounce on me as I pass the Jazz cd section. Wait, is that 7L pointing a taser at me in the comic book section? Fuck. I’m drunk, high and nauseated.
As I regain an inkling of composure, I look around the store and notice who is in attendance. There’s a good 60 people there. As I look closer, I see some 17 year olds, some well meaning computer geeks, and a few North Shore brosephs. Some people have Virtuoso vinyl waiting to be signed. I notice a small group of kids surrounding Virt and telling him how much Incinerator changed their lives.
Holy shit. I’m at a fucking geek convention covered in blood.
As Carol and I walk towards the turntables, people are staring at me in amazement. What circumstances did I just arrive in? Is the bloody look part of the act? Is that a dude in a dress?
It’s show time, and my paranoia is waning, but I have a few drunken housekeeping messages that should be addressed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, before we start the show, LET ME TELL YOU SUMTHIN! If anyone got a problem with Omnipotent being in your town, step up RIGHT NOOOOW! We don’t play that shit!”
Virt is staring at me.
All the soccer moms and D&D players are staring at me.
I feel like an idiot.
My shoulder is killing me.
My hand is sliced.
Carol is stealing cd’s.
Years later, I would run into 7L & Eso here and there. Lovely guys. When I see them I always cringe thinking about my solo knife fight.
Today they continue to tour the world, sell lots of merch and albums, and top whatever charts they’re on.
Me, I just tell stories on this shitty blog and go home to my wife. She’s making chicken fried steak tonight and Love & Hip Hop is on. I love chicken fried steak.