Classic Westerns: HumanityCritic Style

Spaghetti Westerns: A Nickname given to a specific genre of Western films around the mid-60's, named because many of these films were produced by Italian studios

Granted, I am an all out movie fanatic, loving everything from foreign films to Kung Fu flicks, but I always had a certain affection for good old fashioned Westerns. I wasn't really into the John Wayne flicks, but those classic Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Westerns like "Fistful of Dollars", "The Good, Bad and the Ugly", and "For a Few Dollars More", where most of the time the underlining theme was revenge. What seeing Clint Eastwood systematically took out his enemies did for a hyperactive 12 year old, really invigorates a hot tempered 32 year old with a history of violence that I'm not too proud of. But I must admit though, not only because I am nuttier than squirrel shit, and I also have an unhealthy ability not to be scared of anyone, but whenever I would put myself in a dangerous situation I would pretend that I was one of those Westerns characters about to gracefully dispatch the evil sons of bitches that did me wrong. Sometimes it backfired, like the time I got stomped out by 5 dudes so bad that I thought that they were trying to make wine or some shit, but sometimes it worked magnificently, like when I took a page out of Clint Eastwood's book in the movie "Outlaw Josie Wales" and spat on the person who just became acquainted with the business end of my fist.

The following short stories are true to life events that happened in my violent past, but I will write it with a Hollywood, "Spaghetti Western" feel with me acting as the Narrator.. See, my therapist wanted me to document some of the violent activity that I had been a part of, so I figured that I might as well be creative while doing so.

HumanityCritic's Vengeance: It was a cold December night as HumanityCritic raced back to his old stomping grounds of Virginia Beach Virginia, but he was in no way going back to see family or reminisce about old times with friends. He was there to avenge a horrible act perpetrated on a woman he considered to be a "sister", a good friend named Tracy that he had known since grade-school. As he broke the speed limit racing to his destination, he noticed the goosebumps on his wrist, him not knowing if they were from the extreme cold and his malfunctioning car heater, or his anger at Tracy's boyfriend that treated her like a motherfucking punching bag. To be totally honest, HC was actually invited to Tracy's birthday party and not to defend her honor, but the constant horrific updates from her family and friends of the beat-downs Tracy was getting were as much as HumanityCritic could take.

As he entered the city with nothing but ice in his veins and extreme hatred in his heart, he realized how mad he was when he actually turned down the chance to embarrassingly pre-ejaculate with a hot Cuban number he had went to High School with in order to carry out his mission. He looked down at his crotch and said, "Sorry man" as he pulled his car beside a fire hydrant in front of the building Tracy's party was being held at. Usually, HumanityCritic wouldn't have been so irresponsible in his parking, but he figured he wouldn't be there that long so he said "Fuck it". He walked up to the building and it was quiet, like "calm before the storm" quiet, but he knew what he had to do regardless of the consequences. When he opened the door all of his old friends hugged him like they hadn't seen him in years, Tracy smiled from ear to ear and gave him an extremely tight embrace, but the looks that he got from Tracy's other friends and family clearly were telling him "Get that motherfucker HumanityCritic!!" For the first few minutes critic played it cool and had a few drinks, mingled with the crowd, but eventually and very gracefully small talked Tracy's punch happy boyfriend in order to gain his confidence to step outside and "grab a smoke."

Even though HumanityCritic had given up those dastardly cancer sticks, he had to find a reason to lure him outside, since beating the brakes off of that fuck in front of everybody would have backfired for more reasons than this Narrator cares to talk about. After fighting the need to just steal his nemesis in the face, the biting winter weather, and the nicotine smoke that hadn't entered his lungs in a couple years, HumanityCritic said, "So, what's up with you putting your hands on Tracy??" Usually HC wouldn't ask any questions and just commence in beating the black off of someone, but he always loved to surprise someone mid sentence with his frontal assault. Tracy's boyfriend looked at HC with a stare of a cold-blooded criminal and said, "Fuck you, that's none of you God-damned busi..." *POW* "Shut your motherfucking ass up!!", HC shouted out, sending this woman beater to his knees with a uppercut thrown with pinpoint accuracy. The next few minutes of unadulterated heinous violence now is a blur to Critic, but he still remembers thinking a few things while it was going on. 1: He hoped he didn't kill this guy. 2: That woman beaters tend to cry the easiest. 3: That he still liked seeing his breath in the extreme cold and 4:He wondered if that hot Cuban broad would give him some action on some "Cleanse my hands, Florence Nightingale" shit. The next thing he knew he was being pushed off of that gentleman by Tracy herself, screaming at HC to "leave her man alone" and "leave immediately". Hands bloody, eyes red from the adrenaline, and coughing mildly from the cigarette, HC got to his feet and slowly walked to his car feeling like he had made a mistake, a mistake of helping someone that didn't want to be helped. His hands shaking in a way that it was a difficult task even opening his car door, he got in his car and clutched his steering wheel, looking at his bloody fists, openly wondering if he had broken his hands. Right before he took off in that frigid December night in search for some young Latina passion, he looked at his passenger side seat and saw four 100 dollar bills folded up. He looked outside his window and saw Tracy's father, a man he had known as long as Tracy, and he nodded in a "you did good son" kind of way. Driving away he clutched the money, not thinking about feeling like some sort of contract ass beater paid to help Tracy our, or the fact that she probably hated him for what he did, but he looked at the 100 dollar bills and said, "Cool, more weed and whore money!!!"

Showdown at Karaoke: Like HumanityCritic always said, "You know a woman has a good piece of "patch" when you travel more than an hour a day to get it!!" This was the case a few years ago, when HC used to travel more than an hour on the Highway a day to be regularly and intimately acquaintanted with a beautiful caramel complected sister named Janis. With thighs like a track star, breasts that would put a homosexual in a trance, and "soup coolers" juicy enough that you would think that she had the ability to blow out like 200 birthday candles and shit. This woman was definitely out of HC's league, but like a boxer momentarily dazed by a lucky right hook, HumanityCritic planned on hitting it as much as humanly possible before she came to her senses. This woman stayed in a small town in North Carolina, where nightly she would engage in the aged old tradition of karaoke. HC despised Karaoke, but like that cereal leprechaun, there wasn't anything HC wouldn't do in order to taste those "Lucky charms" so to speak. Night after night, shot after shot, he would patiently endure horrific renditions of "It's raining men" and "Sweet Home Alabama" in order to drunkenly bump uglies later, blessing her with his beautiful pre-ejaculatory gifts.

All was going well for our beloved HC, he was getting more ass than a toilet seat in an Indian restaurant, and he loved pissing off the people there by freestyle rhyming over Chaka Khan's "Ain't nobody" or some random R&B tune like that, that was until her ex boyfriend Harold came in the picture. Harold was a shady character, been in and out of prison because of petty crimes, and wanted Janis back regardless who her new suitor was. The first altercation was when the villain in question tried to disrespect our hero by calling him a "pussy" and threatening his life. HC, not in an act of bravery but more like and act of crazy, gripped his face with his entire hand and mushed him damn near across the room. The bouncer quickly handled that situation, as HC gave Harold a menacing stare as he was ushered out of the club, all the while Harold screaming "I'm going to kill you motherfucker!!"

Critic grinned to himself, throwing back another shot, thinking about how many times people have threatened his life in the past few years. The next night, HC uncharacteristically forgot about the events of the previous night, and found himself in quite a pickle as he was cornered by not only Harold, but his heavily bearded henchmen named David. In all HC's years of bar room brawls and overall fights, it was his experience that not only is someone scared if they have to bring help to beat your ass, but that you also hit the person that they bring first. As the two men engaged in the tradition of classic shit talking, HC took it upon himself and quickly grab a Budweiser bottle and break it across David's face, knocking out a couple of teeth. *Smack" As David fell to the ground, writhing around in pain like he had just had his leg ripped off, Harold saw HC rise from his chair with an agenda of rage on his face. No throat-chops or punches in the face that are so much of a regular arsenal from HC, but he proceeded to put Harold in an intricate choke-hold, making him think that he would never "breath again" like that Tony Braxton song. But after a few moments HC lets him go, and because he was a huge fan of a maneuver Steven Segal did in his flicks, he drew his arm back and flung it forward, literally clotheslining Harold to the point that he caught air right where he stood. Usually an onslaught of thrown fists would have been procedural for HC, but Harold was out cold, plus the owner alerted him that the cops were on their way. Critic, not one scared of the boys in blue, is indeed scared of serious jail time and the shower activities that happen in said "jail". He raced out of the Karaoke bar, hoping over the bodies of Harold and David, hoping he didn't encounter the police on his way out. Everything turned out to be fine for HumanityCritic, there was no police involvement, but that was the last time he saw Janis. I guess she felt sorry for Harold, because later that particular night she was his "Florence Nightingale". "Well..", Critic thought, "..she had to come to her senses sometime.."