Willy Pete had an impressive resume.  He dropped out of high school at sixteen to pursue a life of failure.  By his mid twenties, Probation was just a mail-in form.  Breaking and Entering.  Pandering.  Assault with a Deadly Weapon.  Accomplished meth cook.

He beat that last rap, but not before being dragged off at the muzzle of a German sub-machine gun.

When I met Willy Pete, he was on the straight and narrow.  Mostly.  With a stint in rehab behind him, he was going light on the booze and holding himself together.

He was fucking a girl I knew.  He didn’t trust me.

Even at 20 I looked like a cop.  He mostly ignored me until one afternoon we started talking shop about guns.  He still thought I was a self-righteous prick, but we found common ground.

One Saturday night I was drinking at his place.  We had been partying all night.  People were passed out all over the apartment.  Even his girlfriend went to bed.  We sat in his office, listening to music.

Willy Pete was still settling into the apartment.

His office was a strange two-level loft full of metal shelves, computer parts and military surplus.  His collection boasted then-new MOLLE gear, half a dozen government-issue 6 watt radios, and the trunk-mounted radio from a Border Patrol squad car.

He demonstrated his then-State-of-the-Art THX Certified 5.1 Surround Sound system.

The brick walls muted the deafening assault of Sabbath and Zeppelin.  Those walls were the only thing between Willy Pete and immediate eviction.  I knew my Zeppelin.  Growing up, my mother blasted Zeppelin on vinyl through the whole house.

We stayed up until sunrise.

Partying at Willy Pete’s became a regular thing.  My taste in music and tolerance for hard liquor won me a lot of points.  Saturday nights lasted until dawn.  Sundays were wasted, waiting until the apartment stopped spinning.

One Saturday, Willy Pete introduced me to Tony Yayo.  He was a weaselly fucker; two parts sycophant, one part fist-fight.  Army wash-out.  I immediately disliked him.

It was late in the evening when I tired of Yayo’s incessant chatter.  He and Willy Pete moved to the office for music.  I curled up on the recliner in the living room, peeled off my combat boots, and shut my eyes.

Minutes later I felt Willy Pete tugging at my arm.

“Wake up, faggot!  Music!”

Yayo had been on Willy Pete’s nerves all night, to say nothing of my own.  Willy Pete urged me to save him from Yayo, whose low tolerance and poor taste in music were not endearing qualities.

I shifted slowly in the chair when Yayo appeared.  Piss-drunk and growling stupid, Yayo grabbed me by the pant leg and tried to pull me forcibly from the recliner.

“Alright!  Jesus!  I’m up!  Fuck!”

I tried to sit up, but Yayo kept tugging at my ankle.  Flustered, I tried to tug my foot free.  In the struggle, the recliner tipped and crashed to the floor.

I tried to get my bearings, but suddenly Yayo was punching me in the legs.

What the fuck!? I thought.

Yayo leaned in and cocked his arm back.  I coiled one leg and struck out, kicking him square in the face.  Yayo went crashing across the room.

I rolled backward over my shoulder, stumbling to my feet.  Yayo struggled to his feet, disoriented, waggling a finger at me from across the room.

Motherfucker.  What the fuck?  Something, something, slurring . . .

Willy Pete intervened.

“Wait!  Hold up!” he said, holding his arms out as Yayo came crashing toward me.

“He kicked me in my fucking face!”  Yayo screamed.

Willy Pete was calm.  The voice of reason.

“I know he’s a fucking douchebag . . . but you can’t just hit him!”  Willy Pete was speaking directly at Yayo.  My brow wrinkled in confusion.

“That motherfucker!  He kicked me in my fucking face!“

“I know . . . That was fucked up.  Look, I’m not going to let you hit him.  Here, look at me . . . “

Willy Pete turned to me.  He cupped my chin in one hand, turned my head gently, and sucker punched me in the jaw.

Motherfucker!

I glowered at him in anger, but he looked calmly from me to Yayo.

“There . . . Feel better?”

“No!”  Yayo bellowed.

Willy Pete sighed and hung his head.  He stepped back and threw his hands up.

“Fuck it . . . “

Yayo flared his shoulders back and charged me.  Startled, I was smashed against a stack of boxes as Yayo swung at my ribs.  I tucked my arms in, my elbows protecting me from his flailing.  I gathered myself quickly, grabbed Yayo by the hair, and pulled him into an arm triangle choke.

Tucking his right arm under his throat, I thrust my weight forward and cinched him up tight.  We crashed to the floor, trapping Yayo.  His desperate gurgling lasted only seconds and he was out.

I released slowly, pushing myself upright.  Yayo gasped loudly, unconscious at my feet.  Willy Pete glanced between us.

“That . . . was fucking awesome!”  he shouted, slapping me on the back.  ”You were all surgical and shit!  Like fucking SWAT!  You didn’t even break any furniture!”

I stared at him vacantly.  Adrenaline was hitting me hard.  My hands shook.

The sound of Yayo’s desperate breathing was unnerving.  We struggled with his arms and lifted him to his feet.  We dumped him over the arm of the couch, shoes still on, content that he was properly situated.

Willy Pete looked at me again, bewildered.

“Where did you learn that shit?  That was pretty fucking sick.”

“You fucking punched me . . . “

We checked once more to make sure Yayo was breathing.  We cranked music until dawn.  We left Yayo on the couch and went for breakfast.