Challenge # 10 – I stole my best friends identity
In a series of personal challenges set by myself, and peers in the office, our team is going to challenge the norm and put ourselves in unnerving predicaments. Here are my observations of when I stole my best friends identity.
That’s all the sticker said on the bin that held the big, big baby, only a couple hours old, the infant lay in a crib set to be its own funeral pyre. He lay, eyes not yet open, naked, shivering and unattended, alone in the hospital hallway, refuse, trash, his one hand clenched into a fist, the other clenching his cock. A nurse made the mistake of returning the big, big hellspawn to its rightful parents instead of being cremated alive, as were the doctors orders. He was to be destroyed, because he was born in an unusual way, an unacceptable way: he was born pissed off.
We both grew up in lower middle class families with hard working blue collar parents. The big, big boy grew up a couple doors down from me as a pudgy blonde kid with ass cheeks for a chin. He once spit on me and called me a pig. I picked up his infant brother by the hair to show my dominance in his presence. Quite young, he moved from my beloved chippawa to the bustling metropolis of Niagara falls and a few years later he would return, again, a few doors down from me and would regale me with stories of crunching discarded syringes under his shoes as a young boy and getting bullied in his younger years, until he decided to stick up for himself and started laying waste to anybody who found him unfavorable.
Growing up he clenched his hand into a fist for so long, it formed a fist inside his fist. His fingertips grew into fists, and under immense pressure and heat, those fists turned into fists. His hand was a gruesome, infinite tirade of fists. Infistinite. His other hand is a bong.
Growing from a young man into a man-child, we became quite close and shared unforgettable life long memories and even near death experiences. Although we were close I had a criminal mindset that he could not emulate, I kept my hustles away from him. His three desires in life became intoxication, orgasm and violence. intoxication was easy and always available. Women were plenty and he always enjoyed older women. You could say he would really dig older women, dig em right from the grave. And as for viloence…
The sound of dogs fighting, the growls, groans, gnashing teeth and winces of pain, knuckles slamming bodies. A group of grown men fist fighting with hatred and prejudice against another group of men in a dimly lit parking lot, a thin blanket of powdery snow covered the asphalt under us. My jacket stripped and sleeves rolled up I watched as his big, big black silhouette jumped into a car window, delivering the soles of both his combat booted feet only to slide off the glass and get lost in the brawl. His gigantic mass falling on the ground kicked up snow where he fell. My big, big guardian seemed out of commission. I could be in big, big trouble if I cannot fight off this group of strangers. An ally punched through the car window. I wrenched a baseball bat out of a man’s hand and used it as a battering ram, slamming the blunt end into his face through his failing defence until I saw his forehead split open and blood covered his profile. As a car door opened I kicked it shut on the ankle of the man trying to join the fray. Again I grabbed the door and slammed it closed on his ankle and heard him scream in pain. Got him. I turned to make sure my big, big friend was ok as I watched him up on his feet smashing his anvil sized fists into another victims face. Yup, he’s fine. I handed the bat off to an ally and made my way to make a victim out of another, before the beaten cowards escaped, broken and humiliated. If we were at a pub watching a live show and a fight would break out, my big, big friend would be happy to bounce the scrappers out. I would try to stop the fight, while he would flash his kind, friendly smile and grab one ruffian by the belt and scruff of the neck as he would carry him to the door and open it with the offenders face. The unconscious blood smeared body would simply fall out the door until somebody would clean him up, like roadkill being shoveled onto the shoulder of a highway. Then, the other guy would get the same treatment. He has it perfected. Its artistic, hideous.
My big, big friend is often described as a hunkering wall of flesh and muscle, a goliath, a titan, although I only consider him a fat fuck with a generous pollack nose. His face is big, soft, round and comforting to look at. he keeps his head shaved and only lately started walking around with a multicoloured beard. When he kept clean shaven he would cut long lamb chop sideburns that made his hair look like he was wearing magnetos helmet after a little overgrowth. Unscarred, handsome and gentle appearance with bright blue eyes that let you see his good intentions, his face is younger than his age and full of pure innocence. Then, the fists come…
His emotional range covers the same spectrum as a nirvana song and he leads the life of lyrics from a cannibal corpse album. I remember after a long night of smoking weed in a friends van we stopped in a 7-11 for sodas and were surrounded by group of steroid cycling loudmouth a-type wops. They pushed us around and threatened to roll us because we were with some guido’s sister. We absorbed their punishment, if we would retaliate they would have swallowed us whole and left us bleeding. After as we packed up in the van, humiliated, tears of frustration streamed down his cheeks. ‘one day im gonna get fucking ripped and fucking beat the shit out of those fucking cocksuckers.’ He said. And he did get ripped and he became angrier and he prays every day that he will run into those cowardly swarming goons so he can maul them. He hopes he sees them all in the same group so he can finish them all in one shot.
His laugh is contagious and can overpower any surrounding noise outside our conversation.
If you ever called him harmless its because hes in your fantasy football league and if you ever called him a gentle giant its because you never slept with him. he even says himself, it’s a needle, but it moves like a sewing machine. I mean, come on man, we’ve all seen it. your cock is fucked up looking dude; its wide in the middle and tapered at both ends. Your dick looks like a diamond. and the head has this strange shade of purple that ive never seen before and the irish doctor you had drunkenly botched your circumcision. Girls told me the biggest part of your penis is the taste. After having carried your mattress bare handed up three flights of stairs, I have lost all ideas as to how any woman actually consents to having sex with you. [Readers: his mattress is always moist, no matter where you touch it and has stains that do not match any bodily fluids ive ever encountered.]
And so here we are. Im going to make a victim out of this overgrown tree trunk of a man who could break me like a twig at any point he wished. I can because hes my best best friend. My best man. Not only can he demolish me physically, he knows my deepest darkest fears. My challenge is to steal his identity.
To steal his identity was easy. I have his email, phone, address, etc. instead of inheriting his debt, I decided to steal his identity in a different fashion: I approached store fronts and asked them to send all the adverts they possibly could to his email and phone. Done. that was pretty easy. I even did it right in front of him. flower shops, shoe stores, cosmetics places, the sexual health clinic. They all have his number and will be contacting him, even though ive never stepped into a sexual health clinic before… if you ever want to help me steal his identity, just go right ahead, heres his number: 348-6988. Actual number. Im sure he’ll kick the shit out of me for doing that but next time you’re at a stag shop, or accosting a gay street hooker ask if they do promotions and send them that number and ask for all the adverts you can get, or just text him and call him a fucking ding dong, it doesn’t matter. besides, its just like bulleit rye, bulleit just stole the identity of a bourbon distillery and slapped their own label on a bottle.
Sour rye, toffee and floral sensations backed with baking spice like cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg. Brown sugar and hard candies. Funny to say, but this smells like American rye; Canadian rye seems to be more plump and sour. This is more leathery. Cookies, orange peel, dust, cola, old linen and icing sugar.
Sour rye and caraway, with red apples, vanilla pods, mesquite and a good helping of charred oak. Bananas and a little bubble gum. A nice, round texture, brimming with spice and lips tingling with pepper. A little cola, some dust. A bit hot.
Round and pleasant. Good for the price too.
A decent rye sourced from the factory distillery, mgp(midway grain products) in Indiana, who produces a gigantic amount of sourced whiskey in the states. this is a 95% rye and 5% malt mash bill aged 4-7 years in virgin white oak barrels.
Bulliet rye is named after a man with no historical record and is bottled and sold under Diageo.