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Mister Tommy
Defending Family Turf During the Dope Fiend Apocalypse

This was back about ten, twelve years ago when I was still living down in Saint Helena. I was over my friend Billy’s house, watching the game or something with him and his dad, Mister Tommy. Mister Tommy was a short little guy, maybe five-four, if that.

There was this loud banging on the front door and Mister Tommy doesn’t open, just yells, “What do you want?”

We’re looking out the window and there is this big crack head—a lurched out, saying he wanted “Leroy.”

Mister Tommy yells back, “Nobody named Leroy lives here. Get lost.”

So the guy gets lost. Then, about ten minutes later, his banging again, yelling for Leroy, insisting that Leroy lived there.

Mister Tommy goes up next to the door—he was no chump, and yells, “Get lost, pal, go!”

But this crack head won’t let it go and keeps on knocking. So Mister Tommy grabs a hammer out of his toolbelt by the door, yanks the door open and cracks this guy in the forehead three fucking times! Oh My God, what a mess! That dude was gushing, his shit all split open, out cold on the porch, blood spreading, so Mister Tommy grabs him with one hand and drags him around behind the house, halfway around the block and leaves him in the middle of the alley.

We were so proud of Mister Tommy, were like, “Mister Tommy, you’re the shit!”

So we sit up all night drinking beer, you know, celebrating a little, watching some movies.

We heard not another thing from that guy. There were no cops or ambulance called either.

The next morning, Billy and I went out back and checked the alley. All there was was a big puddle of blood and a blood trail leading down the alley.

Hammers, Man, hammers get it done.

-Steevo Bristol

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