Not many folks know that Seattle is an Indian name. Chief Seattle was a big guy, with a big booming voice. Six feet tall, light skinned, broad shoulders. He could drink and speechify all night long, about this, that, and the other thing, always with an audience. The man was a born leader.

They didn't name the city after him for nothin'.

He did his share of wife taking, village raiding, and slave grabbing when the mood suited him. The Indians of the NW are a breed of their own.

My best friends growing up were all crazy-ass long haired Indians. Imagine Sitting Bull if he rode a skateboard and wore heavy metal t-shirts. These motherfuckers were braves. Most white kids were scared of black dudes. My buddies counted coo on 'em. I remember one long ago teenage night.....

It was around midnight, and I was in my bro Keno's bedroom, (I was a homeless teenager, and Keno and his mother took me in without second thought. I was automatically family.)

"You know those niցցers are gonna be lookin' for you, bro," he said. I could tell he didn't want me to leave. His senses were more developed at the time than mine were.

"Oh well. I can't be living in fear of it. Fuck 'em." I was too dumb to be fearful.

"Here man. Do this before you go," he said, and passed me a chunk of broken mirror with a huge line of coca on it. I didn't really like coke, but I did it anyway, not wanting to seem like an ungrateful guest. I realized later, it was his concern and thoughtfulness that prompted the offer of drugs.

I had nowhere to be, but thought I'd head north, get some exercise, get lost for a few days, just be alone for awhile. I made it 20 blocks, to 107th and Greenwood, before I was met by the war party, right there at the old 107th street carwash. 3 of 'em, they were waiting for me in one of the outdoor wash bays.

They came at me 3 wide, the one in the middle attacked first. I dodged easily, but quickly took a jab to the mouth from the dindu to my left. I backed up and did a good job of keeping the three of em out of reach for awhile, before the one in the middle rushed me. He was the one who had the problem with me, he was the leader.

I was bigger than him, so I grabbed him into a headlock and beat fuck-all out of his face while I had the chance. His buddies were punching me left and right, but I couldn't feel a thing. At some point, it was asses and elbows for old Tony, I knew I was going down if I kept it up. I ran like hell, and goddamn it, if I didn't outrun those dirty dindus. Maybe they didn't really wanna catch me, who knows?

I don't have any fondness for co-kay-een-ah, but I can definitely see how it helps a fighter. Gets your cardio up, gives you stamina, aggression, and ya feel no pain, just numb.

My bro Keno is a modern day warrior. He don't die easy. Not 2 years ago he got hit by a cowardly backstabbing dindu. Stabbed in the calf while he was down on one knee looking in his backpack. Hit an artery. End result was one dead backstabber. There's a long line of people who tried to kill him. He's still kickin'.

I've seen Keno conquer more foes than I care to even count. He was 3 years older than me, and always seemed to have a girlfriend who tended bar. I was drinking unnoticed at bars when I was 16, thanks to him. I learned how to navigate my scofflaw paleface ass through this air conditioned nightmare because of him. Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those hippies who loves Indians. Fact is, I dislike most of the Indians I meet. Most of 'em are gut-eaters, reservation trash.

I was lucky enough to be one of the last palefaces to grow up around wild Indians. I challenge ANYONE who ever met my brothers, to call them tame.