“One Guy was punching him while three other guys were stomping all the loose parts.
…..and three to four guys are stomping his buddy, —they knew what they were doing—ankles, hands, anything that was out.”
-Dan
I conducted hundreds of interviews at Tattoo Rick's bar in Northeast Baltimore in the late 1990s. After years of "holding court" behind the bar, Tattoo Rick was a polished speaker and the best interview I ever landed.
At the Edge of the Herd
#01-23: night, minutes, first-person defender
"I was twenty-five, and had stopped drinking because of my stomach problems. This was back when the city had the gun buy-back thing going. I was working down the GM plant. It was after last call at the bar—a cool fall night. I was with these two guys, on a little street in Fells Point, at the time when there was a lot of vacant houses there. We were headed back to our bikes, which we had parked up from the market. They were walking down the street and I was slightly behind to their right on the narrow sidewalk.
"I sensed somebody behind me and felt something poke me in the back. I instinctively came around with the right elbow and caught him in the temple. He dropped and I heard the clatter of a gun, and I said, ‘You mutherfucker! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!’
"This was back when I was wearing the big biker-engineer boots. So I’m stomping the shit out of this guy. That’s when my buds come up and said, ‘What are ya doin’?’
"I said, ‘This guy tried ta rob me so I’m killin’ ‘im.’
"They’re like, ‘Cool dude, and started stompin’ him until they got bored, and then kept going. After they stop making noise it kind’a takes the fun out of it. The ‘Oh please’ phase only lasts ten to fifteen seconds. After that it’s just an exercise in futility—just stretching your legs. That’s why I always liked those steel-toe boots. A round kick with one of those in your ribs really changes your world.
"I wasn’t finished with him—he was still breathing. I played soccer with his head until my legs cramped. The other guys came back, and they’re like, ‘Come on man, we aren’t standing here all night while you stomp this guy.’
"I put a couple of stomps on his head, took the gun, stuck it in my belt, and joined them. When you walk in places like that and aren’t prepared ugly things happen to you. When you are prepared, fun things—like this—happen. When we got home my buds said, ‘Hey man, let’s see the gun.’
"So I pulled it out and checked the clip. It was empty. Then I slid the action back to check the chamber and these fuckin’ springs popped out—like boyyyng! And I said, ‘Look at this. This fuckin’ idiot tried to rob me with a broken gun with no bullets in it! He deserves what he got.’
"The next day I got the gun back together and took it down to the police station. I felt really cool, riding a motorcycle and packing heat! I was hoping the cops would pull me over. I had the gun stuck in my belt in plain view. I walked into the station with this thing hanging out of my belt and said, ‘Do you guys want this?’
"They were like, ‘Yeah’, and asked me where I got it.
"I told them, ‘I beat the shit out of some guy in Fells Point and took it from him.’
"They said, ‘Yeah, right. So what are you, some kind of karate guy?’
"I said, ‘Yeah. As a matter of fact I am.’
"So I told them the whole story and they gave me the fifty bucks. I was hoping the thing wouldn’t fall apart in their hands. It was a big forty-five auto.
"I must not have killed the guy, because the police took all the information. I was kind of surprised about that. He was just some skinny white guy, and I left him with his hair matted to his face with blood. Years later two detectives came to my house asking where I got the gun. They said, ‘Yeah. That’s what it says here.’ and left.
"You never forget a good stomping. I love that sound: that ‘melon hitting the concrete’ sound. When you hear it, its like, ‘Ooh yeah, I got a good one!’ Its just like when you hit a golf ball just right.
"I don’t feel bad about it. I’m a Darwinist. Why is this guy even on my planet? He’s breathing my air, taking up my space. Let’s thin the herd. Drive the ones like this to the edge so that the predators can eat them. Maybe I fucked this guy up so bad that he couldn’t pay his drug debt and his dealer whacked him? Here comes another one that’s getting close to the edge of the herd (points to elderly enfeebled alcoholic patron entering the bar with a walker)—good evening sir. What will it be tonight? A fine mass-produced American brew perhaps?”
-Tattoo Rick
