Misconception

I don’t know how we got here, truly.

One afternoon I’m getting stomped out by a group of guys outside of Magliano’s Pizza in Philly by the dumpster out back, fighting for my life, and the next week I’m on a bus to Dallas?

If that’s all you heard you’d think I was running.

I’ve got literally nothing to run from.

No, not a fake literally. Not an often-used but never meant “literally”.

I mean I have nothing. Evicted last week, but still squatting in the same apartment complex in a spare room I’ve jimmied the lock to a billion times. Tried to do it the right way, but bills are for the birds, man.

Evicted…because I’m broke? Nah. Because fuck ‘em. These apartments are a step up from trap-house. No background check, no problem. They never even got my real name.

Name’s Ronan by the way. Ronan Vale.

Believe me if you want. Don’t care.

I like money. I just don’t like giving it to others. Yeah, it’s scummy, but that’s been my life forever. Scum of the earth, dirtbag, written off by society by the 7th grade because I smoked a joint with some high school kids outside of school one day. Apparently that made me a problem child.

I hate being labeled. Those who judge me without knowing me deserve to receive the worst of me.

I am whatever you say I am. And over time, that begins to ring entirely true when you're this fucking spiteful.

Like those guys who jumped me outside of Magliano’s. They called me a fuckin’ prick. Three on one or not, I like my odds. I always like my odds.

Of course they weren't wrong about the prick thing.

Here's the thing that nobody bothered to ask that afternoon. Those three grown men didn't just come out to a dumpster mid-shift for no reason. I gave them their reason.

Said some shit to the tall one about his girl. Something pretty...specific. Something that I thought about for a little bit before deciding to say it. And I guess that probably makes it worse, heh.

Then I stood there and let him chew on that for a second and decide what he wanted to do about it.

So nah. I didn't get jumped...I got answered. A reaction I was waiting for. There's a big difference and that difference is *I* picked the time, *I* picked the place, and *I* picked which one of them was going to approach first.

For you, you may call it fighting for your life, but I call it an enjoyable Tuesday.

So what if I lost? Obviously I lost. Three of them, one of me, and the siding to a dumpster I kissed on multiple occasions.

But that's not what a win is. Nah, not for me.

A win is when a man goes home and has to explain to somebody why his knuckles, his forehead, his face is split open. A win is that all three of those fucks probably spent the rest of that week thinking about me. I forgot about their faces by Thursday. Well, not that dude's sister's face.

They got to walk away with their "win" and I got to lie there knowing I owned every second of it. That's the trade and it always has been for me. I'd do it again. I *HAVE* done it again. Ask around Philly.

But you want to know why Dallas? Because someone picked me up off the ground next to that dumpster. They told me some guy named D.K. built a room where I don't have to wait outside a pizza place for an excuse.