A New Home In Point Loma

Let me share a story about Cat.

The other night Nate (a hostel employee) invites a group of us to hang out at his apartment for the evening and drink some brews. As the night wears on and the alcohol keeps being forcible dumped down our throats, some goat decides it would be a great idea to bust out some boxing gloves. Why? Because why the f*ck not. The first match, which took place in the front yard surrounded by chain link fence, was between blitzkrieg Martin (straight from the hills of Germany) and Nate, the Hostile Hostel (American born and breed). What a match it was. Blows were landed, egos were bruised, World War Two was revisited with fists of flying fury, buildings crumbled as the two tanks thundered down quiet suburban streets. But in the wake both sides emerged victorious and the bottle of yagger was sipped by all.

So what the hell does this have to do with Cat?

Don't be so damned impatient the story continues.

After both fighters picked themselves up off the ground, surrounded by the cloud of dust and dirt created from this epic battle a new contender emerged from the crowd, KC. He taunted the onlookers for a worthy competitor but it appeared as if no one was daring enough to fight this titan from Detroit. Then a lone warrior, a car mechanic from Boston cleared a path through the spectators and strapped on the red gloves.

Her name is Cat.

There was no bell, no referees to keep order, the streets erupted in a chaotic howling as the pavement melted. What followed was a carnage so intense the animals fled to high ground, women wept into their pillows and the stars fell from the sky.

Where were the police? Surely the neighbors must have called by now?

The police would have been no good. Bullets and tear gas were useless. This was anarchy.

The battle raged for what seemed like hours. The house was painted red with the blood of opened cheek bones. The teeth of those two wild pitbulls gnawed and gnashed and shined like razors under a pacific moon. The war drew others. Onlookers poured in from closed bars and through back alleys. I can on imagine what rushed through their blurry heads as they stumbled upon these two vicious beasts.

It ended, as all things do, when the two fighters, exhausted, walked from the ring arms slung limp around each others shoulders. They staggered back inside the house where their wounds were disinfected with beer and fire and friendships were solidified in the depths of their fractured bones.

I know what you readers, the few that exist, are thinking. You think that I am exaggerating, embellishing this tale of everyday madness. But I tell you that no amount embellishment could capture what I witnessed that night. No lie could help you comprehend the chaotic scenes that were created.

And besides, if you don't believe me, I have pictures.

eric