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The words spun around my aching brain in an endless loop
as I marched through the dense heat of the urban brush.
“You’re too nice a guy Jackson.”
That may have been true before this morning.
But as of 9:17 AM this morning, the moment Fat Head’s
nightstick rocked my dome, I started to transform into something
else—something primal, something strong, and in many
ways, something long overdue.
A sleeping giant of buried rage had been awoken.
I thought about Tarmok and the rage of the Bull Mongoni.
The barbarian within me had taken over, this time for good.
I began too feel pity for anyone who dared stand in my way
as I began my dark journey of escape.
I am Wes Jackson.
I am ignorant in the Hollywood Barbell Club sense of the word.
Wes Jackson Lives.