I have often been accused of grossly lacking anything even remotely resembling impulse control. It's true. I tend not to appreciate the gravity of a situation until I am in the midst of the fallout. The night I swung my William Wallace sword at OJ Butterfield's brainbucket could certainly fall into that category.

You see, I had been lugging that damn sword around all night. My arms had grown tired. By the time I swung for the fences, with the expressed desire of detouring through OJ's fat neck, my arms had become so fatigued that I lacked the velocity required to inflict any serious damage on my nemesis.

To compound the situation, my dad had bought the William Wallace sword at some cheap memorabilia shop at an indoor flea market in Pennsuaken, NJ. Not the best place to purchase a weapon of death. Had he simply acquired for himself a switchblade a mere five stands away at the weapons shop, or even a set of nunchucks for crying out loud, matters would have greatly increased in my favor. Sadly, my dad is not a messenger of death like his son. He's simply a movie nerd. And that sword was dull as the back of my hand.

"Oh man, what the **** did you do that for? That **** hurt!" OJ shouted in pain.

"Um...sorry, man. You went for your gun. I freaked out a little."

"Not cool, son. Not cool at all. God damn, that hurts like a bitch. I'm probably gonna bruise up like some kind of punk. I'm gonna have to wear a scarf to hide this ****. It's 95 **** degrees outside, and you just forced me to wear a scarf."

"I said I'm sorry! What else do you want?"

"OJ! OJ, what the hell is taking you so long?" his mother shouted as she leaned out the door.

"Oh nothing mom. I just deflected a goddamn William Wallace sword with my neck is all, cause you couldn't wait to have me take out the **** trash."

"What the hell are you talking about, boy? Are you taking drugs? How many times do I have to tell you not to dabble in the product, cause it screws up business?"

"Mom I'm not smoking drugs! Some jerkoff just tried to behead me while I was picking up my Cheetos! Thank God I wasn't eating them. I would have died with that orange **** all over my teeth. So Jesus, have some sympathy."

"How dare you take the Lord's name in vain. I'm gonna put my shoe to your ****!" his mother started walking toward us. "Who the hell is this?"

"I told you," OJ said.

"Um, hi ma'am. I was just stopping by to show OJ my sword."

"You didn't swing that thing at my boy's neck did you?"

"Well, accidentally. He tried to shoot me, though."

"He tried to shoot you? With what? His little pecker?"

"Mom!" OJ shouted.

"He has a gun. It was in his waistband, but it fell when he reached for it."

Mrs. Butterfield shot daggers at her son. "Is what this boy's telling me true? Get over here." She reached her hand for his waistband and pulled it so that she could reach her arm down into his pantleg. What the hell is this?"

"Mom, it's not a gun. It's a lighter!"

"I don't care what it is. The cops catch you with that on the streets and they'll pump you full of bullets, you damn imbecile!"

She looked around the yard intently. "And where the hell are those damn dogs? Boy, if you jabbed that thing at my dogs I will **** you up something awful!"

"I didn't, I swear. I put peanut butter in some bones and that distracted them."

"Oh...oh good...such a genteleman. Son of a bitch! What were you gonna do after you killed my son here? Were you gonna kill me, too? Were you gonna invade my home and murder me?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, but maybe."

"See mom, this kid's **** whack."

"You said it right there. Come here, let mama see that pudgy neck."

I shuffled uncomfortably. "I'm not whack..." I said under my breath."

Mama Butterfield pushed her son's head to get a better look at his already bruising neck. "Ooh that's definitely gonna leave a mark."

She looked at me. "Boy, you have about negative 5 seconds to get off my property before I hold you down and have my son burn you with that lighter of his."

My eyes grew wider than OJ's had not 10 minutes ago, setting the record for the widest eyes ever. I cursed my luck that a representitive of Guinness Book of Records wasn't nearby as I dropped the William Wallace swrod and ran my **** off toward the fence. Should've brought the Wesley instead...