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.
It's all about who you know.
It's all about networking.
It's all about who is the best bold-faced liar.
It's all about listening to your instinct when it screams run.