The Battle of Lisbon – An oral account by Ethan Oliver Ralph
(Proving, once and for all, that history is written by the people who cannot stop winning)
“So, I want to correct the record, because there has been a lot of speculation and outright lies from the usual suspects concerning what actually took place in Portugal. First I want to address the identity of my attackers, because people are saying that it must have been a situation where I ran my mouth off to the wrong people, or it was a drug deal gone wrong, or something. There are certain associates of a certain broke-dicked individual who are even saying it was the pimp of an underage prostitute. I don't know what to say to these people. Get help, I guess. Get help, before you act on your paedophile tendencies and end up ruining some poor girl's, or some poor boy's, life and then getting fucked up in prison by your fellow inmates, while the guards pretend to look the other way.
“Anyway, it may interest you all to learn that the people who attacked me were one of Lisbon's notorious multi-cultural street gangs. The Lisbon Chief of Police filled me in on the situation when he swung by the hospital to check on my condition, and to ask me for my advice on how to proceed with the investigation. Unfortunately they have a lot of this kind of gang in Lisbon. It's one of those rare instances where multi-culturalism actually works, but unfortunately in a negative way.
“Anyway, predictably, one of them was an Arab. I knew he was an Arab because his phone kept going off and the ringtone was that music that you hear playing in ISIS videos. Next to him, there was a gypsy-type, with a wild, unkempt moustache. He was dressed in some kind of faggy, multi-coloured silk blouse. Then there was your run of the mill male-to-female transsexual, who I may or may not have propositioned. I'm taking the fifth on that one, heh heh”
[At this point, Ralph can be heard chugging down a fifth of 'Special Homeless Reserve' Fireball Whiskey]
“Their leader was a Portuguese male, and I use the term 'male' advisedly. He was obviously related to Andy Warksi. I could tell, at a glance, that he wasn't tough, but he wanted me to believe he was tough... lowering his voice to sound more menacing... Like, I've been around real tough guys so I know the score, but okay.
“So finally, he manages to stammer out: ““I, I, I'm gonna serve you your teeth in a goblet of ice, with a squirt of mayonnaise that will be red from your blood and from paprika.”
"He can't even meet my gaze when he's saying it, which is a bit pathetic, I guess.
"Then the gay gypsy looks at me with his soulful brown eyes and he says: “I'm going to take away your cardboard Burger King crown and put it on my horse, who I will one day sell to an illegal slaughterhouse to be processed into burger meat.”
Then, I guess, because everyone wants to make an attempt at intimidating me, the Arab says: “I'm going to use your man purse to store my copy of the Koran, so that it does not become damaged during transit to and from the mosque.”
“Finally the transsexual says: “I will plant the girthy shaft of your, machine-rolled in Las Vegas, cigar into the barren ditch between my legs, as a substitute for the penis that I now regret inverting in a mangina.”
“They begin advancing towards me, four against one. I guess they were intimidated by my height, heh heh.
“I get myself into a fighting stance, because I've trained a long time for this moment. I've trained in my mind. I don't think I've ever disclosed this before, but sometimes me and Dick Masterson will place ourselves in imaginary fights, where we describe to each other all the cool moves we're pulling off. Some of these imaginary fights go on for hours, so I am well-prepared for all kinds of eventualities and different styles of hand to hand combat.
“Fortunately, my opponents haven't undergone the same close-quarters training I have. The Arab breaks rank. He starts picking up speed as he charges towards me. Meanwhile, I pivot on my ankle, then spring into a cartwheel. He gets to me right at the moment when my foot begins its downward arc. It connects with his chin, shattering his jaw. He tumbles down the flat cobbles before slamming into the front of a tram that is coming uphill. The driver is one cold son of a bitch, or maybe he's just following regulations, because he doesn't stop. The tram, which is smeared with blood pushes the body of the Arab uphill like its ploughing snow. When it gets closer I see the guy's neck is limp, so one down, I guess, three more still to go. By now, I'm determined that tonight there are going to be five sunsets. One actual sunset and four of the figurative variety.
“While this has been going on, the other three assailants have grabbed my man purse and are making their escape. Now that the odds have been bumped down from four, to three to one it suddenly doesn't seem like a fair fight to them anymore. I'm a Vegas man so I like those odds.
“To be honest, what happened next is kind of a blur. Somehow we got up onto the rooftops. Terracotta tiles were raining down onto the streets below. I hope there was no collateral damage, heh, heh. I remember jumping and then pushing the sole of one of my trainers against a chimney stack to provide the extra momentum necessary to clear a wide gap between two buildings. During the manoeuvre, I corkscrew in mid-air. At this stage, everything is happening in slow-motion because of my insane level of focus. I point a pair of finger guns at the gypsy who is perched on the edge of the building opposite, facing towards me. I watch as his eyes begin to gradually widen. I make a sound with my mouth like a pair of automatic pistols firing in tandem, multiple times. He starts to to wobble. As I pass over his head, he falls forward, letting out a girlish scream as plummets to his death, three storeys below.
“Without pausing I take several giant strides across the spine of the rooftop and punt the transsexual squarely in his, sorry, her, death ditch. She goes flying into the air. It's like that nursery rhyme; I can't think of the title; the one where the cow jumps over the moon...
Hey Diddle Diddle, it's like that, only she doesn't scream like a girl. She bellows like a man. I guess there are some things that gender reassignment surgery won't take care of.
“I head back down to street level. I find the leader of the gang, balled-up in an alleyway sobbing; kind of what I expect from a Warski. I tell him he can keep my purse and the 150 euros he stole. I think about spitting on him but decide that he isn't worthy of it. I instruct him to relate what he just saw to Andy Warski and to tell him: 'Your move, I guess, if you don't consider this checkmate.'
“I head out of the alleyway. This Serbian couple, who asked me to perform their wedding ceremony a few hours ago, come running over and ask me if I'm okay.
““It looks like you've been in a bad accident, bro,” says the man.
““This is what I always look like like,” I reply, as I limp away.
“Come to think of it, on the walk back to my basement hotel room, the world does seem kind of blurry, like I'm starring through fleshly Venetian blinds. Also, a number of my teeth appear to be floating around inside my mouth. I swallow them for safekeeping. I'll dose up on Imodium and Gator can retrieve them when I'm back in the US.
"When I get back to the hotel and assess the damage in the mirror, I have to admit that I probably did take a few hits to the face in the heat of battle.
“One thing's for sure: That multi-cultural Lisbon street gang won't be robbing any more American tourists again in the foreseeable future.
"The following morning, the Mayor of Lisbon knocks on my door. He wants to give me a commendation for ridding the city of a gang of dangerous criminals. I guess that I really can't stop winning.”
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