Surviving the Game

How`d you get that
fucked-up scar under your eye?

l refer to that as my birthmark.
On my eighth birthday, my father
brought me a bulldog--

a fat little bulldog.
l named him Prince Heny Stout.
He was strong.
He would chase my pet turkey.
He would chase squirrels
up the tree.

l trained him, raised him...
fed him, groomed him.
l loved that dog.
More than anything in the world,
l loved that dog.

My father gave me a handful
of chery bombs and M-80s...

and said, ""You`re gonna train
this dog to be a protector.""

So l got behind
a little dummy my dad built...

and l tossed these chery bombs
and M-80s at the dog.

After a while, he`d get angy
and come at the dummy.

He`d rip it apart.
Head was off.
Shirt was gone.

So, thirteen years old,
birthday time.

Got me a twelve-gauge shotgun.
We`re goin` huntin`.
l was so excited.
We went out in the clearing
in the woods.

My dad laid our guns down
and said...

""Son, today you`re going to
learn to control your emotions.""

""You`re going to do things
some men are unwilling to do.""

`"Follow me.""
We went around a clump of trees.
There`s a little corral.

There`s Prince Heny Stout...
in the middle of the corral.

My dad took out a pocketful
of chery bombs...

put `em in my hand, and said,
""Get in the corral.

""Light those chery bombs
and throw `em at the Prince.""

`"You`re gonna face manhood.
You`re gonna fight that dog
to the death.""