As Dave and I inched closer to turning 21, the allure of Tijuana began to fade. Our wild escapades south of the border had become predictable, and our appetites for adventure shifted toward something more refined—or at least slightly closer to home. That’s how we ended up frequenting The Onion, a club near the roller coaster at Mission Bay. It was packed with beautiful people, energy, and competition—lots of it. Suddenly, we weren’t the kings of the scene anymore. Here, everyone was sharp, polished, and ready to play.
Most nights were fun, filled with dancing, drinks, and subtle challenges to outshine the other men in the room. On this particular night, however, things took a strange, hilarious, and slightly unhinged turn.
We had started the evening walking along the boardwalk, cigarettes in hand, staring out at the endless ocean. The warm, salty breeze carried the faint sounds of the club’s music in the background. It was one of those moments where the chaos of life slowed just enough to appreciate it. But, as was the norm with Dave and me, peace didn’t last long.
A group of Navy guys approached us. Two of them were laid-back, striking up casual conversation as if they had all the time in the world. Dave was still in the Navy, so he could blend into their banter with ease, but I wasn’t. I just nodded and stayed quiet, enjoying my smoke.
Then came the third guy.
He stormed into view, shirt practically ripping off his bloated, chiseled frame. His arms were thick, his chest puffed out like he’d spent the last five years on a prison workout routine—or maybe just a WestPac deployment. Something was off about him, though. His pupils were blown wide, and his movements were erratic, jittery. He was pacing like a lion in a cage, adrenaline leaking out of every pore.
It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on. He was tripping. Hard.
The conversation took a weird turn—I can’t even remember how. Maybe someone mentioned God, or the devil, or whatever nonsense you start saying after too many cheap drinks. But it struck a nerve in the acid-fueled musclehead.
“You shouldn’t talk about the devil,” he muttered, his voice shaky but firm.
Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the way he tried to throw authority into his tone, or maybe I was just in the mood to mess with someone. Either way, I leaned in close and growled, “Oh, you want to talk about the devil? I am the devil. I’m going to fucking kill you tonight. You’re going to meet whoever you want on the other side, but first, you’re going through me.”
The words spilled out of me like venom. I wasn’t yelling—I was commanding. My voice deepened, my tone grew sharper, and I locked eyes with him, feeding into his acid-soaked paranoia.
He panicked.
The guy bolted, sprinting toward the back of the club where the parking lot was. I gave chase, yelling in a low, menacing growl, “I’m going to kill you! I’m the devil, and I’m coming for your soul!”
His friends watched, stunned, as I stalked their buddy across the lot. They didn’t intervene. Maybe they thought he needed to run it off, or maybe they were just as terrified as he was.
I caught up to him easily. His bulk was no match for my wiry speed. Grabbing the back of his shirt, I yanked hard. The fabric tore clean off in my hands, leaving him shirtless and terrified. His eyes were wild, darting around like he was seeing bats in the air.
“You can’t run from me!” I shouted.
He broke free and ran again, stumbling toward the edge of the lot where his buddies had pulled up in their car. The vehicle was still moving, the back door open, creeping along at maybe 10 miles per hour. He was desperate, clawing for salvation.
I didn’t let up.
“Don’t leave me!” I yelled, my voice soaked in mock desperation, the kind of wild tone that only pure adrenaline and chaos could conjure. I was gaining on him, watching his panic build with every step. He had nowhere to go, and I let loose, screaming, “I’m going to fuck you! You’re mine!”
The poor guy’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he made a desperate lunge for the car that had slowed just enough for him. His hands caught the edge of the open door, but his knees hit the asphalt, dragging behind him like dead weight. For a good 50 yards, he scrambled and flailed, his muscular frame betraying him as he tried to haul himself into safety.
The whole scene was too much. I watched as he finally managed to drag his legs into the car, slamming the door behind him as if it could shield him from my insanity. The tires screeched, and the car sped off into the night, leaving only the smell of burnt rubber and a trail of humiliation in its wake.
Exhausted and breathless, I collapsed onto the grass beside the lot, laughter exploding out of me in uncontrollable waves. My ribs ached, my face hurt, but I couldn’t stop. Dave, who’d been tailing me the whole time and witnessing the madness unfold, finally caught up. He was doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face as he laughed just as hard.
“Did you see his knees?” Dave gasped between bursts of laughter. “He was dragging them like a damn cartoon character!”
“I swear to God,” I wheezed between laughs, “I saw chunks of his knees on the asphalt.”
For a guy who could’ve killed me in a fight, he crumbled like a sandcastle under the weight of his trip and my theatrics. He might’ve looked like Hercules, but acid turned him into a trembling mess.
That night, Dave and I couldn’t stop laughing. We laughed so hard we fell into the dirt, rolling around like kids who had just pulled off the prank of the century.
It was just another night for the boys. Ridiculous, chaotic, and unforgettable.
