Unruly Duz It
- Agent Smith, The Matrix Revolutions (2003)
Allow me to introduce myself. My friends call me Unruly. Unruly Brown.
Unruly (adj.) Disorderly; difficult or impossible to discipline, control or rule; recalcitrant; wayward; headstrong
Brown (adj.) (of persons) having the skin naturally pigmented a brown color; (noun) a dark tertiary color with a yellowish or reddish hue.
And unruly I am, although I don’t look nearly as volatile as I can be. The view infers I’m as sweet and harmless as a slice of pie, but that’s bullshit—a convenient element of illusion that has distracted many a foe from the fact that they needed to be watching my hands. That looks can be deceiving could never be truer than in my case. A shrewdly wielded ruse that affords the assholes of the world the wrong first impression, causing them to assume by the pretty face and petite size that I’m nice and easy to intimidate or take advantage of. Utterly fascinating how much more damage you can do when you catch people off guard.
Fortunately, I no longer have to call upon my unruly side often, although sometimes I don’t feel like I’ve changed a whole lot. When it comes to dealing with jerks and shit-starters, there’s not much difference between the me I was then and the me I am now. I still get fools in check from jump. But even though the nightmares I once lived and the anger I carried around more than half my life have finally subsided, I also realize that the moment someone fucks with my children or other loved ones, there’s no real guarantee I won’t unleash that beast again. That’s what scares me—what I still might do.
Back when I was growing up, I was always quick to defend my family and deliver a beatdown any time, any place at whatever level of intensity necessary. The oldest of eight, I was as vigilantly protective as a momma lioness when it came to my younger siblings. We moved around constantly when I was a kid, but whenever I got into a fight back then it was almost always because one of my siblings was talking smack he or she couldn’t back up and knew I would jump in.
No, the military didn’t have shit to do with our instability. People always ask me that. My stepfather, known as the Big Bad Wolf by my brother and me, was little more than a gambling, shortchanging, money-laundering hustler, so when a spot got hot, we bounced. Intrastate, interstate—I lived all over the southwest from kindergarten to 10th grade. It’s a wonder I finished high school or made something of myself at all.
Or lived to see 35.
I almost didn’t do either.
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Drive-By Beatdown
- O-Dog, Menace II Society (1993)
Continued from “Unruly Duz It”
Whomever it was that said “He who angers you controls you” had to have been a schizophrenic control freak under a delusional high because that statement makes not one lick of damn sense to me. What kind of control could anyone possibly have over me if I’ve just smashed them in the back of the head with a brick or dropkicked them into a wall? I didn’t know, but I guess if someone pissed me off to the extent that I put my foot up that ass and it still left them feeling in control of me, then I couldn’t really take issue with that. I mean, if Sondra was of that mind, she definitely had my permission to give the ass-whuppin’ I was about to dole out whatever lip service she saw fit.
Sondra’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped in a shocked “O” as she caught sight of the chair leg in my hand too late to escape the wrath. She didn’t get to utter so much as one single word nor did she manage to swing at me before, during, or after she caught that chair leg beatdown in her front yard. I tagged her mouth and jaw methodically, intent on singlehandedly reversing any progress her orthodontist and over a year of adjustments might have made.
By the time her brain registered this was not a fight she could sway to her advantage and the flight instinct kicked in, I was wondering when she’d find the sense to retreat. As she struggled to get her legs to cooperate I stuck close, beating her upside her head, arms, and upper back all 
the way from the small strip of lawn between the street and sidewalk at the right corner of her lawn where she began to turn tail—up her yard, her front steps, and back into her house.
When she disappeared inside, I leaped off the porch and was walking to the car when I heard the screen door slam open behind me. I whipped around and dipped back and to the side just in time to dodge her sister who commenced swinging—windmill style—toward my face. Read more >
Punks Jump Up to Get Beat Down
- Grandma, Don’t Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood (1996)
I knew quite well how irritating my little brother Kevin could be because he’d been on my nerves since he was 2. By the time he was 9, I’d hemmed his li’l ass up so many times I’d lost count. But it ain’t like he didn’t deserve it. I mean, damn. He would sit outside my bedroom door and make the most retarded noises, like “Reee reeee reeee” (OMG I can still hear him), or he’d say, “UB, I bet you didn’t know…!” and then read something from the dictionary or the 
encyclopedia aloud. He’d eat all the cereal before I came down for breakfast, fart when I walked by, shoot peas out of his nose at me at the dinner table, chew with his mouth open and SMACK so loud I HAD to smack HIM, but then he’d wail like a big ass baby so I’d have another noise to deal with. And he’d mess with my stuff all the damn time. My momma made me let him ride my bike and the dang pest left it in the driveway just in time for my momma to back over it in the van cuz she didn’t see it. When she rolled off, the frame and wheel were as warped as if they were a wax statue left out in the July Texas sun.
So, needless to say, I could honestly understand why somebody else would want to beat him up. He got on EVERYBODY’s nerves like that. I don’t know how a third grader could be so good at being so worrisome to so many people. The kid deserved a crown. Only problem was, the crown he got was crown after crown of knots upside his head by a fourth grade bully.
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