I got beat up by a retarded kid

What happens when a reasonable guy meets a guy who lacks all capacity for reason? I get beaten up for the first time in my life.

Ryan Gill stank like shit. Rumour had it he had constant diarrhea. There was a story about him walking down the hall at school with his stew running down his pantlegs and leaving a slimy trail behind him like a snail. It wasn't the most spurious anally fixated rumour in the neighbourhood, that's for sure. That honour belonged to Jeff Servage, of whom it was whispered that he had two assholes, and if dust got in one of them, he would die. Ryan's story rang with truth, because he stank so terribly that the odor clung not just to him, but to his whole family as well. The air in that house must have been utterly thick with Ryan's fecal particles floating around. Ryan's dad was a mailman, and I'm convinced he chose that line of work purely to spend as much time as possible in the fresh air.

I was new to the neighborhood, but it was obvious that Ryan was an untouchable, and my new friend Jerry Ross and I didn't want him playing with us. Ryan was offended. "Sic 'em, Scotty!" Ryan shouted, pointing at me.

Suddenly, this thing came running at me. He was huge — a little taller than me, a lot wider, and going by the stubble, at least five years older. He was atavistically ugly and dumb-looking as hell. Being only eight, I'd never heard of Down syndrome. But I had heard of ogres, and I was pretty sure this was one. When Return of the Jedi came out a couple of years later, I got freaked out of my theatre seat by the family resemblance between the Rancor and this squat teratoid that Ryan had sicced on me like a dog. Whatever he was, though, he was after me. I ran like hell for home, and this thing called Scotty McDonald came tearing after me.

I reached my front step, and I figured I was literally home free. Only an idiot would keep coming after someone going into his house (a theory confirmed a couple of years later when I tackled Martin Jonkman, tumbling through his front door into his foyer and whaling on him, only to have his vicious Rottweiler and viciouser dad sicced upon me and nearly get my damnfool windpipe broken when the latter pinned me against a wall with his forearm and choked me). I reached for the doorknob. A meaty arm reached for me. I was hauled back down onto the lawn, and Scotty beat the shit out of me. I managed to scramble free, and sprang for the door again, only to get hauled back down again and mauled again. I kept bobbing up and getting pulled down like a swimmer being taken by a shark. Finally, I got free and made it inside, half-dead.

Over the next few years, I gave Scotty a wide berth. If you were smaller than him, he'd be surly to you. Occasionally he'd kidnap you and make you sit in the basket of his three-wheeled bike as he pedalled around the neighborhood.

But the thing was, when I met Scotty, he was already fully grown, and in fact, he only topped out at about five feet tall. If you were bigger than him, as I eventually grew, he'd be really friendly. "Hey, big guy!" he'd smile when he saw you. And on the rare occasion Scotty gave you any guff, he was easy to handle, as he had a well-known Achilles heel: a bum knee on which he'd had surgery many times. Simply threaten to kick him in the knee, and he'd beg off. "No!" he'd bleat in a thick-tongued whine, grabbing it protectively. "Don' bust up my knee!" To this day, for some reason, people giggle when I imitate Scotty saying this, even if they've never heard of him.

The last I remember seeing Scotty was when he graduated high school. He got a standing ovation from the entire school, even though it's not like he got there on academic merit. His only real accomplishment was living to the age of about 25 and no longer being allowed by regulations to attend high school anymore.

Scratch that. His other real accomplishment is being the first person ever to beat the living shit out of me. Hats off to you, Scotty. You fucking retard.