[embedyt]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZo72VgUAik[/embedyt]Marquel, TPVs NYTimes Domestic Violence Section, Mutual Desk, correspondent, was watching an installment of the Human Caterpillar, when he stopped to take a break and read To Rescue Image, Ray Rice Turns to Best Ally, the Woman He Hit. Janay Rice negotiated with major networks for an opportunity to make the case that her husband, Ray Rice, the Baltimore Ravens NFL football star, is a good guy. Marquel was not one bit surprised by this surprising news. You could call it the Stockholm Syndrome, where victims of torture were found to have bonded with their nemeses. Or, in utilitarian American parlance, it’s either dependence or co-dependence. It seemed worthwhile looking into, though, so Marquel arranged to visit the Rice household and see for himself.
The Rices seemed a charming couple. Ms Rice was a knockout especially in her oversize blackout sunglasses. Mr Rice was charming and handsome in a kind of primitive brutalism art school kind of way.
“Ms Rice,…”
“Call me J” she interrupted.
“Okay J. It’s so striking, no pun intended, that you look like a fabulous couple and yet there is this violence.” I said.
“We’re a violent family,” said Mr Rice, “You have to remember the business I’m in.”
“Well, Mr Rice,…”
“Call me Killer. Everyone does.” He said.
“Okay J and Killer, how do you explain this violence. Not at work but at home.” I asked.
“You might say I take my work home,” he said.
“Yeah, well, the home is the woman’s domain.” She said, and a split second later, Killers hand struck her in the face.
“It is,” she said, seemingly oblivious to the slap. A split second later, she threw a half full tumbler of water at him, which actually cracked into pieces on his forehead. “Killer has trouble separating his work from his home life. We’re working on it.” Again his hand swiftly flew out, connecting with her nose. I heard a crack.
“So you think this is the most effective way to solve it? You’re kind of buying into the violence. Maybe therapy would work better,” I suggested.
Killer said, “I ain’t crazy. I ain’t seeing no fucking shrink.” And his hand equally suddenly, at the speed of light it seemed, struck out and pounded my hand on the table. I felt a few knuckles partially disintegrate. I stifled an “ouch” as J flipped the back of her hand onto his ear.
“That’s no way to treat company,” she said. She scratched his face brutally, from top to bottom.
“Your right, I’m sorry Marquel. We’re working on it.” He let loose with a true punch to her jaw, sending her tumbling over the couch. “Don’t criticize me in front of others. You hear?” He bellowed, as she climbed back over the couch and sat down.
I took an assay of conditions. Killer’s ear was flaming red, blood was pouring from his forehead, and his face was deeply messed up. J’s face was flaming red, too, her nose bled copiously, and her jaw was at a funny angle. They continued to hold hands on the couch, body to body, and they both turned to each other simultaneously and kissed.
“Tell me, do you think other players have the same problems you have?”
“I’d say ninety percent.” He asserted.
“Ninety five,” she corrected, and connected her right fist with the right side of his nose, which now tilted ever so slightly to the left. He threw a left to her right-leaning nose, which now became ever so slightly left-leaning.
“I’m afraid, if I stay any longer, one of you will be dead or at least non-ambulatory, so maybe I should leave.” I said.
“Oh no,” she said, “this has been a welcome break from the domestic violence in our family. Thanks so much for coming.”
I stood up, my hand hanging uselessly. Killer came up to me and took the appendage in his hand. “Breathe deeply,” he said, and as I inhaled, he twisted my fingers among cracks and pops. It hurt worse than the original blow. But now all the fingers worked. Painfully.
They bid me good-bye, facing each other. He twisted her nose back to vertical, and she did the same for him. He took a hold of her jaw and said, “deep breath.” In an instant, surely a painful one, her jaw was back in its sockets.
He wiped the blood off her face with his sleeve. She licked most of it off his face. They hugged. They made an adorable couple. I left. I made a fist. It hurt.
***
BY MARQUEL: NFL Disturbance
Marquel crazy
funny
I liked it a lot
I am very confused. Just because NFL players are mostly African American somehow it makes it seem they are inherently aggressive. I don’t know. I fear there is a racial undertone
Listen Big Girl. Marquel is an equal opportunity satirist. He is perhaps the best satirist out there.
I thought so too. Thanks for the confirmation