The words spun around my aching brain in an endless loop as I marched through the dense heat of the urban brush. You're too nice a guy Jackson. That may have been true before this morning. But as of 9:17 AM this morning, the moment Fat Heads nightstick rocked my dome, I started to transform into something else something primal, something strong, and in many ways, something long overdue. A sleeping giant of buried rage had been awoken. I thought about Tarmok and the rage of the Bull Mongoni. The barbarian within me had taken over, this time for good. I began too feel pity for anyone who dared stand in my way as I began my dark journey of escape. I am Wes Jackson. I am ignorant in the Hollywood Barbell Club sense of the word. Wes Jackson Lives

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