Read Part One
Read Part Two
Read Part Three
This is the fourth and last part of my interview with Les, where he patiently and generously answers to the mandatory manly question with a few other great stories about kicking asses and taking names. A big thank you to Les Edgerton for being awesome and full of surprises and don't forget to pick up a copy of his latest novel THE RAPIST. It's worth your time and effort to find it a spot in your reading project. It's truly a remarkable book. Hope you like it, folks, next in line should be Dan O'Shea, after I'm done reading his upcoming book PENANCE.
Last but not least, mandatory manly question: who wins a fight to death between a Ninja and a Viet-Cong?
Ha-ha. I wouldn’t have a clue! I know nothing about ninjas at all, except they have all these cartoons and chasey-fighty movies about them that some teenaged boys enjoy, and while I was in the Navy during the start of Viet Nam, I wasn’t stationed there, so know nothing about the Cong either. I suspect the Viet Cong dude would prevail, however. I’ve known several people who wear those cute little black suits designed by airy “artistic” types down at the dojo and who learn martial arts and never have worried about them too much—too often they seem to have taken up these activities because they either have a Napololeonic complex or have a history of getting shoved around and think that learning this stuff will make them bad, somehow. My knowledge of the Viet Cong is that they were serious dudes who would cut you down in a New York second without even thinking about it much. Plus, the few movies I’ve seen with ninja-like characters usually look like some choreographer who was a bit light in the loafers programmed their shit and when twenty of them attack a guy, they seem to favor doing so one by one, which always struck me as a curious way to fight and not a way I ever saw or was involved in down at the Dungeon in New Orleans. I think if they came up against a Viet Cong, he’d just kind of shake his head and mow them all down with his machine pistol. I do think that breaking boards and bricks and things is kind of cute, though.
To be honest, I don’t have much of an opinion of martial arts. I’ve known several guys who were into that stuff—both on the bricks and in the joint—and nobody takes them very seriously. I’m sure there are some who have an attitude and can back it up—I’ve just never met them, to my knowledge.
I remember a guy in high school whose dad was a state cop and who had him take all of these classes. Guy ended up a black belt in something or other. The guy was a first-class bully. He pulled some of his Karate Kid pink flamingo moves on me in school one day and I hit him up alongside the head with a rock the size of a baseball when we met up after school. I guess my black belt in rocks trumped his in Tai Kwon Whatever… I think a lot of those guys log in a lot of mirror time, looking at themselves practicing their “moves” and imagining themselves down at the beach kicking the ass of the guy who kicked sand in their faces in front of their little girlfriends.
I have a story about this guy. One night during my senior year of high school, I was living in the little town of Lakeville, about fifteen miles south of South Bend. One night I was up in South Bend partying and left for home about three ayem. When I hit the outskirts of town, I punched it and all the way home the speedometer stayed at 120 mph. There weren’t any other cars on the road so I had clear sailing. I’d just hit Lakeville and was making the turn on the far side, when a cop’s light went on behind me. I pulled over and up walks this state trooper.
He took me back to his car and started writing the ticket and talking to me. He said, “I’ve been chasing you ever since South Bend and I had you at 120 all the way.” I said, “Well, that’s kind of good news. Tells me my speedometer’s right ‘cause that’s what I had.” He handed me the ticket and I looked at the name and recognized it right away. It was the Karate Kid’s father. I told him I knew his son and we were great friends. We got to talking and he ended up tearing up the ticket and writing me a warning. True story. That wouldn’t happen today, of course. But, in those days and in that town everybody drove like that. And, we didn’t have the point system yet nor DUIs or any of that stuff. In fact, in Lakeville the Justice of the Peace was also the town barber and he’d let you pay your tickets off in installments. There wasn’t a single week out of the year when I wasn’t paying off several tickets at once.
A good friend of mine, “Hairs” Miller and I had a contest that year to see who could get the most tickets. Alas, I lost. I covered three walls of my bedroom with tickets and Hairs covered his entire bedroom, plus half of the ceiling. He had a ’55 Chevy and nobody could catch him.
I saw the trooper down at our teen hangout a few weeks after he’d given me the warning, and it turned out his son had told him that maybe we weren’t such great friends after all and that I’d been the guy who’d thumped him. He came up to me and told me if he ever caught me again, it wouldn’t be good for me. Luckily, he never did.
The guy was kind of a joke to begin with. He’d sent a good friend of mine to the joint a year or so before for life—the guy’d killed his mother and this guy was the cop who caught him—and my friend swore in court that if he ever got out he’d look him up and kill him. He wasn’t the first who’d told this guy something like that. There were a lot of guys in Pendleton and Michigan City who’d made the same threat and some of them were out. Anyway, this trooper ended up wiring his house and driveway and yard so that if anyone pulled up or moved in the yard, all the lights would come on in the house and outside and start flashing. He’d throw something on and come running out with his shotgun. All the kids in school knew it, and when we were out drinking at night, there were dozens of times we’d just whip into his driveway, watch the lights come flashing on, and then beat it out of there. Funny stuff!
There was a dude in Pendleton who, when he came into population the first day and out in the yard for recreation, started yapping about what a bad ass he was—had some kind of black or purple or rainbow-colored or whatever the big color is in those belts and he’d be walking along and whip out one of those “Cute Lil’ Tweety Bird Crouching Tiger” thingys, and all I saw was guys grinning and I gave him about a week before somebody turned him out. It was a lot sooner than that… And, I’m pretty sure they didn’t surround him with twenty guys and go at him one-on-one… On the other hand, if a Viet Cong had showed up in the yard and people knew it, I don’t see the same reaction happening… That’s a guy who’d get some respect.
The thing is, when a guy has to attend a school to learn how to fight, he’s probably not going to be a dude you have to give much thought to. It’s kind of like those guys who lift weights down at the gym. Gym muscles are cute, but I’d worry more about the fat slob or the anorexic dude who looks like a stiff breeze might knock him over and who doesn’t say much, but who you know has a nine under his arm and will use it. I suspect a lot of these guys spend a lot of time starring in the movies running through their heads… You can just tell…
Anybody you'd like to thank, regarding the release of THE RAPIST?
Absolutely! Cort McMeel and Francois Camoin for believing in me and this book; Jon Bassoff for the same and for putting his own reputation and own money behind it, which is always the truest test if someone believes in a book; a whole shitload of writers I respect for reading, blurbing and reviewing the book and giving it their blessings and high marks, and to Charles Bukowski and writers like him for showing me the way. And, of course I’d like to thank my readers. Without readers, writing is like having sex with yourself. The feedback you get for your performance is ultimately flawed.
Thank you for a wonderful forum and opportunity, Benoit. Thank you for pushing me to be honest and posing great questions.
Ha-ha. I wouldn’t have a clue! I know nothing about ninjas at all, except they have all these cartoons and chasey-fighty movies about them that some teenaged boys enjoy, and while I was in the Navy during the start of Viet Nam, I wasn’t stationed there, so know nothing about the Cong either. I suspect the Viet Cong dude would prevail, however. I’ve known several people who wear those cute little black suits designed by airy “artistic” types down at the dojo and who learn martial arts and never have worried about them too much—too often they seem to have taken up these activities because they either have a Napololeonic complex or have a history of getting shoved around and think that learning this stuff will make them bad, somehow. My knowledge of the Viet Cong is that they were serious dudes who would cut you down in a New York second without even thinking about it much. Plus, the few movies I’ve seen with ninja-like characters usually look like some choreographer who was a bit light in the loafers programmed their shit and when twenty of them attack a guy, they seem to favor doing so one by one, which always struck me as a curious way to fight and not a way I ever saw or was involved in down at the Dungeon in New Orleans. I think if they came up against a Viet Cong, he’d just kind of shake his head and mow them all down with his machine pistol. I do think that breaking boards and bricks and things is kind of cute, though.
To be honest, I don’t have much of an opinion of martial arts. I’ve known several guys who were into that stuff—both on the bricks and in the joint—and nobody takes them very seriously. I’m sure there are some who have an attitude and can back it up—I’ve just never met them, to my knowledge.
I remember a guy in high school whose dad was a state cop and who had him take all of these classes. Guy ended up a black belt in something or other. The guy was a first-class bully. He pulled some of his Karate Kid pink flamingo moves on me in school one day and I hit him up alongside the head with a rock the size of a baseball when we met up after school. I guess my black belt in rocks trumped his in Tai Kwon Whatever… I think a lot of those guys log in a lot of mirror time, looking at themselves practicing their “moves” and imagining themselves down at the beach kicking the ass of the guy who kicked sand in their faces in front of their little girlfriends.
I have a story about this guy. One night during my senior year of high school, I was living in the little town of Lakeville, about fifteen miles south of South Bend. One night I was up in South Bend partying and left for home about three ayem. When I hit the outskirts of town, I punched it and all the way home the speedometer stayed at 120 mph. There weren’t any other cars on the road so I had clear sailing. I’d just hit Lakeville and was making the turn on the far side, when a cop’s light went on behind me. I pulled over and up walks this state trooper.
He took me back to his car and started writing the ticket and talking to me. He said, “I’ve been chasing you ever since South Bend and I had you at 120 all the way.” I said, “Well, that’s kind of good news. Tells me my speedometer’s right ‘cause that’s what I had.” He handed me the ticket and I looked at the name and recognized it right away. It was the Karate Kid’s father. I told him I knew his son and we were great friends. We got to talking and he ended up tearing up the ticket and writing me a warning. True story. That wouldn’t happen today, of course. But, in those days and in that town everybody drove like that. And, we didn’t have the point system yet nor DUIs or any of that stuff. In fact, in Lakeville the Justice of the Peace was also the town barber and he’d let you pay your tickets off in installments. There wasn’t a single week out of the year when I wasn’t paying off several tickets at once.
A good friend of mine, “Hairs” Miller and I had a contest that year to see who could get the most tickets. Alas, I lost. I covered three walls of my bedroom with tickets and Hairs covered his entire bedroom, plus half of the ceiling. He had a ’55 Chevy and nobody could catch him.
I saw the trooper down at our teen hangout a few weeks after he’d given me the warning, and it turned out his son had told him that maybe we weren’t such great friends after all and that I’d been the guy who’d thumped him. He came up to me and told me if he ever caught me again, it wouldn’t be good for me. Luckily, he never did.
The guy was kind of a joke to begin with. He’d sent a good friend of mine to the joint a year or so before for life—the guy’d killed his mother and this guy was the cop who caught him—and my friend swore in court that if he ever got out he’d look him up and kill him. He wasn’t the first who’d told this guy something like that. There were a lot of guys in Pendleton and Michigan City who’d made the same threat and some of them were out. Anyway, this trooper ended up wiring his house and driveway and yard so that if anyone pulled up or moved in the yard, all the lights would come on in the house and outside and start flashing. He’d throw something on and come running out with his shotgun. All the kids in school knew it, and when we were out drinking at night, there were dozens of times we’d just whip into his driveway, watch the lights come flashing on, and then beat it out of there. Funny stuff!
There was a dude in Pendleton who, when he came into population the first day and out in the yard for recreation, started yapping about what a bad ass he was—had some kind of black or purple or rainbow-colored or whatever the big color is in those belts and he’d be walking along and whip out one of those “Cute Lil’ Tweety Bird Crouching Tiger” thingys, and all I saw was guys grinning and I gave him about a week before somebody turned him out. It was a lot sooner than that… And, I’m pretty sure they didn’t surround him with twenty guys and go at him one-on-one… On the other hand, if a Viet Cong had showed up in the yard and people knew it, I don’t see the same reaction happening… That’s a guy who’d get some respect.
The thing is, when a guy has to attend a school to learn how to fight, he’s probably not going to be a dude you have to give much thought to. It’s kind of like those guys who lift weights down at the gym. Gym muscles are cute, but I’d worry more about the fat slob or the anorexic dude who looks like a stiff breeze might knock him over and who doesn’t say much, but who you know has a nine under his arm and will use it. I suspect a lot of these guys spend a lot of time starring in the movies running through their heads… You can just tell…
Anybody you'd like to thank, regarding the release of THE RAPIST?
Absolutely! Cort McMeel and Francois Camoin for believing in me and this book; Jon Bassoff for the same and for putting his own reputation and own money behind it, which is always the truest test if someone believes in a book; a whole shitload of writers I respect for reading, blurbing and reviewing the book and giving it their blessings and high marks, and to Charles Bukowski and writers like him for showing me the way. And, of course I’d like to thank my readers. Without readers, writing is like having sex with yourself. The feedback you get for your performance is ultimately flawed.
Thank you for a wonderful forum and opportunity, Benoit. Thank you for pushing me to be honest and posing great questions.