My eyes are too large. That’s what my dad told me. He said my eyes are too large and that makes me look like a pussy. Like a cartoon deer. My eyes…he thinks I’m gay too. He hasn’t said it to my face, but I know he thinks I’m gay.
“A damn queer,” he would probably say.
I only joined karate so he wouldn’t think I’m gay. I mean, I’m not, but just telling him that won’t change his mind. I could get Farrah Fawcett pregnant six ways to Sunday and he’d still think I was a fancy gay boy. But karate…that the old man respects.
I hate it though. All the katas, obsessing over fights…Christ. It’s toxic.
At tournaments I’ve met kids from other dojos. They seem happy. Karate doesn’t have to be a negative force, I guess. It’s my damn sensei’s fault. John Kreese. What a fucking name, huh? Ex-Marine. Ex-special forces. Ex-human being.
He stands there with his tree-trunk-sized arms crossed and tells us mercy is for the weak. But peel back the creased curtains and you’ll probably find a weak, lonely man who’s struggling to gain his humanity back. Or maybe you’ll just find cracked cement. I don’t know. Fuck him and my dad.
This LaRusso kid has consumed him and a lot of the other Cobras. I don’t get it. He seems like a nice kid. He doesn’t know when to quit, that’s for sure. Taking Ali to Golf n’ Stuff…the stones on him, huh? Johnny would’ve taken his head off at the dance if that little Oriental man hadn’t show up.
And now look where Kreese’s horrible fixation has gotten us. The All Valley Tournament. And he doesn’t care about the trophy, Christ no. It’s all about teaching LaRusso a lesson. A lesson about what though? Got me.
None of this makes sense.
I know something shitty is going to happen. I know it. Kreese or Johnny is going to pull some illegal bullshit and someone is going to get seriously hurt. And it doesn’t make sense.
The only thing that makes sense to me is the stage. And some day I’ll show my dad that. On my 18th birthday I’m leaving it all behind and riding my dreams to Broadway. Then when I win a Tony, I’ll shove it up the rotten asses of my dad and Kreese. Guess I’ll have to win two Tonys, heh.
Well, the tournament is about to start. That sociopath Dutch is snorting coke and punching lockers. He scares me sometimes. I never eat before a match, so I’m starving. I’ll ask mom to stop for a burger on the way home. She’ll have to swing by the store to get the old man’s beer anyway. Ah, fuck it.
If I don’t win at least three of my matches, my dad’s gonna call me a pussy. He’ll look right in my big doe eyes and insult me. And that hurts worst than any round house kick.
Time to fight.