Death Punch'd

by Jeremy Spencer

  I would be shackled to that couch for much of the summer. The gaping wound took forever to heal. Dad, feeling majorly responsible, cleaned it and changed bandages three or four times a day. The doctor said, weeks later, that if I hadn’t received such good home care, I might have lost my foot from just above the ankle.

  It finally healed enough so I could be up and around on crutches. Boy, did I suck on those things. First time out, I took off too fast around the dining room table, lost control, and stepped down hard on my fucked-up foot—collapsing in pain. From then on, I took things a little slower.

  Most of my summer had been consumed by this unfortunate injury. Now that I’d finally healed, I was hell-bent on making the most of what remained. I couldn’t wait to get outside and play. It had been over six weeks, and I was determined to have some fun before returning to school.

  It was a perfect summer evening in Indiana—twilight, that magical half hour before total darkness. The lightning bugs were just starting to appear, flashing on and off like stars in the distant heavens, and the locusts were just beginning to drone away like sonorous bagpipes at a Scottish funeral.

  I sported the same blue pajamas I’d worn when I got my foot caught in the spokes. No shoes. Complete freedom . . . at last. I loved being connected to the earth. I was running around the backyard, having a great time, ecstatic to be on my feet again. That’s when I decided to practice my long-jumping abilities.

  I spotted a big ol’ garden rake lying in the grass, barely visible. (Good thing, too, ’cause it was a big, scary-looking mofo!) The rake’s metal tines were pointing up, rusty from being left out in the rain. Ah-ha! thought I. I’ll run and jump over it . . . no problem.

  I took off, sprinting as fast as I could. When I got to the rake, I launched myself into the air: great distance, nice form, perfect landing. For a second, everything seemed normal. Then, suddenly, my leg gave out and I tumbled to the ground. Excruciating pain. (Way more than when my ankle got mangled). I hadn’t cleared the rake after all; I’d used it as a launching pad!

  I’ll spare you the particulars, but let me just say there was a huge puncture wound right between my second and third toe, right where the middle cuneiform bone joins the metatarsals. (Looked it up.) The Peroneus longus tendon was pierced, and there was a perfect rake pattern of smaller puncture wounds piercing my foot meat. I screamed my ass off.

  Dad ran out and—spotting the rake—quickly surmised what had happened. He picked me up and rushed me inside to the upstairs bathroom, sat me on the edge of the bathtub, and rinsed my foot under running water. Blood mixed with H2O, like tomato juice in vodka, circled the drain. I watched in agony as my Bloody Mary refused to coagulate. He continued to clean out the puncture wounds while I continued to cry nine kinds of hell.

  Because he couldn’t stanch the bleeding, I was rushed to the emergency room again. Since I was a returning patient, things went a bit faster. I should say now that over the course of my childhood, extending into early adolescence, I became such a frequent visitor to the ER, I’m surprised they didn’t hang up my picture in the lobby.

  Once again I was installed in a “stall” behind the “privacy curtain,” this time next to a hefty old lady who was groaning and moaning like a manatee in labor. Turned out she had an impacted turd. (For you lightweights, that’s a petrified-shit butt plug.) Apparently, this woman hadn’t taken a healthy crap in a week. A nurse with a finger cot was trying to dig the brown boulder out of her rectum and wasn’t having much luck.

  “Push!” the nurse kept saying through the major-league moaning. It sounded like she was trying to shove a watermelon through a garden hose.

  When the nurse finally loosened the enormous bunghole cork, it was like an atomic shit bomb exploded. The hideous, gray-green gaseous odor filled the entire ER. Patients—and also the staff—were gagging and making cat-puking sounds. A room full of teargas would have been preferable. The nurse who’d excavated the encrusted turd looked like she’d been mixing brownies in a Cuisinart without a lid. Splatter city!

  Not only was I wanting to die from my Swiss-cheese foot, I was now engulfed in ass cancer that was floating into my bloodstream from the seismic shit storm in the next cubicle. If I could have opted for a quick death, I would have. (Too dramatic? C’mon, you should be used to it by now.)

  Like Marty McFly, it was back to the . . . sofa. The upside of all this recovery time on the couch was that I developed the ability to do nothing and chill. This would be useful later when I morphed into an ADHD-addled teen, and, more important still, when I needed to come down from the adrenaline rush of a rock concert.

  (Side note: The combination of these traumas has me mentally fucked—even to this day. If somebody comes near my foot, I’ll karate-chop them in the fucking face. Ask anyone in Death Punch: they’ll confirm that I continue to manufacture foot injuries like Lindsay Lohan does court appearances.)

  Anyway, that explains some of the trauma that plagued me in those early years. Daniel Day-Lewis got a Best Actor Oscar for My Left Foot. I got a permanent fucking phobia!

  CHAPTER 5

  FIRST TOUR

  2007

  The first stop on the Family Values tour was St. Louis. After nearly three grueling days on the bus ride from LA to the Gateway of the Midwest, we arrived looking and feeling like refugees fleeing a Middle Eastern dictator. The only thing that made that exhausting journey worth it was knowing we were just hours away from our first performance in front of a really big crowd. That, and fulfilling my teenage dream of becoming a true “cocksman.” I had recently read an Internet article entitled “A Guide to Good Cocksmanship.” Its opening line clearly stated: “The Cocksman recognizes that vaginas can be found all over the world in a variety of situations and he must press his way into that new vaginal territory.”

  I was determined to waste little time in claiming my membership in this sacred fraternity. And, knowing the crowds would be huge, I was hopeful I’d find safe passage to Vaginaland post haste. I’m now ashamed to admit that I was on my way to becoming a total man whore. Let the festival begin!

  Although confined to the second stage, we were told they were anticipating about twenty thousand attendees and that we could count on a screaming throng. I knew this to be true because my stomach was a burning fire pit. I’d spent most of the morning in a Porta-Potty with faucet ass. When I wasn’t spraying out toxic waste or barfing up stomach lining and bile, I was nervously pacing like a caged tiger on amphetamines. My first tour and my nerves were completely fucked. As always, I was building things up in my mind as being more of a big deal than they actually were. But try telling that to my raw sphincter. After dry-heaving and shitting my soul, I baby-wiped my ass and brushed my teeth (thankfully, in the right order).

  Before the show, Ivan and I went outside to distribute Death Punch stickers. This was a routine he and I would repeat every show day. We’d hand out hundreds of stickers and introduce ourselves—inviting people to be sure and come see us on the B stage. At first, it was an opportunity to meet girls. Later on, I developed a more successful way to pick up chicks. I’d stroll up and deliver what I thought was an irresistible line: “Hi, I’m Jeremy from Five Finger Death Punch. You probably don’t care who I am right now, and that’s cool. But after we play in a couple of hours on that stage, you will. I’ll check back with you then.” In spite of how cheesy it now sounds, it worked almost every time.

  Finally, we were alerted to hit the stage. Man, were we pumped! Like a football team, we huddled up and Ivan glared into our eyes like a crazed Ray Lewis giving us a fiery rally speech. As the intro rolled, we broke the huddle. At a specific moment in the intro, I ran out on the tiny B stage, raising my arms to the enthusiastic cheer of about a thousand beer-soaked fans. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was a blazing inferno. We didn’t give a fuck about production values or lights or any of that. We came to own the fucking thing, and that’s what we did. We blistered through our twenty-five-minute set and leveled t
he place. That hot scorching St. Louis heat was a killer, but it paled in comparison to our blistering set.

  Drenched to the bone, the minute I exited the stage I bought a beer from the venue . . . for eight bucks. (I totally get why some fans complain about the prices at these festivals.) The headliners gave the B-stage bands nada: no water, no towels, no catering, no place to shower. Great way to treat other bands, right? Everyone needs a meal and a shower, or at least a bottle of fucking water. We vowed then that when we became the headliners, we’d treat the other bands with more respect.

  I managed to scrounge up plenty of booze, and in no time I was buzzed. I hit up the stripper I’d met the night before. I informed her that my bunk on the bus awaited her, and she suddenly turned into Vicki Virgin.

  “Oh, but I can’t leave my friend.”

  Say what? “No” to me then was just a temporary setback. Though I can’t imagine how, I finally persuaded her. We headed back to my small-ass bunk—like the inside of a modest-size doghouse—and began making out. I use the doghouse simile because it also smelled like wet fur. It was a steam pit, and the intense heat was a downer . . . I mean that strategically. I’d consumed enough booze that I was totally numb above and below the waist. It was as if a dentist had given me a half dozen Novocain shots in my love muscle. It took some major effort, but with her magic mouth, she was finally able to arouse my skin flute. To keep this sad musical metaphor going, I hurriedly mounted the maestro’s platform, but before I could deliver the downbeat with my conductor’s wand, she halted me with that most dreaded of words: condom. (Okay . . . I lied. Pregnant is, hands down, the most dreaded of words.)

  Fuck! I’d barely gotten it up with seventeen minutes of intense fellating; now I had to put a Ziploc storage bag on my cock. I held on to my nearly flaccid trouser snake, hoping to keep as much blood flow as possible, while I fumbled for a rubber strait-jacket. Inept at opening a bag of potato chips, I needed help unwrapping the dick sock, which required all my concentration to just unroll it on my now nearly limp beef stick. Trying to penetrate the enchanted forest with a droopy love glove was like trying to thread the eye of a needle with frayed thread. Poke. Poke. Not happening . . . (Better get used to the juvenile nicknames for my penis; same goes for the vagina. I’m into low-brow humor and puns. I prefer “reptile dysfunction” to erectile dysfunction. Besides, it’s not the size of the pun, it’s . . .)

  After several failed attempts, I finally mashed my drooping dick in there, but by then I was completely, dare I say it . . . petered out. After several halfhearted attempts, we finally admitted it was a failed experiment. We got dressed and I walked her back out to her friend. After she left, she texted me and said that she couldn’t talk to me anymore because “it’s causing too much of a problem with my boyfriend.”

  I would later detect this pattern: fuck the rocker and then get all sanctimonious. But to be fair, it probably had at least as much to do with the disgusting locker-room ambience and limp-dick syndrome.

  A further irony of the laughingly titled Family Values tour was the continuous consumption of alcohol and plowing our way through chicks in every city. It’s crazy how many girls gladly give it up for a guy in rock band. One’s star doesn’t have to be very luminous to find star fuckers. I must admit, back when I was dreaming of being a rocker, I’d hoped to add a few notches to my three-row pyramid stud belt, but I hadn’t anticipated an endless line of groupies willing to do virtually anything sexually just to be “up close and personal.” As stated previously, the life I’d once imagined had little in common with the reality of touring. It didn’t take long to realize the fantasy world I’d created in my youth was just that: fantasy. With my inherently addictive personality, I’d been easily seduced by the lifestyle and was already on the road to self-destruction—even though I thought I was just living the life and having a good time.

  Somewhere in Virginia, an exceptionally “eager beaver” hit me up on MySpace. We exchanged numbers and, after our set, I texted her and told her to meet me at the gate by the buses. I’d power-slammed several beers, and though I was a little woozy, I was ready for some action. She met up with me and asked where we could go. I knew the bus was off-limits because it was already in use.

  “Did you drive?” I asked, hoping we could do the deed in her car.

  “I came with friends.”

  Fuck! It then occurred to me we could use the restrooms. Okay . . . I said I was buzzed.) As pathetic as that suggestion sounds, it didn’t take much to convince her that sex in the john was a fantastic idea—providing a story she could share with her like-minded MySpace friends. We walked into the men’s room and dudes started making all kinds of a fuss about her being in there, so we quickly exited.

  Next, we tried the ladies’ room. She went in first to make sure the coast was clear, then signaled me in. When I entered, I was surprised to find a bevy of females lined up at the stalls, or pushing and shoving for a quick makeup check in front of the mirror. Ignoring them, we squeezed past a girl who was too shocked to protest and into a stall just as it was being vacated. Within seconds, we were fucking like rabid dogs.

  Like an idiot, I continued my practice of fucking complete strangers without a condom. These were random hookups, one-day and -night stands—unprotected. As previously illustrated, I hated wearing them. It was like devouring a juicy filet mignon with Saran Wrap on your tongue.

  So here I was . . . pounding away. I’ve never been that fond of girls who sound like they’re being assaulted during sex. It’s not like I’m endowed with Cockasaurus Rex. But for some reason this particular chick, let’s call her Mona, turned out to be louder than an opera singer hitting ear-splitting high C’s. Following a glass-shattering wail, her voice would drop three octaves into James Earl Jones territory. It’s was weird and more than a little annoying. I covered her mouth because Mona was moaning like a porn star and screeching like a banshee. The john was now filled with curious fans, as well as those who just needed to pee, and it pissed me off that she was serenading them on purpose. I quickly came, pulled up my pants, and announced, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Our exit through what was now dozens of onlookers caused quite a stir. But all I cared about was “The Conquer.”

  When we got outside, she asked if we were going to be able to hang. I used my standard line: “Oh, man, I’d really like to, but I have to do all this press,” which of course was a fucking lie.

  I’d gotten what I’d come for, and all I wanted now was to go find more booze and get smashed. The last thing I wanted to do was cater to some stranger who was not looking half as good now as she’d looked fifteen minutes prior. With apparent ease, I’d managed to put my conscience in a bulletproof compartment. This was the life of a rocker, and I was going for it with gusto.

  As the tour continued, we started hanging out with some of the other bands. Since we were on the second stage out in the parking lot, all the bands congregated and drank there. It was like summer camp. Every day after we played, we all sat around drinking, smoking pot, and acting like idiots.

  I met Will, the drummer from Evanescence, who also played with Bloodsimple, another second-stage band. He was a cool cat who’d sneak us backstage on the main stage and let us watch the show. He’d also take us into Evanescence’s dressing room and supply us with booze. We did shots of Jägermeister and whiskey—basically anything to get hammered.

  The Hellyeah camp was out of control—mainly their techs, although the band seemed to enjoy lots of partying as well. They gave me shit all the time for looking like Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails. It was “What’s up, Trent?” every time they saw me. Funny at first, but like anything, after a while it failed to amuse. Booze has a way of making groups feel like they’re bigger and more important than they are. There was plenty of that on display, and to see it, all I had to do was look in the mirror. Everyone took himself so seriously, me included.

  I needed to hang with someone who could just goof around and have fun. I hadn’t
had a friend with a super-grade-A, goofball sense of humor for quite a while. But then I got lucky one morning when a commotion outside woke me. My head throbbed—like big-ass subwoofers in a car trunk—from the night’s previous binge. To add to the headache, I heard someone outside messing with my drum kit; I went to check on it. At the time, we didn’t have a drum tech in our camp, only two all-purpose techs who did everything—including setting up my drum kit wrong every day.

  Still groggy, I stumbled outside only to discover a kid with spiky red-and-black hair tuning my drums. He was really going at it in earnest. I observed him for a few moments, until he spotted me.

  Startled, he blurted, “Oh, hey! Uh, hope you don’t mind me tuning your drums. Name’s Bobby.”

  “No, awesome . . . have at it.”

  I found out Bobby Watson worked for another band that had fallen behind in paying him. He said he’d had enough of that gig.

  I’d been wanting to use drum triggers, and I asked if he knew anything about them.

  “Yeah,” he answered with no hesitation. Of course, he didn’t know a fucking thing about triggers, but that was Bobby, who said “Yeah” to everything.

  “Do you like chasing girls and partying?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wanna job?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you totally full of shit?”

  “Yeah.”

  Though I just made him sound like Rain Man, Bobby Watson, who’d honed his comedy skills during a brief stint at Chicago’s Second City, was quick-witted and funnier than a retard eatin’ hot wings, as we Hoosiers liked to say.

  I talked about it with Zo, and we hired him later that day. Life hasn’t been the same since. I’ve never met a crazier, more energetic buffoon than Bobby Watson. He’d happily throw himself down a flight of stairs for a laugh. He reminded me a lot of myself at that age. At twenty years old, he was full of piss and vinegar. His wit could go toe-to-toe with anyone, and, as a special bonus, he was a chick magnet.