We called it the Icebox. My bedroom. I ran the A/C like it was keeping secrets frozen. Summer, winter, spring, fall—didn’t matter. You could see your breath in there while the block boiled in its own sweat.
One Monday night, me, Chris, and Chuck were watching Raw—Triple H just hit Benoit with the pedigree, and I swear that moment was seared into my brain forever, not because of the move, but what followed.
Chris, for whatever dumb reason, had his gun out. Just messing with the hammer. Laughing. All of a sudden—
BOOM.
He shot himself in the damn foot.
I jumped like I'd just been sniped, patting myself down like I expected to find a bullet hole. Chuck had black powder on his face like he just got hit with a Looney Tunes trap. He ran. I mean bolted out of the Icebox.
My dad caught him in the hallway—“What the hell happened?” I’m like, “I’m cool, but Chris got a new breathing hole in his foot.” Meanwhile, Chris is screaming “Oh my God!” like a scratched record.
And the craziest part? My mom was in the next room and didn’t hear a damn thing. God damn I miss them two bastards.
