Andy's Rage

Andy Adducchio is not the world's greatest cook. Nor is he the most patient person. However, despite these faults he has emerged as one of the key players at Indy. And he has done so by providing valued (and often underappreciated) entertainment to his fellows partiers, often at the risk of his own emotional and physical well being.

It was just like any other Saturday at the Speedway: booze, laughs and (thanks to Elf) an overabundance of bad dancing and even worse language. Andy had been pulling an all-afternoon detail in front of the grill and was trying to finish up the last of the hamburgers so he could concentrate on getting loaded. He was tired, half-drunk and in no mood to argue as he grabbed the last package of frozen patties and made his way to the grill.

Enter the man known as Mallue. Jeff Mallue, to be precise. The following conversation is not for the weak at heart.

Andy: "Hey guys, how many more of these burgers should I cook up? Like what - twelve or so?"

Jeff: "Six... twelve.. who gives a f*ck?!"

(Andy twirls around and throws the frozen patties as hard as he can. They whiz past several heads and smash into the side of the camper.)

Andy: "Who the f*ck said that?!"

Jeff: "I did! What are you gonna do about it?!"

At this point in the conversation, it's obvious that Jeff has enraged Andy. Seeing as how Jeff and Andy don't really know each other that well, one might think that the exchange of 'less than pleasant' words would cease and the two men would laugh it off, dismissing it as another good ole story. And for all intense purposes, in my opinion, it should have ended there.

But this is Indy... and Jeff is involved. There is no room for 'shoulda / woulda / coulda'.

Andy, surveying the campsite for his heckler, zeroes in on Jeff who is now standing defiantly in front of a cooler and welcoming a reaction by gently shaking his a$$. As Andy weaves his way through the trash and lawn chairs, Jeff quickly turns and positions himself in such a manner that his only intention could be to receive penetration from the rampaging Andy.

Jeff: "C'mon! What are you gonna do about it?!"

Andy: "I'm gonna do THIS!"

With the amount of thrust usually reserved for vehicles leaving the atmosphere, Andy grabs hold (by the hips, I believe) and proceeds to slam his crotch into the aforementioned backside of Jeff. Both men are shuffling their feet, trying to gain traction on the slippery, booze-laden tundra of the campsite. With his sunglasses bouncing off the bridge of his nose, Jeff locks his arms out in an outrigger position. He emitts howls of surprise and laughter... although some would later aruge that they were cries of pain.

The violent pounding noise is deafening, yet barely audible above the blood-curdling screams of horror and hysteric laughter. Bystanders spit liquid out of their noses and lose balance in their chairs, collapsing to the ground and asking their God to make it stop. Stop the pain.

Stop the rage.

But it is too late. The aggressor disengages, leaving Jeff to gather himself on his elbows and eventually recover to his feet, tugging at his drawers. Andy calmly turns and makes his way back over to the grill to shut down the afternoon's feast, barely acknowledging what has just transpired.

The sunset that evening had a particular red glow to it, referred to by some of the locals as 'La luna de sangre', or 'The blood moon'. But I have a different theory.

I think the moon was red from crying. Red from tears of rage.