Elliot, Ft. Thompson

“I’m not going in there,” Elliott stated matter-of-factly from the streets of Fort Thompson, South Dakota.

“I’ve seen worse,” I returned. 

“You’re on your own bro,” and Elliot turned and walked back in the direction we had come from. Elliot knew this area and the risks, having survived them himself. I should’ve listened.

I continued on. Not even 50 yards in, I heard a man yelling, and as he got closer (he was running fast), I saw a bottle of R&R Canadian whiskey in one hand (I have personal past experience with this particular brand) and a pistol in his other hand, unfortunately, pointed at me. 

I wondered if I’d die on this dusty trail. It wouldn’t be ideal, I thought. I couldn’t run, because I had fairly severe pain in one foot that had been bothering me for several weeks (I later learned when I finally had an x-ray done that the foot had a broken bone in it, but I wasn’t equipped with this knowledge at the time), so the man with the Canadian whiskey and the gun, and I, locked horns. We pushed each other around. His body was sweaty. Mine was too, it was a hot summer day. My hands slid around on his skin, but I got a good hold on the back of his neck and pulled him in tight while pushing the gun away. I work out, and with the exception of the broken foot I didn’t know was broken, I felt strong. He was surprisingly strong too, and younger than I, but after physically sizing one another up, we were alright. 

I learned his name - Iverson, and this area, referred to as 8 Mile, he considers his.