I could hear the gang of punks behind me, shouting, screaming, jeering. Getting closer and closer. So I kept running as fast as I could, till the air felt like fire in my little-boy lungs.

Then suddenly I tripped. I fell hard onto the pavement, the rough concrete cutting my palms and tearing a hole in my lame corduroy slacks.

I groaned and looked to see what I had tripped over.

It was an original Commodore 64, still unopened in its dusty old box. Somehow, for mystical reasons I couldn’t yet fathom, the computer I’d always begged my parents for was lying here, in this random alley, among scraps of trash and rat turds.

Then, in my pain and delirium, I heard something in the distance. It wasn’t the footsteps of my preadolescent tormentors. It was the sound of an eagle screaming its rage.

An eagle? What the heck?

(I was so damn innocent, “heck” was my go-to profanity.)

I looked up from the grime and filth. There in that dark, winding, endless Oakland alleyway, I saw the massive heights of Mount Olympus looming over me. A giant eagle circled the tippy-top of the snow-covered peak, flames in his eyes and danger in his heart. Just below him, a vicious, muscular lion clawed his way over the ice, roaring in anger and dominance. Just below him, a powerful green python slithered and squirmed, hot black venom dripping from his razor-sharp fangs. And just below him, an ancient Celtic warrior held the beating heart of his enemy up to the blazing sun right before he took a big, juicy bite, with blood and guts and veins spurting all over him and the pure, white, freshly fallen snow.

Yeah, it was a lot to take in.

Now, maybe my brain got jolted by my fall—but maybe, just maybe, it was a sign. A message. A calling to be something great, to be something bigger and better than what I was. And to kick the crap out of the little turds who kept bullying me.

I thought about it for a sec, shrugged, and chose the call to greatness and ass-kicking.

My attackers were on me in a flash. I leapt up, computer box in hand, and smashed Ramrod over the head, knocking him out cold. Ugh!

I quickly disarmed Razor Frank, who was only carrying a disposable Bic. Shing!

I spun around and caught One-Eyed John right in his pudgy loose gut. Grunt!

And finally, saving my best for last, I walloped that little shit Steve right in his ass. For a second I thought about wedging my foot there for payback, but I decided I was better than that, and I settled for spanking him like the little bitch he was. Oof!

The rest of the mob—there must’ve been at least nine more—saw my utter, unstoppable dominance, turned tail, and ran for their lives.