Axed Out

The sun hung low and lazy over our sleepy little podunk town like a drunk dad who’d finally passed out after yelling at the TV. Senior year: It was “we’re basically adults but still complete morons” season.

My best friends were the prime example of things teenagers probably shouldn’t do; Tommy, the Bostonian wise-ass with a perpetual shit-eating grin; Chris, our reluctant voice of reason who somehow always thought he was in charge; and Axel, our gloriously fat Italian wrecking ball who treated every day like it was a spaghetti western directed by Cheech and Chong. And me? I was the supplier, and the guy whose parents’ house served as headquarters for our innocent little crime syndicate (though you should know this by now).

Innocent, I say. Sure, we smoked enough weed to make Snoop Dogg nod approvingly, we raided liquor cabinets like Vikings on a budget, hit up gas stations with our best “hey mister” routines (success rate: somewhere between lottery ticket and Russian roulette), and on special nights we’d huff duster until the walls breathed; but no needles, and no hardcore shit. Just enough weed and random bullshit to turn a Tuesday into a mild adventure. I’d even stay up all night playing video games stone-cold sober (except for the permanent weed layer, which didn’t count, obviously) on occasion. We were basically Boy Scouts that were flunking out of high school.

That particular golden afternoon, the whole squad plus a couple of random orbiters were posted up in my front yard like it was the thing to do. Joint making the rounds, laughter bouncing off the oak tree that had seen more dumb kids doing even dumber things than a study hall teacher.

I’d just scored this badass throwing axe (think I traded a gram or two of weed for it). Two feet of solid shaft with four evil-looking metal prongs that gave it a Batman-villain-meets-redneck aesthetic.

Sharp enough to make Edward Scissorhands himself nervous. I’d been chucking it into that poor oak for hours, each thunk more satisfying than the last. Genuine, unadulterated masculinity. Fuckin A, I had skills.

Axel, eyes already redder than a baboon’s ass and stoned to a molecular level, had been watching me like a kid eyeing the last slice of pizza. “Hey, let me see that thing. I wanna try.”

I handed it over with the casual confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned the universe’s favorite hobby is fucking with stoners. Then I stepped back into the joint rotation, inhaling deeply while the world got that perfect hazy glow.

Axel, undeterred and operating on whatever brain cells hadn’t been vaporized by the chronic, wound up for the Hail Mary. He didn't just throw—he launched his whole body into it, cranking his arm all the way back over his shoulder like a barbarian swinging a battleaxe, intent on putting four metal prongs straight through the heart of that oak.

He put everything into the wind-up. Grunting, flexing, bringing maximum force to bear.

Except the axe never even left his hand.

In his stoned enthusiasm, he brought the handle back way too far, hugging his own shoulder blade. Instead of spinning forward into the yard, one of the sharp steel rear hooks caught the back of his scalp mid-swing and anchored itself right into the bone.

All that forward momentum instantly snapped to a hard, violent stop. His head jerked backward like a dog hitting the end of a short leash.

A wet thock echoed through the yard.

Physics, karma, and Axel’s nonexistent spatial awareness had just had a threesome, and he had managed to harpoon himself before the throw even started.

Silence- The kind of silence that drops when someone’s just violated every practical law of common sense. I was eighteen, higher than giraffe pussy, standing seven feet away, and my fat Italian brother-in-arms had just self-inflicted a hatchet job. This dirty dago had just tried to unalive himself. Axel froze, hand still death-gripping the handle, letting out these quiet, pathetic “Ahhh… ahhh…” moans like a haunted teapot. His eyes—sweet Jesus, his eyes—ballooned to the size of National Geographic nipples. You know the ones: dark, pendulous, on some tribal goddess with neck rings and a shaved head. Massive. Terrified. Unblinking.

Tommy broke first, ever the poet: “Fuck, dude… you axed yourself. You okay?”

Chris, bless his take-charge soul, leaned in like a battlefield medic. “Holy fuck, Axel. Are you holding it there or is it actually in your head? Let me see.”

Axel stood statue-still, trembling, looking like one of those pretentious bronze yard sculptures rich people buy to confuse the neighbors. “Ahhh… fuck guys, I don’t know! I can’t see it! How bad is it?”

Chris squinted closer, ever the optimist. “Let go of the handle, man. It might just be caught in your hair.”

Axel had roughly the hair density of a cue ball. Caesar (the Roman one, not the salad guy—I always mix those two up) had more follicles. Slowly, like defusing a bomb, Axel released his grip. His hand hovered nearby anyway, as if moral support could un-stick metal from bone.

“Shit, man, it’s in there! You brained yourself!” Someone (probably Tommy) blurted.

Then, the Greek chorus of genius kicked in: “Pull it out! Pull that shit out!”

Wisdom incarnate, that was definitely me.

All eyes locked on Axel as he gripped the handle again and gave a tentative tug. The axe slid free with a sickening shlick. And then—glorious, cinematic horror—the blood came. Not a trickle, but a full-blown Shaun of the Dead special effect. A long, ropey string of crimson jetted out several feet, splattering the dirt and dry leaves like paint explosions by a serial killer in a 80s slasher flick. The axe itself looked embarrassed.

Everyone gasped. I swear the tree gasped.

“I’ll get a towel!” I yelled, bolting inside like my ass was on fire. My mom was in the kitchen, humming innocently, when I skidded across the linoleum like a cartoon character.

She took one look at my face. “What happened?! Are you okay?! …What did Axel do now?!”

“Nothing, Mom! Axel stuck an axe in his head! But he’s fine! I just need a towel!” I snatched a random dish towel off a chair (probably the one that had wiped up last night’s spaghetti) and sprinted back out.

“Should I call 911?! He better not have done that shit here!” She shouted after me. Classic mom—equal parts love and ‘I’m not explaining this to any authorities.’

Outside, Axel had the bloody towel clamped to his dome like a turban of shame. He was already shuffling toward the ancient Ford square-body truck he borrowed from some old man he lived with.

That thing was older than dirt, ran on prayers and high hopes, and smelled of cigarettes and broken dreams. Typical old-man truck. I hopped in the passenger seat.

“Drive to Dr. Bus’s office,” I ordered. Dr. Bus was our small-town miracle worker. He had stitched me up more times than a football without asking pesky questions like “How’d this happen?” Or “Are you idiots?”

Axel drove like a caffeinated squirrel on crack; swerving over the double yellow, one hand on the wheel, the other pressing the rapidly soaking towel to his head. I was white-knuckling the dashboard, half convinced the axe wound would be the least of his problems.

We rolled up to Dr. Bus’s office… and found it closed, of course. It was a Monday, and small towns don’t do emergencies on Mondays. Everyone’s too busy recovering from the weekend.

“Fuck it. Hospital’s the only option,” Axel muttered, eyes still National Geographic Indian-nipple wide.

The actual hospital was ten miles away. Ten long, gas-guzzling miles in a truck that probably got twelve gallons per mile on a good day. I, being the loyal friend I was, made the only rational suggestion: “Hey, drop me off at home real quick first? I’m not trying to rot in the ER for six hours while they staple your melon back together. C’mon, it’s not like you’re dying… right?”

Axel, good Italian that he was, obliged. Medical emergency? Nah, just a quick Uber detour for the homies.

Back at the house, the remaining Three Amigos, but from America, did what any responsible young men would do, fired up the bong and kept the rotation going. House phone rang (yeah, landline and dial up days, pre-cellphone free-for-all, Nokia Snake era for the rich kids). It was Axel’s mom, voice pitched somewhere between panic and ‘I’m gonna kill that boy.’

“Is he okay?! Did he go to the hospital?!”

“Yep,” I said casually, exhaling a massive cloud. “Drove himself there almost an hour ago. Should be good. I’ll tell him you called.” She was reaming me a new asshole for being irresponsible when I quietly disconnected the call.

Next day, Axel showed up sporting a fresh bald spot the size of a silver dollar and three or four crooked staples in his scalp like some discount Frankenstein. The axe hadn’t pierced the skull (thank you, thick Italian bone) but it carved a gash deep enough for the doctor to break out the industrial stapler.

We laughed about it for years and we still do. Because in the grand scheme of our degenerate youth, what’s one self-inflicted hatchet to the dome between friends? Just another Tuesday in the innocent days. God, I miss that beautiful stupidity.

Naturally, after nearly scalp-hunting himself, Axel decided he couldn’t live without the murder weapon. He eyed that blood-smeared, four-pronged monstrosity with the unholy lust most men reserve for a classic muscle car. I traded it to him for 20 bucks. I figure that's about what I paid for it in weed (honestly I paid about 8. Never pass up and opportunity to make a profit). Freshly stapled, high as a kite, and holding his prized trophy, he drove straight over to Def Kid’s house to display his newfound mastery. He didn't even make it past the first throw. Full wind-up, aggressive grunt, zero spatial awareness—and zip. The metal prongs whistled past his crown, literally grazing his skull until he felt the blade snag on one of his brand-new metal staples. One millimeter off from a full lobotomy. He didn't just fail to learn from experience; he actively tried to undo the doctor's handiwork within the hour. I’m convinced the only reason Axel is still walking upright is that God has a soft spot for heavy-set Italians with zero hand-eye coordination and a scalp made of Kevlar.

Moral of the Story

If your aim is as bad as your driving, maybe consider riding in the back seat.