Each weekend, what we called the Saturday Night Fights took place. These impromptu fisticuffs were held at the Anchor Lounge or more often, at the Burger Palace, a 24-hour joint in the wedge formed by Davis Blvd and US 41. One of the frequent gladiators was a maggot we'll call BO Splatt.
When BO got enough booze guts he had to pick a fight. An expert at the sucker punch, he was so obnoxious he didn't need to use it to work up a good punch-out. His problem was, he wasn't much of a fighter. Oh, sometimes he'd win if his opponent was drunker than he, or crippled, or a woman. But generally he was awarded a much deserved az-whoopin.
Sam Bass, who was once Chief, taught me how to work a BO Splatt fight. If BO happened to be winning, you'd plow right in, grab BO and do as much damage as possible placing him under arrest. If he has losing, you'd just stand there and say in a relaxed voice, "Come on boy's, let's break it up," until BO's face was beaten into blueberry cobbler.
One night BO got in a shoving match inside the Burger--we called it Burglar--Palace. During the scuffle he was shoved into one of our giant retired cops, Fiddle Fudder, who was at the counter enjoying a dozen or so tasty burgers. You didn't interrupt Fudder when he was eating. He responded by grabbing BO by the neck and grinding his facing into the plate of food. Ferd then told the waitress, "Give me some fresh burgers and give this A-hole the check."
One night BO had taken his act to the Anchor. Drunk and wild, he'd backed up to a wall, taken out his knife and was slashing at the air, shouting, "Don't touch me, I'm crazy, I'm crazy."
Det Jack Bliss, who'd slipped up beside him, took out his revolver, screwed it in BO's ear and said "Bet you're sane now." And miracle of miracles cured he was, being calmly led away in cuffs to the derisive laughter of the bar's patrons.
Finally BO became so persona non grata at his regular haunts, he moved on to new ground, The Royal Castle, on 41 at about 12 Ave No. Maybe there was someone up there he could whip. Didn't take long to spy a likely opponent--The One-Armed Man. Hell, one arm how tough can he be? It was a choice that probably gave BO nightmares in the future during his long prison nights. (His regular occupation was sneak thief and burglar. He was also a rat for the Sheriff's Office)
Anyway, The One-Armed-Man had, well, one arm. He was medium height, stocky, of pleasant disposition, and seemed to have no special physical talents. But, Lord-A-Mighty could he fight. He used a technique that nowadays is called the spinning back fist, where he spun on one foot, his lone arm extended. The attached fist, propelled by centrifugal force, cracked into skulls like a sledge hammer. One of those skulls, of course, belonged to BO Splatt.
Byron Tomlinson, a cop who witnessed the carnage, said BO was knocked cross-eyed, literally, from the punch, and for several hours couldn't remember his name, number, or nomenclature.
It's these ironic little moments of justice that can make life so sweet.
When BO got enough booze guts he had to pick a fight. An expert at the sucker punch, he was so obnoxious he didn't need to use it to work up a good punch-out. His problem was, he wasn't much of a fighter. Oh, sometimes he'd win if his opponent was drunker than he, or crippled, or a woman. But generally he was awarded a much deserved az-whoopin.
Sam Bass, who was once Chief, taught me how to work a BO Splatt fight. If BO happened to be winning, you'd plow right in, grab BO and do as much damage as possible placing him under arrest. If he has losing, you'd just stand there and say in a relaxed voice, "Come on boy's, let's break it up," until BO's face was beaten into blueberry cobbler.
One night BO got in a shoving match inside the Burger--we called it Burglar--Palace. During the scuffle he was shoved into one of our giant retired cops, Fiddle Fudder, who was at the counter enjoying a dozen or so tasty burgers. You didn't interrupt Fudder when he was eating. He responded by grabbing BO by the neck and grinding his facing into the plate of food. Ferd then told the waitress, "Give me some fresh burgers and give this A-hole the check."
One night BO had taken his act to the Anchor. Drunk and wild, he'd backed up to a wall, taken out his knife and was slashing at the air, shouting, "Don't touch me, I'm crazy, I'm crazy."
Det Jack Bliss, who'd slipped up beside him, took out his revolver, screwed it in BO's ear and said "Bet you're sane now." And miracle of miracles cured he was, being calmly led away in cuffs to the derisive laughter of the bar's patrons.
Finally BO became so persona non grata at his regular haunts, he moved on to new ground, The Royal Castle, on 41 at about 12 Ave No. Maybe there was someone up there he could whip. Didn't take long to spy a likely opponent--The One-Armed Man. Hell, one arm how tough can he be? It was a choice that probably gave BO nightmares in the future during his long prison nights. (His regular occupation was sneak thief and burglar. He was also a rat for the Sheriff's Office)
Anyway, The One-Armed-Man had, well, one arm. He was medium height, stocky, of pleasant disposition, and seemed to have no special physical talents. But, Lord-A-Mighty could he fight. He used a technique that nowadays is called the spinning back fist, where he spun on one foot, his lone arm extended. The attached fist, propelled by centrifugal force, cracked into skulls like a sledge hammer. One of those skulls, of course, belonged to BO Splatt.
Byron Tomlinson, a cop who witnessed the carnage, said BO was knocked cross-eyed, literally, from the punch, and for several hours couldn't remember his name, number, or nomenclature.
It's these ironic little moments of justice that can make life so sweet.
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