Stagnant, dreary and wet.
Any other day in the local park was 'mosher'/'stoner' filled chaos.
Today however I skated into a session of severe depression.
I drop my board and push hard through a patch of natural nail-file, AKA; a gutter,
I'm pushing in admiration with an ashamed Busenitz-esque speed.
The first sight to behold me eye is a woman being pick-pocketed/felt up/raped.
I stop.
I stand with board in hand and low and behold I feel a sense of shame fill me for my lack of action on such a sight.
My board is no longer an issue, I drop it and my bag which has my VX1 lays wearily on my shoulders. -This shit looks serious- I walk over to aforementioned party (of 2 drunks)
"What the fuck is this, is she ok, do you know her", my words spill out in a furious attempt at responsible behavior.
"Yea, its fine", the answer comes with an evident contempt.
I sit on a nearby bench to justify my future abandonment of said girl.
Eventually, after having watched this girl lying in the thin, stalk filled bushes, I decide all is O.K., she has answered the man by name,
she is plain drunk at 2.30 on a Friday.
I hit the plastic 'Rhino' park with an eerie David Lynch tone on repeat in my paranoid, under-slept and weary mind.
Nollie BS heel's on the bank are caught with a severe undertone of guilt.
ENOUGH. I walk back over and see them in a two man-one woman huddle, dragging themselves somewhat individually, yet together, toward the park.
I try warm up with a BS 3 off the side of the funbox, though I am interrupted by a belligerent-ignorant drunk throwing his brown bag/maroon tonic wine bottle at me.
"WHAT THE FUCK, is your problem!?"
"Givuz a go on yur skateboard like!"
"You'll only hurt yourself ye fuckin' twat"
He forgets his line.
"Yo, Tony Hawk, givuz a go!"
"Fuuuuck off", I roll up the bank from the quarter pipe.
He's drunk and angry, I'm sober and furious.
My friend and I leave before all hell breaks loose, not before shooting my board into his nuts of course.
"Shit sorry man", I pick up my board and lean back, walking down the bank. (He's face first on his knees)
In the city center all is calm, until of course another drunk is spotted running across the square from the cops,
directly into an expensive clothing store, what an idiot.
An explicable contrast of loathing and admiration exhumes itself from my David VS. Goliath based upbringing; Catholicism VS. Diogenes' himself's principles.
Hand-cuffed-heroism is the opiate of the masses? The school kids cheered him on.
Its about 6.30 now, all is calm, the square is jammed with Asian tourists.
Several games of skate have been had, all is breezy.
7.30, Beer.
9.30, the remaining crew of our miniature party (two) continue on our booze filled endeavor, eventually settling beside a fairly uninterrupted art gallery's alleyway.
The 'trackies' (tracksuit wearing cunts) walk past, only to return a few minutes later.
"Ave you got a rolley!?" (Hand rolled cigarette, more common in Europe than the U.S.)
"No man, wish I did"
He sits down on my friends board and asks him to move over further, my friend declines in sincerity; he's already on the nose.
"FuckiN' move over or I'll take your board"-
"Have you got the bus fare?", one of the three men start to pick-pocket my friend.
An incalculable amount of rage fills my stomach, I swiftly pick up my expensive camera and turn to face them.
"He doesn't have the fuckin' bus money dickhead"
All attention is now eyed upon me. Deserved and expected, I walk backward.
My only true concern is that which is irreparable; my VX1000.
The knacker (tracky wearing fuck face) has his hand in my pocket before I can even step backward a considerable distance.
Three years of Ju-jitsu training are frothing from my soul like a flea ridden rabid dog.
"Grab him by the shirt, foot to the chest, hold and fall back, flip him over and wind him" are my premises.
Reality takes hold faster than adrenaline is secreted. My camera, fuck.
He partially rips my pocket open as I move away, spilling the can in my hand.
A tear in his guiltless fronting bears all;
"Sorry man"
"what the fuck?" I push him.
"Dont ever push me again boy"
"Go fuck yourself"
"Shake my hand"
"Hahaha, some chance ye fucking person cunt", I walk away in a protective stance.
I call the cops for the first time in my life as my friend struggles to get his I.D. and his board back.
They swiftly return all, incl. the bus fare when they see me with phone in hand outside a restaurant.
My pocket ripped, adrenaline decreasing, the cops tell me they'll "Keep a look out", fair enough.
It was more of a tactic than anything, besides, I owe them 60 euro's for Drunk and disorderly myself, irony being beyond Shakespeare.
Home now, beer in hand, I rage on at the difference between revenge here and revenge where I live:
I'll never find them.
Topic: Things You Are Not Stoked On (Read 1882720 times)