Saturday, October 15, 2011

How can she slap II

A couple of Christopher Street lesbians biting off more than they can chew.

The expression is beyond cliche because countless hip hop jams have a " fuckin' with the wrong nigga..." sample. Yeah, well, they thought they caught a vic, but the vic caught a vic.

Stick to nibbling on clits, love. As Charlie Murphy explained, you don't slap a man. You start fucking with the big boys, keepin' it real is going to go wrong on you at some point.

One might say, how were they to know they were fucking with an ex-con (who, seemingly, had a little pent up frustration)...exactly my point. Even if the were that one to steal on, to let slide a woman who raised his hand to him, they should've quit while they were ahead. Once they went behind the counter, it was on.

I expect that they'll drop the charges against the cashier.

Anybody who has had to drive across Christopher Street in the wee hours knows WTF Bokolis is talking about. Christopher Street is on Bokolis' route home- actually, it's on my route to Joe's Pizza, which will bring me to another, related story- from the fun job. As to the people who hang on Christopher Street at that time, their self-perception of their level of toughness is too high for their own good and, as a result, they are way too obnoxious for their own good (just like these two). They cross against the light on Bleecker and often hang in the crosswalk, just because they can, which bottles up traffic. Being held up in traffic at 1, 2 in the morning will fuck with a New Yorker's head. If I thought it was worth the effort, Bokolis would get out and throw a couple of these muthafuckas through a storefront. I don't think it's that much of a longshot to speculate that these two have, at some point, blocked my path to Joe's.

Which brings me to an episode that happened a few Pride days ago. Getting to Joe's after the fun job wasn't an issue. But, the array of people typically on that block is not there. It's like 11PM, the block is filled with people, milling around, people who would otherwise be on Christopher Street, people who just don't have a feel of the right time to call it a night. I want pizza, I don't care. I turn into Joe's and, within a tenth of a second, my hood sense starts tingling. The place has that air of a place that's about to get out of control.

Sure enough shit, not 30 seconds later, right in front of me (Joe's- the new Joe's, not the old one on the corner- is small), one bird is talking to another bird. No loudness, no build-up...crack! right hand, down she goes. Two other birds start stomping the fallen bird, blood starts flowing. The thought came to me that I should step outside, as I was between the door and the fight, leaving myself open to the odd limp-wristed fucker deciding to throw a knife into the mix. Narcissistic as I am, I'm thinking, this is all I need, to have one of these muthafuckas make me famous and to wind up as their martyr or some shit. I want some pizza, I don't care, and only back up enough as to not get hit with a follow-through or stray.

The cops come through about 30 seconds after the stomp-out and clear the place out. Because I want to see the bitter end of this- and because I want pizza, I don't care- I stand outside. To put it mildly, the cops didn't exercise great care in removing the fallen and bloodied bird from the place. Some other bird started wailing, "They washed her!" a couple of times. I've yet to determine to exactly what that slang pertains, but I gather it has something to do with picking her up by her legs, grinding her face into the floor; push-pulling her as if she were lodged against something; dragging her out by her feet whilst banging her head into every possible obstacle on the way out; once outside, tilting her so as to get that little extra leverage so that her face gets that extra scrape against the concrete.

They ignored the perpetrators, who hadn't left. I don't know where they dumped her, because I turned around to see the Blue Wall coming. It occurred to me that I wasn't getting any pizza.

At first, the wall didn't live up to its legend, as half those cops seemed drunk and allowed me to walk (towards my car) right through them...maybe they were sympathetic because I don't exactly look like the others. Before I reached my car, I notice that, in the space of about a minute, they had cleared out all the derelicts and the block again looked like any other night, tourists, locals and drunk white girls with a craving. The guy was still mopping up the blood when I walked in.

I got my pizza...all's well that ends well.