Acid Heroes: the Legends of LSD

March 20, 2015

Violence

 

People’s Park after dark.

Violence is a constant on the street scene.  There are ebbs and flows, and periods of relative calm.  But violence is always lurking right under the surface, ready to explode at any moment.

The Berkeley street scene is relatively lightweight, compared to a lot of street scenes.  I mean, drive-by shootings and gun violence are relatively rare.  But the street people regularly bash the shit out of each other.   The Berkeley street scene often reminds me of a bunch of brawling, drunken, drugged-out hillbillies.  Or maybe a gypsy campsite where somebody might pull out a knife and cut you at any moment.

The other night I was sitting on this log in the park, in the dark of night,  minding my own business (or at least trying to) hanging out with a bunch of street people, quietly nursing my 40 of OE and smoking many cigarettes.  This guy behind me was lying in his sleeping bag, talking to himself.  Loudly.  This sort of crazed rant that he often does.  And after every sentence he’d loudly shriek “FUCK!!”  It was a little annoying, but you get used to crazy people on the streets.

The problem was:  the guy was about 300 pounds.  This man-mountain of a dude.  That bad combination of being very big and very crazy.  He was kind of a hippie dude.  Liked to tap out mellow rhythms on his conga drum.  Half the time he was putting out righteous good vibes.  And the other half he was threatening to rip people’s heads off and shit down their necks.  But I generally liked the guy and got along with him.  He was basically just a troubled young guy who was trying to get along and avoid going completely insane and killing somebody and getting locked up in a cage for the rest of his life.  So he basically meant well.

Unfortunately, this other guy who was on the scene that night, this friend of mine, a nice guy, but who sometimes takes too many drugs and often lacks “impulse control” — him — suddenly got fed up with the Man Mountain constantly shrieking “FUCK!!”  Got on his nerves, I guess.  And he snapped.

“WOULD YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP??!!” he shouted.  A hypothetical question.  And to accent his point, he threw the magazine that he was holding in his hands at Man Mountain.   Hit him right in the face.  Mistake.

The big behemoth immediately jumped out of his sleeping bag and knocked my friend to the ground.  Got on top of him and started punching and kicking him in the head.  They’re both rolling around in the dirt like whirling dervishes.  When violence erupts, it usually happens so fast, it’s like there’s a lag between what you’re seeing, and what your mind is comprehending.  Weird like that.

I jumped up and started shouting:  “NO NOO!! STOP STOP!!”  Among other things, this sudden outbreak of violence was harshing my mellow OE buzz.

“HE THREW SOMETHING AT ME!!”  explained Man Mountain.

“He fucked up,” I said (trying to placate him by letting him know I wasn’t blaming him).  “But STOP!” (trying to subtly convey the point that even though he may in fact be in the right, being hit by a magazine would not justify stomping someone to death, and at the very least it wouldn’t hold up in court as justifiable homicide)  (I always try to present the most reasonable option in these kind of situations)

Man Mountain seemed to grasp the wisdom of my position.  He grudgingly pulled his bulk off of his hapless victim.

I knew that it was just a matter of time before the cops would be showing up.  So I cleverly made my exit stage left.  And, as usual, my attitude, if somebody asks me, is:  “I didn’t see anything officer.”  And this blog, of course, is strictly a fictional enactment of fictional events, presented for entertainment purposes only.

My friend ended up with a cracked rib and a ringing in his ear from one of the kicks to the head.  But he wisely decided to not press charges. And hopefully he’ll heal up soon and live happily ever after.  And life on the streets goes on.  THE END.

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