Fightin' Words

Jonny Blaze stumbled a bit. His left foot was searching for the proper positioning on the bike pedal. He was drunk and insisting on riding home.

(See, Miguel and I urged him not to, but he was drunk and thus no longer encumbered by the burdens of "logic" and "reason" and "self-preservation." I mean, dude is callled Jonny Blaze after all.)

Up ahead, Jonny nears the first intersection, executing a new and interesting stopping technique called "Swerving Suddenly to the Right and Hitting the Curb." This little manoeuvre undoes all of Jonny's hard work (the part about getting on the bike in the first place), and now he's struggling to re-mount the brown beast.

Four passers-by witnessed Jonny's little spot of acrobatics, and one of them decides to share with us just how amusing he finds the situation (very amusing). He also shares his opinion that I have no personality, since I'm not making fun of Jonny. (I told him I would be making fun of him the next day, when he would be sober and liklier to remember me mocking him.)

As dude finally walked away, I was relieved the situation hadn't escalated...until Jonny decided to join the conversation: "Shut the fuck up!"

"What?! What'd you say?!"

The dude came hulking back as Jonny postured, having now almost successfully re-mounted the bike. "I said shut the fuck up," he explained, just in time for the dude to push Jonny—hard.

A dull thud as Jonny's head hits the curb. The bike crashes down on top of him. He's conscious but clearly disoriented. Fuck, I think, as dude cocks his head at me. "What the fuck are you looking at, Clown?" Miguel loops back around on his bike, stopping between me and dude: "Why don't you get the fuck out of here?" (He's brandishing a U-lock, and it looks like he's willing to use it. Holy fuck.)

Jonny starts to get up, and dude decides to offer a departing kick to the bike tire, knocking Jonny back to the curb. "Hey, man, leave him alone," I say, but he doesn't even hear me. Miguel has already swung the U-lock, clocking the guy right in the temple. He's on the ground before I even finish my sentence. And he's bleeding.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I look at Miguel. I look at Jonny. "We gotta go right now," I say.

Now we're a block away, and Jonny's demonstrating a newfound prowess on a bicycle, as we speed through downtown towards my house.

"Dude, we killed that guy."

"No we didn't."

"I mean, maybe."

"Whatever, he had it coming."

"Yeah, I don't take shit from anyone."

The next morning, I checked the news for reports of a dead hooligan. Nothing so far, but I keep checking. Dude looked fucked.

{Full disclosure: Some of the above may be true.}