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Strawberry Luck
May. 21st, 2009 03:26 amTerminus in the 90's: a simple case of right place, wrong time.
Germ was tagging the side of the four foot wall running along the rail tracks seperating it, with the most minimum of boundaries, from parallel Seaborn Avenue that dead ended into the train yards. He was doing the old swatstika in a circle with a slash through it routine. Painted big, bright and bold in day glow red so no conductor nor lineman would ever miss it. A safe protest, sure, but such is the folly and privilege of youth. Problem was he drew the swatstika first. Big time fuck-up. Some old rent-a-cop playing the rail bull role stumbled up on him out of the dark. Laid a calm, light hand on his left shoulder and gave a cool - "Alright son, I think that's enough". Then the old Bull took a look at the wall before them, adjusting his glasses just to be sure and made Germ for nazi right there and then. The fingers went from the weight of a reassuring pat to a clawed pinch. Germ had to think fast now. He knew getting busted for vandalism was one thing, but it would be a completely different story doing lock-up with a white power rep attached to his sorry ass. Remembers this one time he shared a cell with some Aryan asshole with the stars and bars centered on an iron cross inked across the throat. Within minutes he got stomped down with a collective fury. Every cop in the fucking place gathered outside the bars for a quick laugh. He remembers this real well, since it was him who cast the first stone, or in his case, first heel to his balls.
"It's not what you think...", Germ said raising his arms up to form a human trident.
"Yeah, well you can explain it to the police when they get here." The old bull sneered, patting his jacket pockets down for his walkie-talkie.
"Pfff... I'm realll sorry about this, man" Germ sighed.
"Funny how everyone's 'sorry' when they get caught..."
"Not for that... this" Germ falls forward but then stops midway to pivot out of the sleeve, freeing his left arm in a blur. Having made his decision before thinking about it, he tosses the can out of his right hand and catches it with his left before sliding his other arm free. The old bull is left dumbfounded holding the empty leather jacket. hand painted Exploited mohican skull with the words "SEX & VIOLENCE" stenciled across the back and then up at Germ. Before the old Bull can say another word he is blasted in the face with a burst of spray paint. Germ's counting on the glasses to absorb most of the damage. Still he feels bad when the rent a cop starts shrieking, stumbling backwards clutching his face.
Not for long though, just a moment to shake his head in a momentary lapse of regret.
Germ snaps out of the guilt funk to swoop down and grab his jacket off the gravel. He dons the jacket with ease, having been long versed in the gentlemanly art of dressing while fleeing. He bolts for the wall, ready to hop it with the quickness. When he reaches it however he skids to a stop coming face to face with the swatstika he painted. He looks around. The old bull was staggering and scream-cursing him out: "Y'vicious lil' prick... I'll find ya, I'll fuckin' find ya, y'hear?". Then a pair of flashlight orbs flare up and begin floating down the distant end of the tracks towards him.
Doesn't matter.
With a rattle of the can he finishes the circle and the slash. Then and only then, with the blinded bull now rushing towards the sound of the aerosol hiss and two husky silhouettes emerging now from behind the flashlights at a dead run, does he take the wall with a pull up, a grunt and a flip of the hips over.
*****
( Read more... )
Germ was tagging the side of the four foot wall running along the rail tracks seperating it, with the most minimum of boundaries, from parallel Seaborn Avenue that dead ended into the train yards. He was doing the old swatstika in a circle with a slash through it routine. Painted big, bright and bold in day glow red so no conductor nor lineman would ever miss it. A safe protest, sure, but such is the folly and privilege of youth. Problem was he drew the swatstika first. Big time fuck-up. Some old rent-a-cop playing the rail bull role stumbled up on him out of the dark. Laid a calm, light hand on his left shoulder and gave a cool - "Alright son, I think that's enough". Then the old Bull took a look at the wall before them, adjusting his glasses just to be sure and made Germ for nazi right there and then. The fingers went from the weight of a reassuring pat to a clawed pinch. Germ had to think fast now. He knew getting busted for vandalism was one thing, but it would be a completely different story doing lock-up with a white power rep attached to his sorry ass. Remembers this one time he shared a cell with some Aryan asshole with the stars and bars centered on an iron cross inked across the throat. Within minutes he got stomped down with a collective fury. Every cop in the fucking place gathered outside the bars for a quick laugh. He remembers this real well, since it was him who cast the first stone, or in his case, first heel to his balls.
"It's not what you think...", Germ said raising his arms up to form a human trident.
"Yeah, well you can explain it to the police when they get here." The old bull sneered, patting his jacket pockets down for his walkie-talkie.
"Pfff... I'm realll sorry about this, man" Germ sighed.
"Funny how everyone's 'sorry' when they get caught..."
"Not for that... this" Germ falls forward but then stops midway to pivot out of the sleeve, freeing his left arm in a blur. Having made his decision before thinking about it, he tosses the can out of his right hand and catches it with his left before sliding his other arm free. The old bull is left dumbfounded holding the empty leather jacket. hand painted Exploited mohican skull with the words "SEX & VIOLENCE" stenciled across the back and then up at Germ. Before the old Bull can say another word he is blasted in the face with a burst of spray paint. Germ's counting on the glasses to absorb most of the damage. Still he feels bad when the rent a cop starts shrieking, stumbling backwards clutching his face.
Not for long though, just a moment to shake his head in a momentary lapse of regret.
Germ snaps out of the guilt funk to swoop down and grab his jacket off the gravel. He dons the jacket with ease, having been long versed in the gentlemanly art of dressing while fleeing. He bolts for the wall, ready to hop it with the quickness. When he reaches it however he skids to a stop coming face to face with the swatstika he painted. He looks around. The old bull was staggering and scream-cursing him out: "Y'vicious lil' prick... I'll find ya, I'll fuckin' find ya, y'hear?". Then a pair of flashlight orbs flare up and begin floating down the distant end of the tracks towards him.
Doesn't matter.
With a rattle of the can he finishes the circle and the slash. Then and only then, with the blinded bull now rushing towards the sound of the aerosol hiss and two husky silhouettes emerging now from behind the flashlights at a dead run, does he take the wall with a pull up, a grunt and a flip of the hips over.
( Read more... )
