"Bum fights are so 90's Jack"

[jack_babalon]

S'up?

"So what is this then... some kind of bum fight thing?" I ask as we get out of the car.

"Bum fights are so 90's Jack... this is much, much better" my friend laughs ominously as we make our way down the block over towards the expansive skeleton of I-Beams and joists that make up one of those mixed retail-resident complexes that have been sprouting up all over the city the last few years. I never quite got the allure of getting to live over a Rooms to Go or Blimpies myself. I mean what is that? Did someone wake up one day and decide life wasn't worth living unless he could run downstairs and have the immediate satisfaction of putting an ugly piece of shit sofa on layaway?

Anyway...

We duck through a sizable hole that's been snipped out of the chain link fence and make our way towards behind the building. We take the corner and find what appears to be an secret block party going on. Huddled around the campfires burning out of several appropiated steel drums is a menagrie of various scenesters. There's a possee of loud gutter punks sharing a brown paper bagged bottle. Over by the mud splattered sleeping bulldozer a smattering of Cabbage Town Hipsters look around nervously and constantly recheck their cellphones for bars. I catch three well dressed brothers holding court around their single female companion. Pot smoke wafts from a gathering of Rasta White Boys and I spot some familiar faces lurking around the shadows from my Chamber days.

Some folks have found themselves a stack of unused I-beams and have turned them into a kind of improvised stadium seating. From here all you can make out are fidgeting silhouettes and bobbing cigarette embers.

My friends making small talk with some Tech students. Apparently they had to move something they call 'the Big Event' over here once the Law raided the squats they were using last week.

"What big event?" I ask him, feeling uncomftably sober and trying to peer through the gloom to find a back up exit.

"Shhh... it's starting!"

Ronnie (a charismatically volatile old school Skin who hosts the local Karoke night down in Little Five when he's not fronting vocals for his hardcore band The Despicables), makes his way to a large circle of track tread flattened red clay. Trailing right behind him is a seven foot tall rockabilly scarecrow who's got a boom-box blasting The King's rendition of a popular Christmas Carol off his shoulder. Scarecrowbilly dude lowers the volume. Ronnie hollers out -

"Are you deranged fuckers ready for some fun yet?"

A rowdy cheer goes up.

How are the cops not hearing this shit? This whole place should be lit up like the opening of The Warriors by now. I debate sucker punching my buddy and taking his car keys before I wake up in County lock up.

"Alright I ain't gonna waste yer time. You all know why we had to change venues... and we all know what happened to the Turd-Weasel who squealed in the first place... so let's get down to it... are y'all ready for "Last Santa Standing"?"

A louder cheer pours out of the crowd.

"Alright then... here's the rules for any of you Santa-Virgins out there. Six Santa's walk into this circle. Last one still here wins! Simple enough? Now as we know there's no weapons allowed... at least none we can see off hand" Ronnie throws a wink wide enough to be picked up by a passing orbital satellite, "no whining, I don't wanna hear about how your pussy hurts because your momma never taught you how to duck when there's a fight going on! Also no outside assistance! I see some dumb ass step out of the crowd to land a chair over a Santa's head... and I mean any Santa's head... and the next fight we're gonna be hosting is Me kicking your ass!"

Muffled chuckles, more nervous than not this time.

"Finally. No cameras - I see this shit on Youtube next week and I will personally hunt down the director and hand feed his balls to a pack of crack addicted pitt bulls..."

I snort a laugh but my smile is cut short when I spot that one of Ronnie's band mates, a 400 pound brick shithouse, has got four muzzled Pitt Bulls leashed in the grip of his massive fist.

"Now we all clear on that?"

"Yes Ronnie" the crowd chimes in like a classroom greeting its teacher.

"Then let's meet our Santa's!"

And they come out one by one.

-Deisel Santa: A quarter ton pug faced young lady comes strolling out wearing a white beard and a black leather jacket adorned with various spikes and studs. A few ladies in the crowd whistle coyly at her which she answers with a wink and a burp.

-Hobo Santa: The beards real, the wrinkles are real and so's the stink. The old man comes strolling into the circle with a bindlestick slung over his shoulder and the piss stains under the knotted rope of his belt visible from here. He downs a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 (just like hindsight) and gives the booing crowd the finger.

-Pimp Santa: You can tell by the way this Santa walks that he's a Woman's man with no time to talk. He's got an afro wig on you can hide a phone book in and a one piece purple polyester number that v-lines (despite the cold) down to the belly to reveal a small jungle of body hair.

-Elvis Santa: The crowd goes wild when this Cat comes strolling in with a series of shakes and shimmys. Wide brimmed mirrored glasses and sideburns tucked under a Ho-Ho-Ho-Hat. White jumper emblazoned with twisting red roses and diamond sequins. He gives the crowd the expected "Thank-yew- thankyew very much" in a forced drawl that sounds almost natural.

-Gorilla Santa: Just what the name implies. A burly man in a gorilla suit, with a white beard, Ho-ho-ho-hat and red jacket thrown over it. Even as cold as it is out - you just know he's gotta be sweating his balls off in there!

Finally, after these first five contestants flank to Ronnies left or right, the "reigning champion" appears!

-Secret Santa: This looks to be the most traditional of all the gathered Santa's. Has the whole routine down pat - until you realize that he's wearing a red and green Luchadore's wrestling mask.

"Alright y'all got five minutes to place your bets and then it's on!" Ronnie bellows out and his Scarecrow Sidekick clicks on the Christmas Carols again and everyone begins mingling into clusters of bet takers and placers.

I look over at my friend and shoot him a 'what-the-fuck' look!

"I know" he squeals pulling two twenties out of his wallet, "It's fucking great huh?"

Comments

[vanian.livejournal.com]

Can i send this to Rotknee on myspace???

[jackbabalon23.livejournal.com]

If you want W, it's not exactly my best work, but if you think he'll get a chuckle go for it.

[mindcontrol23.livejournal.com]

Merry Xmass!

PTV Part 1
PTV Part 2