It Was A Dark & Foggy Night, Part 6
On call for the Pacific Coast Entertainment callgirl escort agency in Westwood tonight. No calls. I drove my callgirl / employer Danette home to South Gate from PCE, then took the long way home through South Central and Compton at 2 in the morning, unarmed.
I drove down Atlantic Boulevard's motel row, south of Martin Luther King, past The Happy, The Rita, Curve Motel, The Carl's and The Vacancy. Then I turned west on Rosecrans to cruise the iron barred liquor store district. It was a dark and foggy night; a starless, death watch still night.
I hit a particularly nasty stretch of ghetto and there they were, those old feelings I 've been missing: fear and quickening. Yeah. Not knowing what's going to happen next. Yeah. The Quickening; that sharpening feeling. Yeah. I am Columbus, Magellan, Jason, Pollo. And I've sailed to that point of the map that says There Be Monsters Here.
Dark, boarded up streets. Bars on the windows and public parks. You can smell the presence of killers here, like they paved a street through African lion country. Cool. I stopped at every red light, wondering if that was a wise thing to do. I could get broadsided by a charging rhino here, or jumped by a roving band of carjackers.
I'm the only thing moving on the street, my car's engine the only noise . . . like driving a small fishing boat out in the middle of a moonless ocean, nothing but darkness, swirling shadows and the sputtering of my engine.
One mistake out here and it's all over. The sharks will smell the chum and the feeding frenzy begins. A few seconds of splashing and screaming to God, then silence and a puddle of blood. That would be it. Nothingness.
Wait, there's a cop coming the other way. He looks at me, confused. You don't actually expect to see another human form out here on the oceanic sveltland. Somehow it's strange when you do.
He passes. I look at him in my rearview mirror. He touches his brakes. Red flares. I don't take the bait by bolting. He continues away. Cruisin'.
"I like fried taters," a strange, Swingblade voice says in my head as I watch the cop's taillights disappear, "but I'm not having any pork tonight, I reckon."
On call for the Pacific Coast Entertainment callgirl escort agency in Westwood tonight. No calls. I drove my callgirl / employer Danette home to South Gate from PCE, then took the long way home through South Central and Compton at 2 in the morning, unarmed.
I drove down Atlantic Boulevard's motel row, south of Martin Luther King, past The Happy, The Rita, Curve Motel, The Carl's and The Vacancy. Then I turned west on Rosecrans to cruise the iron barred liquor store district. It was a dark and foggy night; a starless, death watch still night.
I hit a particularly nasty stretch of ghetto and there they were, those old feelings I 've been missing: fear and quickening. Yeah. Not knowing what's going to happen next. Yeah. The Quickening; that sharpening feeling. Yeah. I am Columbus, Magellan, Jason, Pollo. And I've sailed to that point of the map that says There Be Monsters Here.
Dark, boarded up streets. Bars on the windows and public parks. You can smell the presence of killers here, like they paved a street through African lion country. Cool. I stopped at every red light, wondering if that was a wise thing to do. I could get broadsided by a charging rhino here, or jumped by a roving band of carjackers.
I'm the only thing moving on the street, my car's engine the only noise . . . like driving a small fishing boat out in the middle of a moonless ocean, nothing but darkness, swirling shadows and the sputtering of my engine.
One mistake out here and it's all over. The sharks will smell the chum and the feeding frenzy begins. A few seconds of splashing and screaming to God, then silence and a puddle of blood. That would be it. Nothingness.
Wait, there's a cop coming the other way. He looks at me, confused. You don't actually expect to see another human form out here on the oceanic sveltland. Somehow it's strange when you do.
He passes. I look at him in my rearview mirror. He touches his brakes. Red flares. I don't take the bait by bolting. He continues away. Cruisin'.
"I like fried taters," a strange, Swingblade voice says in my head as I watch the cop's taillights disappear, "but I'm not having any pork tonight, I reckon."
Tags: Youtube, viral video, funny videos, Compton, Swingblade, a dark and foggy night, callgirls, escort agency, sex worker, South Gate, Atlantic Boulevard, motel row, Martin Luther King, crack motels, Rosecrans, iron barred, liquor store district, death watch, ghetto, the quickening, Columbus, Magellan, Jason, Marco Pollo, there be monsters here, boarded up, carjackers, sharks will smell the chum, feeding frenzy, screaming to God, James Jarvis
Damn, that was well done. I started sweatin' just readin' it.
ReplyDeleteHahaha. Thanks.
ReplyDelete