Bitch Gotta Knife! (3079 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 2 on 28 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by daniel <daniel.at.writerspacemail.com> (View user info) at 2004-10-22 01:30:31 EDT
Disaster brings out the best and worst in people.
I live in Orange Beach, Alabama, where the population quadruples in summer and winter, being on a resort island. The locals live as deep in Dixie as one can get without drowning, some even drown, and many are rednecks. The real thing.
Hurricane Ivan.
Significant fact: There's still no cable here, more than six weeks and counting: that alone is a lightning rod for havoc.
Without the crowds of elderly "snowbirds" who'd normally be filling their bitch-slapped time-shares to escape the northern winter, we've all been left alone, digging out from under fallen trees. The debris-strewn streets are scary quiet, except for the sound of chainsaws. A quick glimpse of how things look here:
When they let us back onto the island, I took a drive around. (I live on Wolf Bay a mile from the beach so I only lost my pier. We theorize that a tornado passed over, doing a hit-or-miss job: it reminds me of the movie "Gummo".) One house just down Canal Road and below sea-level, this family's every belonging was sitting out in their front yard still dripping, like a yard sell for the damned: furniture, clothes, carpeting. The family was likewise outside: kids running amuck, a mom wading through their ruined belongings. I slowed. The father sat on a cooler with a cigarette drooping from his lips, stoic, distant, so undone he had taken on the calm look of the insane He gave me a "What? Motherfucker!" look, hunkered over, reached down between his legs into the cooler, pulled out a can of beer, cracked it open with one eye closed against the cigarette smoke, and killed the whole can-- all this without breaking eye-contact with me. I slunk (slack?) on down the street, feeling miserable, mostly for having lost a staring contest.
Blakely, a friend whose apartment complex had been hit bad, has made a make-shift club-house of her ruined bottom floor apartmet, since she still legally rents it. We hang out there at times, since I'm helping her move her un-ruined belongings. Mostly we just sit inside on lawn chairs looking out the biggest window (without the nuisance of glass) watching people drag their life's belonging to the dump pile, and the highly awaited temper flares.
She and I are well aware that we've become temporarily pathetic, but as I said, there's no cable. This window has become our HDTV.
This complex forms an amphitheater of sound, being circular with parking in the middle. Whenever one of us spots potential action happening, and the other isn't nearby, we yell: "Gotta live one!" I was in the midst of a blissfully long piss the other day, peeing into her sink since there's no water to flush the toilet, when Blakely broke protocol and shouted: "Christ's sakes! Get in here NOW!"
Defcon 5.
Some girls may not know, but a guy can't just "stop" peeing. We can but it hurts like serious hell. I waddled to the window like a penguin in agony. (I knew it had to be the separated couple "drawn back together by the hurricane," whom we'd been scoping for days. The guy had first pulled up about three days earlier in a Plymouth Fury III coupe, one of those bigass early 1970's land-barges with a 442 engine that literally registers 140 m.p.h., with a backseat the size of a sofa. He was badass. They'd had a few outdoor arguments already, him trying to talk her into leaving, calling her a whore and blah blah, but basically tedious ex stuff. I already liked him for the car, and I knew he had the potential to be the "Play Of The Week."
"What?!" I was dribbling in my jeans, ready to see hell breaking loose, something worthy of a "Best of Cops."
Blaklely shushed me, she was wrapped up. "He says he's leaving and she says he's not!" All I saw was the bearded badass standing beside his car--Kid Rock's unfortunate twin--the girl was in the apartment. Then she comes running outside waving a knife the size of a small sword. We were dead silent and that dude didn't flinch one muscle as she ran up and put that knife to his throat. "You're not goin' a goddamned place," she yelled. He turned his head toward us--our cover was blown--and yelled:
"Bitch gotta knife! I ain't don't shit!"
He obiously knew the amphitheater-quality of the complex, so he repeated this phrase as he turned in all directions, until everyone was a witness. He probably had an upcoming court date already, and had seen enough court TV to know to get witnesses.
He walked away from her cooler than DeNiro leaving his girl in the movie "Heat". He got in the car and revved it. But to everyone's surprise the girl plopped her ass down on the hood, arms crossed defiantly, still holding the knife. She yelled out: "You're not going anywhere, assface!"
Huge mistake.
About that time I said "She makes a nice hood ornament," and the next sound was screaming tires burning back
through a cloud of blue smoke as he backed up. She fell back gripping the windshield wipers. He had
a dead aim at the highway now, and he revved that badboy engine to the red line, giving her ample time to change her tone. The
thunder in the complex was louder than any during Ivan. Blakely shushed me as I said, "Fear
Factor," but fear was no factor. This gal melded to the windshield wipers, still holding the little sword. He accelerated, pinning knife-girl to the windshield like
a sticker.
We lost sight, but not sound. We heard squalling tires and 4-barrel carbs doing their job. The roar diminished over the minutes as he took her on a joy-ride through the neighborhoods, then grew louder as they
neared "home." When they came squalling back into the complex, a good five minutes later, and the smoke cleared, this normally tanned girl was white as tissue-paper,
her hair wind-blown back as if she'd been the heat shield for a space shuttle re-entry.
Strangest of all, as she walked back to her apartment, Kid leaned out the window and said, "I'm gonna get more beer, what do you want?"
She said, "Whateva... just don't get that lite shit."
I looked at Blakely and she at me and I said, "Are we even in their league?" She shook her head and said, "No. But we can stilll buy more beer."
User Reviews
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2005-08-26 03:02:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
lkj
Submitted by mikethescottish (user info) at 2005-07-27 20:03:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Brilliant. Awesome. Astounding. Superlative defying.
Good.
Submitted by d_prime (user info) at 2005-07-27 20:00:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Hopefully this will get 'best post ever.'
Submitted by Pentameter (user info) at 2005-07-27 19:45:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellence.
Submitted by NumLock (user info) at 2005-07-27 19:30:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I like this very much.
Submitted by Phallic_Cymbals (user info) at 2005-06-18 03:20:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
¥es
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-06-18 02:41:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Merlina (user info) at 2005-04-19 06:08:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by urbaneruralite (user info) at 2005-03-25 22:27:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by MrWillard (user info) at 2005-03-22 01:03:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"Bitch gotta knife! I ain't don't shit!"
I knew a Blakeley in college. She was a cheerleader. Damn, I wish I had hit on her more.
*drinks one for girls named Blakeley*
Submitted by Mitchell (user info) at 2004-10-30 15:52:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Nice
Submitted by DonkeyOnTheEdge (user info) at 2004-10-22 20:05:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
How did I miss this? Fucking cool.
Submitted by Schwarzes_Glas (user info) at 2004-10-22 12:05:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
note: there's no such thing as a 442 engine. 442 is an Olds model number with a 455 ci engine. 440 is Plymouth.
Who cares though. Awesome post.
Submitted by Julia (user info) at 2004-10-22 10:43:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"One house just down Canal Road and below sea-level, this family's every belonging was sitting out in their front yard still dripping, like a yard sell for the damned: furniture, clothes, carpeting. The family was likewise outside: kids running amuck, a mom wading through their ruined belongings. I slowed. The father sat on a cooler with a cigarette drooping from his lips, stoic, distant, so undone he had taken on the calm look of the insane."
Great imagery. I like the "yard sale of the damned."
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2004-10-22 10:20:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Car surfing!
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2004-10-22 10:02:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You know damn well that if you tried to break it up, that they would both turn on you.
Hicks.
Submitted by AwesomeJohnson (user info) at 2004-10-22 08:27:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Feijuada (user info) at 2004-10-22 08:20:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
BLLLLLLAAAAAAACCCCKKKKKK PPEEEEPLLLLLLLLEEEEEE
Submitted by knucklesnelson (user info) at 2004-10-22 07:38:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Gotta love the white trash!
Submitted by CaptainAmik (user info) at 2004-10-22 06:08:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"Fear Factor"
Submitted by Stin (user info) at 2004-10-22 05:55:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jungle_Jimanee (user info) at 2004-10-22 04:58:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked Heat reference as well
Submitted by toddska (user info) at 2004-10-22 04:09:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by scrumdown (user info) at 2004-10-22 03:23:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
this rocks
+2 for the Heat reference, and by hte way, is blakley hot, i think i want to meet her.
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2004-10-22 02:26:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
awe
some
Submitted by GBB (user info) at 2004-10-22 02:02:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Funny ass shit
Submitted by vergedor (user info) at 2004-10-22 01:42:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Next time. Film it. Post it. or sell it.
nice anecdote
Submitted by PROXYman (user info) at 2004-10-22 01:35:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+1 for orange beach (I own a condo in Gulf Shores)
+1 for admitting you watched gummo.
D