Post by switchfever on Mar 8, 2015 3:22:07 GMT -5
A couple’a things about kickin’ it with my boy Switches. Numero One: He doesn't speak any spanish. So, if you happen to be reading this, Switches, Numero = Number. Numbers Dos: Switches will bare-knuckle fight a gang of dirty old hobos if they fuck up his cheese-steak experience. -Cut to like… a little after midnight. Switches and I had decided to walk the strip while we were scarfing on our Philly Cheesies*
*(I call them Philly Cheesies in my head sometimes. Never out loud, though. So, I dunno if I’d get weird looks, like actually saying it outloud. -Gotta play it cool in Philly. I mean, dunno, maybe I’m like the only one who calls’em that. Then, I’d have to be like, so what if I called’em Philly Cheesies, bro. -Like, back off me, bro-guy. I’m cool, guy. I mean dang. I’m not from around here, Ok? I don’t know all the slang yet, bro-dilla. Sheesh.)
So, anyways, we’re eatin’ and walking, and BANG! Out of nowhere, these three scruffy-ass hobos are in our faces. The one with shopping bags taped to his feet is shouting, “You’re the guy who invented Hitler!, I bet!” -And then “homeless-santa without a shirt” popped us with a shrill “I’ll polish your cocks, if you can tell me that guys name who was in Misery. -Not James Caan. The other one! -Not JAMES CAAN, Gyad'damnit!”
The third guy was kinda cool about it, but I got a sour-hobo feelin’ from him none-the-less.-And then, BANG! Shirtless-santa’s gross-ass hand is all over Switches’ Philly Cheesy. This mofo’in mofo tries to straight-up gank a half-eaten sandwich from a deranged clown. -At this hour!?
Switches makes slo-mo eye contact with the grimey-hobo-fingers pressing into his meal. His powerful eyes zoom into the sauce and watches it soaking into santa’s hyper-porous hobo-fingers. I mean, c’mon. This guy just offered us, two obvious strangers, sloppy hobo-handjobs.
Switches just friggin’ snaps, man. He kinda leans waaaay back with this wacky face. -I thought he was doin’ some kinda clown-thing. Then, BANG! He fires this… like super-devastating head-butt into philly-santa’s face. -Like shatters this guys friggin’ face, bro. -I’m talkin’ I can see who was naughty or nice without askin’ him. -I could, just like, see into his brain and read it like, y’know, if a kindle or something was in there. Ya feelin’ me broskie? Yea. -I’m saying he headbutted this guy super-hard. -Right in his face.
So, philly-santa is out like a sack of purple plums. Switches slings his ruined Philly Cheesy down all over the (possibly dead?) old man. Switches then serves up a big ole’ bowl full of “a soccer kick to the side of the head” on santa. -Just brutal, bro. The other two hobos try do a classic bum-rush on us.-But wait! Switches has their mah’fuckin’ hobo-playbook, suckas! BANG! -Up comes handgun.
They immediately realize their hobo-folly and give the international sign for “dear, sweet jesus-clown, no need to murder us, bro-guy”. Which is just putting your hands up and saying “Hey- it’s cool. We were just playin’.” Switches does that cool movie thing where you’re pointing a gun at some guy, and then kinda nod your head, like saying “Get outta here, ya… punks!”)
The hobos are grateful of his compassion and scuffle off, dragging the possibly dead hobo-santa back into their hobo-cocoon. (Homeless people sleep in cocoons, man. Bro, I read it in a magazine. Yea, that shut ya up real fast. -Didn’t it?. Yea, it did.)
“I think he was probably talkin’ about Richard Farnsworth! He was the sheriff in Misery! I think he’s the one who gets shot, too! Tell him to IMDB it, maybe!” Switches is shouting at them as they flee. -And just before they drag santa into the darkness... hobo-santa speaks. It’s low and gravelly, so we kinda have to lean toward them a little but to hear. It’s probably this guys last words, so we’re listening super hard.
“You… should probably…” Shirtless-Philly-Santa coughs up a blood-filled throat-aggot onto his bare hobo-chest.
“... say something about the match…” Hobo-santa’s eyes glimmer as he dies in the gutter.
Switches lets this soak in before he replies. “Yea, Imma, prolly beat’em up. -Ya know. All of 'em... Oblivion… and those other guys. I think... what. -That guy from the car insurance commercials! Mayhem, I think, is his name. He dressed up like a Raccoon in one and like, a falling tree branch. Did you see those? Yea, him too.” Switches nods to himself, in some kind of misplaced… is it quiet dignity? Is that what that look was?
“Hey, wait, there’s another one…. Apple-lips?, I think is what it said. It was a fax. So ya know, it was smudgy. That doesn't sound right, but you know what guy I’m talkin’ about. My plan is to beat him... as well."
Switches nails it down with a solid nod and a glorious thumbs-up to the dead santa-hobo. Dead santa-hobo does not return the pleasantry. Switches is a little miffed by the snub, but pockets his handgun anyways. We tear off into the opposite direction of the remaining hobos. All of us leaving santa to decompose in the gutter. We duck down some stairs and mix in with a crowd filing into the subway station.
“You don’t sound like you’ve put enough research into your fight, man. We gotta work on that, don’t ya think?” I shout into his ear, over the jarring roar of the subway ambiance. “I didn't know that guys name back there, and I think I did pretty well. -Right?” He returns into my directed ear. “These guys are professionals, man! I mean, probably? You should look’em up and like wikipedia them and shit!” I am literally shouting in his face. “Yea, maybe!” We see some cops up ahead in the crowd, so we duck into the bathroom.
-Till the hobo-murder heat cools down a bit.
*(I call them Philly Cheesies in my head sometimes. Never out loud, though. So, I dunno if I’d get weird looks, like actually saying it outloud. -Gotta play it cool in Philly. I mean, dunno, maybe I’m like the only one who calls’em that. Then, I’d have to be like, so what if I called’em Philly Cheesies, bro. -Like, back off me, bro-guy. I’m cool, guy. I mean dang. I’m not from around here, Ok? I don’t know all the slang yet, bro-dilla. Sheesh.)
So, anyways, we’re eatin’ and walking, and BANG! Out of nowhere, these three scruffy-ass hobos are in our faces. The one with shopping bags taped to his feet is shouting, “You’re the guy who invented Hitler!, I bet!” -And then “homeless-santa without a shirt” popped us with a shrill “I’ll polish your cocks, if you can tell me that guys name who was in Misery. -Not James Caan. The other one! -Not JAMES CAAN, Gyad'damnit!”
The third guy was kinda cool about it, but I got a sour-hobo feelin’ from him none-the-less.-And then, BANG! Shirtless-santa’s gross-ass hand is all over Switches’ Philly Cheesy. This mofo’in mofo tries to straight-up gank a half-eaten sandwich from a deranged clown. -At this hour!?
Switches makes slo-mo eye contact with the grimey-hobo-fingers pressing into his meal. His powerful eyes zoom into the sauce and watches it soaking into santa’s hyper-porous hobo-fingers. I mean, c’mon. This guy just offered us, two obvious strangers, sloppy hobo-handjobs.
Switches just friggin’ snaps, man. He kinda leans waaaay back with this wacky face. -I thought he was doin’ some kinda clown-thing. Then, BANG! He fires this… like super-devastating head-butt into philly-santa’s face. -Like shatters this guys friggin’ face, bro. -I’m talkin’ I can see who was naughty or nice without askin’ him. -I could, just like, see into his brain and read it like, y’know, if a kindle or something was in there. Ya feelin’ me broskie? Yea. -I’m saying he headbutted this guy super-hard. -Right in his face.
So, philly-santa is out like a sack of purple plums. Switches slings his ruined Philly Cheesy down all over the (possibly dead?) old man. Switches then serves up a big ole’ bowl full of “a soccer kick to the side of the head” on santa. -Just brutal, bro. The other two hobos try do a classic bum-rush on us.-But wait! Switches has their mah’fuckin’ hobo-playbook, suckas! BANG! -Up comes handgun.
They immediately realize their hobo-folly and give the international sign for “dear, sweet jesus-clown, no need to murder us, bro-guy”. Which is just putting your hands up and saying “Hey- it’s cool. We were just playin’.” Switches does that cool movie thing where you’re pointing a gun at some guy, and then kinda nod your head, like saying “Get outta here, ya… punks!”)
The hobos are grateful of his compassion and scuffle off, dragging the possibly dead hobo-santa back into their hobo-cocoon. (Homeless people sleep in cocoons, man. Bro, I read it in a magazine. Yea, that shut ya up real fast. -Didn’t it?. Yea, it did.)
“I think he was probably talkin’ about Richard Farnsworth! He was the sheriff in Misery! I think he’s the one who gets shot, too! Tell him to IMDB it, maybe!” Switches is shouting at them as they flee. -And just before they drag santa into the darkness... hobo-santa speaks. It’s low and gravelly, so we kinda have to lean toward them a little but to hear. It’s probably this guys last words, so we’re listening super hard.
“You… should probably…” Shirtless-Philly-Santa coughs up a blood-filled throat-aggot onto his bare hobo-chest.
“... say something about the match…” Hobo-santa’s eyes glimmer as he dies in the gutter.
Switches lets this soak in before he replies. “Yea, Imma, prolly beat’em up. -Ya know. All of 'em... Oblivion… and those other guys. I think... what. -That guy from the car insurance commercials! Mayhem, I think, is his name. He dressed up like a Raccoon in one and like, a falling tree branch. Did you see those? Yea, him too.” Switches nods to himself, in some kind of misplaced… is it quiet dignity? Is that what that look was?
“Hey, wait, there’s another one…. Apple-lips?, I think is what it said. It was a fax. So ya know, it was smudgy. That doesn't sound right, but you know what guy I’m talkin’ about. My plan is to beat him... as well."
Switches nails it down with a solid nod and a glorious thumbs-up to the dead santa-hobo. Dead santa-hobo does not return the pleasantry. Switches is a little miffed by the snub, but pockets his handgun anyways. We tear off into the opposite direction of the remaining hobos. All of us leaving santa to decompose in the gutter. We duck down some stairs and mix in with a crowd filing into the subway station.
“You don’t sound like you’ve put enough research into your fight, man. We gotta work on that, don’t ya think?” I shout into his ear, over the jarring roar of the subway ambiance. “I didn't know that guys name back there, and I think I did pretty well. -Right?” He returns into my directed ear. “These guys are professionals, man! I mean, probably? You should look’em up and like wikipedia them and shit!” I am literally shouting in his face. “Yea, maybe!” We see some cops up ahead in the crowd, so we duck into the bathroom.
-Till the hobo-murder heat cools down a bit.
