I am attempting to drive home to Midcity from the Barnes and Noble in Metry, brah (correctly spelled “Metairie”) and Metry is not cooperating. I don’t know what I was expecting, as it was late in the evening on a Friday. Traffic was as bad as I should have anticipated, and then it got worse. Slower and slower as I made my way down Veterans from Causeway- the closer I got to Bonnabel, the more all four lanes seemed to blend into some bizarre parking lot for the criminally insane. My fellow motorists were indeed beginning to act like the kind of people who should be locked up somewhere as I drew closer to the cause of all this chaos.
Finally, I could see them: two kids in a battleship-sized Lincoln Town Car that seemed to have pimped its’ last and decided that the middle lane of Vets was as good a place as any to rest in peace. Having turned slightly to the left (clearly trying to get off the road), however, two lanes were now obstructed and the atmosphere surrounding the luxury sedan was a far cry from peaceful. The driver was a punk-rock dude, complete with a fresh Mohawk and an all black outfit straight from “Hot Topic” (which, if I’m not mistaken, can be literally translated as “Trendy”), who was frozen in fear. And he had good reason to be afraid- the angry people of Veterans Memorial Blvd. were in the process of tearing him a new one.
This poor kid couldn’t have had his license for more than an hour and a half- tops. His girl, also morosely dressed, sat in shotgun too scared to even get out of the car as fat guys with at-home-tans, visible gold jewelry and blue-blockers drove cars full of kids (who learn by example- I read that somewhere) around this disaster with excruciating care. This meant that they were roughly four inches away from the ashen faces of these unlucky suburban rebels as they called them every name in the book. It took so long for each one to get past them that some of the less creative cheese-bags actually ran out of obscenities and had to simply scream ‘mother fucker’ at them over and over again.
Poor bastards… I seriously doubt they were the ones responsible for the regular up-keep of that Lincoln and I know neither of them knew what to do… and ‘Metry, brah’ was giving them no quarter. Just as it was about to be my turn to pass, one particular car load of assholes got my attention and kept it. There were about four of them in a ridiculously accessorized low-rider (not the cool kind, either) extended cab that had a decal across the top of the windshield which read: “FEAR THIS.” These guys looked like they were three or four years older than the two kids stuck in the Lincoln and they were as despicably cruel as any humans I’ve ever come across in all my aeons on this fucking planet!
Although the traffic light at the Bonnabel intersection was red and there was absolutely nowhere for their truck to go, the broken-down car was in their way and these guys were livid- not to mention loud. Punk rock dude had popped his hood (to do what, I do not know) and was peering at his engine as if he could just will it back to life, all the while the asshole brigade was irrate to the point that they were now threatening this kid’s life and elaborating on just what they were going to do to his girl once he was out of the way. I knew I was angry and that I wanted to do something, but I wasn’t sure what…
That’s when I heard a voice in my head- a good voice, this time:
“For a thousand generations the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice throughout the Old Republic, before the dark times- before the Empire.”
…and I knew what I had to do.
I pulled over in some parking lot, leapt out of my car, and ran into the automotive mess that Vets had turned into. When I reached the Lincoln, I grabbed the hood and it’s support bar, turning to an astonished punk rock dude and saying, “watch your hands.” He put his hands up like he was getting mugged and just stared at me. I guess my unexpected arrival shut truck thugs up for a beat or two, but just as one of them leaned out of the passenger side window to yell some shit, I slammed the hood down and a demon spoke through me:
“Alright you fucking eminem-ensync rejects, if I hear one more word out of any of you I swear on all that is holy that I will tear your ass right out of that penis-compensation showboat of yours and eat your fucking soul! If you’re that upset about the lane being blocked, why don’t you get out and help, you classless fucks? ‘Fear This?’ Yeah, sure thing, son, why don’t you fucking try me?”
I turned to punk dude (as frozen in shock as the truck thugs by now) and said, “yo mein, get your girl behind the wheel, tell her to put it in neutral and let’s do this!” The chick didn’t even wait for punk-o-rama to echo me and just jumped over to the driver’s side. I then started pushing the car from behind and was soon joined by punky. The traffic community of Metry-ites who’d been laughing at the stranded kids a moment earlier were now laughing even harder at the truck-o-thugs who were just punked by a skinny dude in red-lensed raver glasses and an ‘84 Worlds Fair golf shirt.
The light turned green, the traffic flowed, and we’d finally gotten the Lincoln off Veterans Memorial Blvd. “Dude, thank you… um, here…” and this kid started digging in his pockets. “Hey, it’s cool,” I said. “I don’t need any money. Just do me one favor.” “Sure,” the kid replied. “Tell me that you wear the mohawk cause you dig it and not cause it pisses somebody else off.” Punk dude cracked a smile for the first time since we’d met and laughed a little. “Yeah, man. It’s cause I dig it,” he said sheepishly. I smiled and jogged back to my car. Where was I going again? Oh yeah, home.
“Who loves you and who do you love?”