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| A Night in Atlantic Station |
| Thursday, January 24, 2008 |
[Bear that this is done with voice dictation software]
 I'd be interested to hear what the numbers are behind Atlantic Station. I keep hearing how subsidized housing pretty much screwed the whole situation by cramming low income folks, (Democrats), into a decent number the nice new apartments, condos, and town houses. The story I heard before I went there Friday night was from a "girl_friend" who said she couldn't afford an apartment in Atlantic Station, because the cheap apartments were only given to people making less than $20,000 a year. So, I guess by "numbers" my question is how many poor people live there. And, by that, I mean, how poorly the waiters and waitresses get tipped.
Cut to three hours later. We're walking back to my car when we hear a large commotion and see tall typical Atlantic Station patron hauling ass past us in white and red of matching athletic gear, complete with oversized, tilted to the side, wiggity-whack hat. He was chased by a smaller guy in a waiter's uniform and a similarly-sized chef.
"Stop that nigga," commanded the waiter. (It was okay, all three were black :-)).
Struggling behind was a short, female, overweight cop. She didn't yell any racial slurs, but if she decided to, it would have been OK too.
As the quartet of potential jail time rounded the corner to the underground parking stairwell, I thought, "this seems way too interesting not to become involved". I told my girl that I'd call her in a minute, and dashed toward another stairwell where I knew I could cut the group off. It was clear when I've reached the parking deck that the chasee was gaining a lot of ground on the shorter, less athletic, and likely less motivated chasors.
Unfortunately for our would-be urban roadrunner, the Atlantic Station police apparently have a good deal of practice at cornering scofflaws. The perp was quickly surrounded. And they were real cops.
As our hero weighed his options, (he certainly was dressed for more sprinting). He waffled perhaps a beat too long. The closest of the three circling cops instructed him to get on the ground. From your watching of "Cops", you know that the perps usually do get on the ground slowly, but, as is the cop's prerogative, a good knee to the back, pepper spray, or baton tap is still in order. This time, our perp hesitantly put his hands behind his head, which was just enough time for the first cop to whip out his baton and whack the holy Shia out of the middle of my buddy's back. One more hit on the back of the shoulder, and then a wicked shot to the left kneecap produced the desired effect, which was a shout of pain and our perp on the concrete. A few more baton shots for good measure, and the cuffs went on.
In case you weren't aware, police batons aren't the old dowel-style billy clubs of the 1850s. They are the collapsible, military-grade, hippie skull cracking-style. Or, in this case, good for some black on black justice.
When me lady finally caught up to me, she said she overheard the patrons of the generic chain, (California Pizza Kitchen, TGI Friday's, whatever), that our felon and a girl were apparently in a verbal argument, whereupon, our friend cracked the girl across the face and then fled the restaurant, which is where we met the fellow.
So, it appears that our hero will be spending quite a bit of time in jail, (and judging by the baton shots, the hospital), because he broke one of the cardinal rules of being a dude: "If you're going to do it, wait 'til you home, and never in the face."
[Look for more of these in the future, as I finally reinstalled the pirated voice recognition software. I think my writing will suffer because of a lack of typing, but I'll get better.]Labels: Editorial |
posted by Muff @ 11:59 AM  |
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| Frig off |
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Name: Muff
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