Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Thursday, August 22, 2002

Milwaukee's Best

I was stranded in Milwaukee near Marquette University when the dirty hobo came into the police station. He had some sort of sandwich in his hand, and he was shaking as if a tapeworm was wriggling it's way up his ass. I'm talking electric chair convultions. The sandwich looked like the a pita bread, a mound of ground beef, and a heaping pile of grilled onions. I don't know what it's called. The guy was stuttering and trying to tell us something important. Who's us? Me, Feffie, Matt, and the rookie at the dispatch desk. The rookie was a young fresh faced lad who was too young to carry a firearm and therefore could not ride a squad.

Imagine a sprinkler that sprays grilled onions instead of water. Instead of "chick chicka chicka chicka clack clack clack clack" you hear "g-g-g-gun fo-floor da d-dude c-c-cuh, cuh, cuh, crazy no no bad you gotta g-g-g-g-g-g-g-go hep I-I mean help!" The rookie had onions on his phone. He was upset. I had onions on my shoes. The carpet had more than either of us.

As it happens, the guy was trying to report a crime. He'd gone into some restaurant up the street, and before they had a chance to kick him out, somebody had fired a gun into the ceiling. A party of gangstas was there, and one of them demanded a blowjob from a waitress, and when she refused, he got upset. He pulled his piece and made some noise with it. Assuming that all of this was actually true, I have to assume that everyone inside hit the floor and the drunk hobo grabbed somebody's food from their plate before going to visit the police.

When some real cops came back, they started yelling at him, and one of the cops beat the guy. He slammed him into a bar railing and nearly tipped him over it head first. Not my scene. I went across the street and slept in a parking lot. Feffie and Matt did the same. We'd all been going camping when the car broke down, so we had sleeping bags.

Earlier in the evening, when the car had broken down, we sent Matt to buy oil. He came back an hour later claiming he'd been mugged and knocked unconscious by four gangbangers, one of which had Grape Nehi. He said one clubbed him with a gun and took the money. We knew he was lying, and so did the cops. Feffie's money had all disappeared, and we think Matt stole it. Therefore, no cab money, and no way back to Illinois, the Land Of Lincoln. We had called the cops to report the incident, since Feffie and I hadn't figured out that it was bullshit yet. He woke up from a KO and got back awfully fast, and there were no bruises. That's why we were sitting in the station when the incredible onion man walked in.

Feffie's mommy rescued us and sent us a cab in the morning. We spent the next day looking for weed, with no luck. What losers.
2:51 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm


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