Brass Knuckles, Butt Chins & Bosnian Murderers
What is it with me and Bs? It's like last week I was remembering Deja Vu of future events.
I am retreating from my usual itemized list of fakes taken as none of the seven were all that impressive. I will share a few quotes from one, but the majority of your time reading this will cover selected scenes from events in two workplaces, each warranting a generous amount of surprise.
But first, I promised a quick quote.
"This ID says you're 6-foot-1. You're at least 6'5" right now."
"Yeah, well ... I grew a lot when I was 18."
"You also have a pretty big butt chin that's not in this picture."
"I also grew that at 18."
Fists & Fury
Smoker: "Dude, can I smoke out here."
Michael: "No."
Smoker: "Where Can I smoke?"
Michael: "You have to step outside the gate, please."
Smoker: "My drink, too?"
Michael: "No, that's got to stay inside."
Smoker walks outside to smoke, tells a friend to join him.
Passerby to Smoker: "You have a light?"
Smoker lights passerby's cigarette.
Smoker's friend, Knucks, gets verbal.
Knucks: "I see you looking at me!"
Smoker: "Yeah, I told you to come outside."
Knucks to Passerby: "I'm sick of people gettin free shit. You want money?"
Passerby: "I'm just smoking a cig, man."
Knucks proceeds to hit himself, repeatedly, in the head.
"Sir, nobody's looking at you weird."
Knucks walks over midway between Passerby, myself and Smoker.
"You want it, c******ker? Take it all motherf**ker!"
Knucks take out everything in his pants pockets. Fifteen dollars in two fives and five ones, a credit card, a gift card, a tattoo appointment card and a parole/probation officer's card.
Smoker steps in to hold Knucks back, as he is verbally threatening violence against Passerby.
Passerby: "You keep throwing money on the ground I'm going to take it."
Knucks: "That's what you do, isn't it? I will f**k you up you piece of shit!"
Smoker escorts Knucks away from trouble, but not before throwing one more piece of material from his pockets. Brass Knuckles.
Illegal.
Penalty up to 5 years in jail and a $2,500 fine.
Police were notified.
Fists & Fury Epilogue
The police officer taking my statement misheard my name as he was taking it down.
"First name?"
"Jonathan."
"Middle name?"
"Bradford."
He didn't ask for my last name. Here's what he wrote down: Jon Bradford Athan.
It was only 7:30 but I'm guessing his night was a lot longer than mine.
Murder, She Slurred
"Miss, can I have you move off the bar, please? We're trying to keep this area open."
Jaccuse looks at me, turns away from me, and continues texting.
"Miss, I know it's loud in here but could you move two feet to the left?"
Jaccuse: "You don't care!"
"I'm sorry, miss? I just want to keep the bar clear. You're standing in front of the register."
Jaccuse: "So, you don't care at all? I can't be there for my friend, and you don't care at all, do you!"
"I'm sorry miss, what it the problem?"
Jaccuse: "My friend died, and YOU DON'T CARE!"
"I'm sorry that your friend passed away. Did it just happen?"
Jaccuse looks at me like I'm dumb. "It was two weeks ago!"
And then she adds, "Are you Bosnian?"
"No, ma'am, I'm not Bosnian."
Granted, I do have Eastern European features, but I digress.
"Ma'am, I need you to move just a couple feet off the bar."
Jaccuse: "MY FRIEND DIED, AND YOU KILLED HIM! AND YOU'RE BOSNIAN, AREN'T YOU?"
Speechless, for a few seconds, one of which the tone of her voice made me both question whether or not I was Bosnian ... and, you know, a murderer.
"Miss, I'm sorry you're friend died, but I didn't kill anyone."
Jaccuse, laughing: "You still don't care. Unbelievable!'
"Miss I think it's time for you to move away from the bar."
Jaccuse turns to her drink and promptly turns it over, spilling the contents on the bartop.
"OK, miss, it's now time to go."
"You're not kicking me out. I'm leaving. But I want you to admit you murdered my friend, and now I can't be there for my other friend because I'm here!"
If you're following along at home, her friend died two weeks ago, sometime after seeing a show at the venue I work at, but before Jaccuse could console her friend in person. Instead, Jaccuse returns to one of the places her friend visited before said death, ready to point fingers at the nearest Polish/Irish/Native American who looks Bosnian. *And who was not working two weeks ago.* In the pathway to her accusal, instead of going through normal channels like, say, the police or the DA, she buys a ticket to an EDM show, gets blind drunk, spills a drink on purpose and starts harassing other security professionals after the first 25 accusals fall on my plugged ears.
Not my worst Monday night.
