Tales From the Gay Bar – “White Riot” or “Officer Badass”

Posted: August 25, 2013 in TFTGB

It seems there was interest in how the sports bar lost it’s liquor license. Well all righty, gather ‘round kids, as I tell the tale of the White Riot or Officer Badass. Ahem

One quiet night, only a few months after the events that took place in “Blow Me a Kiss”, I was locking up the bar. It was a weekday so we closed early and I was on my own. I stepped into the dark street to lock the front door. It had only just stopped raining five minutes before. What the weather forecast had called “a brief afternoon shower” had morphed in to a three hour rinse cycle. Proving that, just like everyone else, the weather doesn’t give a hoot about what the weather forecast says. The stars were only just breaking through the cloud cover and the moonlight hit the still damp street which answered her call with the glint in the remaining puddles.

Poetry aside, I was standing on the front step fumbling with my keys when I heard shouting from down the street. I spun around and what I saw made me rip open the front door, jump inside and lock it behind me. It was all in one fluid movement, a very graceful movement, much too graceful for someone as physically awkward as me. So to make up for it I immediately stumbled and fell on my ass.

What did I see that brought on such an aggressive (and graceful) reaction? I saw two groups of about 20 people each lined up on the sidewalks on either side of the street. They were sizing each other up like cats about to fight for control of the dumpster behind the seafood restaurant. Shirts were being pulled over heads and carelessly discarded, knuckles were being cracked as loud as possible, taunts were being thrown (mostly the faggot, pussy or yo’ mama kind) and I even saw a girl take off her earrings and heels and put her hair in a ponytail. In three words, what I saw was: It was on!

Safe inside the gay bar, I got up from the floor and went to the window to see the show. As I stared down the street, a guy from the Soviet side, bald, bare-chested and with tribal tattoos running up his left arm and shoulder, stepped into the DMZ that was the road. He threw up his arms in a “come at me” gesture and roared at the Americans. He slowly spun in place so as to show that he had no fear of turning his back to the enemy. The moment he completed his 360° revolution, something happened. The cold war turned unbearably hot.

The warring factions spilled into the road. Like two tidal waves they seemed to flow and extinguish everything in their path until they crashed in the middle. The white foam washing over the dividing line running down the centre of the asphalt. It became the line of scrimmage in a hardcore game of American football (Just football for the high fructose corn syrup lovers, pussy-rugby for the Brits and the Aussies.)

Punches flew, pairs of fighters grappled on the ground or circled each other while jabbing, ducking and parrying. It was a mess of bodies and the noise seemed too loud to fit this otherwise quiet street on a weekday night.

The sound of the scrimmage bounced off of the buildings on either side and rose into the cool air above the sweaty bodies. There it hung like a cloud far too low for it’s own good. Like a middleclass kid that’s lost his friends on a night out and is desperately looking for a familiar face in the wrong neighborhood. It grew in volume and slowly spread out until it seemed to form a barrier around the whirling warriors. A barrier so it dense nothing could penetrate it. That is until the sirens started wailing.

An armada of cop cars came sailing through the street from both sides, sealing in the Gauls and the Romans. Officers jumped out to round up the runners and end the remaining fights. After about two minutes of chaos only two fighters remained. They refused to cease and completely ignored the cops. It seemed the cops didn’t know how to tackle the situation, but then one guy stepped in.

A 2 meter tall (6 feet, 7 inches for the inventors of freedom, or 6,6 kanejaku for the Japanese) bald guy wearing a bulletproof vest and a “don’t fuck with me” expression stepped in between Ali and Frazier and grabbed them by their collars like two naughty schoolboys. It was glorious!

The police drove off with their captives and the battle of the sports bar was over, no clear winner. The gay bar did however get a clear victory, the sports bar lost their liquor license and the amount of trouble we saw shrank to hardly any overnight.


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