the fix is in
by Johnny St. Clair

i’m looking for these kids.

right now, those savage little bastards are probably crouching behind bushes, half-naked in this foul-weather, waiting to pounce on mailmen or brush salesmen or elderly mothers on their way to serve free lunches at the church. i’m sure i heard their terrible screams just the other night, along with the lonesome wail of a three-legged dog they were no doubt menacing with a fireplace poker.

i had picked up this old man and was taking him across the river to “137 Patterson, my Missus place.” it’s a mostly residential area where he wanted to go, with some row houses here and there and a bunch of houses packed really closely together. so, i’m driving through the side streets, and it’s a really slow go. cars pretty much lined both sides of those narrow-ass streets. there’s a stop sign on every corner. i got to one of them – an intersection with a hill running north to south – and the car just gets fucking pounded with snowballs. must have been a dozen or better.

BadFinger.jpgthe juvenile delinquents were up the hill a little ways, but they weren’t trying to hide or anything. they were all laughing, baring their hideous yellow teeth sharp as razor claws. i opened up the car door and managed to stand with one leg outside of the vehicle before the snowballs began to fly again, and i had to hurriedly duck back inside. this time, they were gunning for my head. snow spattered against the driver’s-side window and ricocheted off the door. one or two managed to explode and scatter snow all over my seat. it wasn’t long after i sat down again that my marbles were soaked and cold from melted snow.

i cursed their mothers and the days they were born.

the old man in the back, well, he just started chuckling. “i’m gonna get them,” i told him, “matter of fact…” i turned the wheel to head up the hill after them, but the old man gave a shout.

“hey,” he said, “the meter’s running.”

he was right. those unnatural little punks were still grinning up at the top of the hill. most of them had their arms at their sides, but a few were hunched over, scooping small piles of snow together and getting ready for another assault. i eyed them warily as i pulled away.

the old man was still chuckling in the backseat. “that shit ain’t funny. someone could’ve been killed.” i said.

“come on,” he said, “it wasn’t like they were throwing rocks from a highway overpass.”

“i’m not talking about me getting killed. I’M TALKING ABOUT THEM!!!”

later, just before he got out of the cab, he put his hand on my shoulder and he said, “the good in a man is revealed by how he treats the least of those amongst him.”

with that, he got out of the car, ambled slowly up the steps to his Missus’s place, and casually tossed a snowball down onto the hood of my car before he disappeared in the doorway.

yeah. so like i said…i’m looking for these kids.

We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One.. Archives


Awesome . . . and I use that picture for my icon on a baseball talk/gripe/bitch site. ROCK!


Damn hooligans


I love this story and I also used ot be one of those little bastards.


yeah too. paybacks i guess.

at least they weren't lobbing bricks from the highway overpass down on to the freeway. there's some deranged fucks around here doing that - and 9 outta 10 - it ain't kids.


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