Post by clipper on Apr 15, 2007 12:14:02 GMT -6
"Good God," he thought as the Lord of the underground made its way swiftly through the basement underneath the buzz of New York, wending its way across all civilization, from Grand Central Station to God-knows-where. "Among the peasants I stand, among the unwashed huns of this God-forsaken country. Even in the midst of civilization itself, stupidity surrounds me; ignorance reigns supreme. It's disgusting."
The subway gave a lurch and Phillip Owen Weiss grabbed onto a pole to balance himself up. Everything was righted immediately and Phillip stood himself up and shook his long, golden hair angrily. "What the f**k was that? I have half a mind right now to go and have a word with the driver right now; I could have been hurt."
"Sit down, you, before you make a complete embarassment of yourself right here in front of everyone," said a gruff voice into Phillip's ear. Phillip turned around and saw a middle-aged man wearing a beanie tight atop his head, with a stubble of unshaven facial hair, and the smell of stale whiskey wafted over the entire subway car as he made his precense known.
"And who do you think you are," Phillip demanded, "to tell me what I ought to be doing or ought not to be doing on this subway? Who made you Lord and Judge over me, huh?"
"No one, of course," replied the scruffy man patiently. "But you've got the whole train staring at the two of us now."
"No, YOU have the whole train staring at us, you pathetic, homeless piece of shit! With your glazed over eyes; your raggedy, second-hand clothing, probably picked from the bowels of a dumpster in Brooklyn; the look and smell of someone who's been living off nothing but booze for weeks at a time; and you have the gall to tell me I'm being embarassing on this train? It's people like you that disgrace society, not I! I oughta---"
Phillip moved towards the man with no more than fury flashing in his eyes and evil intentions on his heart. The man backed a couple paces and withdrew from his front pocket a sleek black object and flipped it open to reveal a knife of gleaming silver. "You oughta what, son? Oughta take me out, oughta euthanize me, oughta put me out of my misery and put yourself out of your own in the same? That it, kid?" The homeless man laughed and smiled wickedly to reveal a set of yellowing teeth, a few of them chipped and broken in some places. "You aint from around here, are ya, kid? And I don't just mean New York, like the upstate or Manhattan or wherever else you rich snobs come from...I mean here! The streets."
Phillip stood, looking horrified at the knife in the homeless man's hand, and looking at the angry black eyes in the man's face, and wishing he'd never said a word at all. The man advanced on him and the smell of stale whiskey penetrated Phillip's nose in brutal fashion. "N-no..." Phillip stuttered. "I didn't mean...I mean I shouldn't have...I just..."
"Just what, pretty boy?" he roared, the knife coming closer and closer, until finally it reached Phillip's face and touched his cheek. It found its way down his cheek in a cut and he groaned, clutching his face with pain, though no one on the subway dared move to help him.
Finally, a voice came over the car, saying "Stop 182, North Manhattan," and Phillip Weiss grabbed his briefcase and bolted off the car, bleeding and embarassed, hoping that never again would he have to look upon the face of the man who cut him, and knowing that never again would he ride the subway with the unwashed huns of civilization...those barbaric bastards.
The subway gave a lurch and Phillip Owen Weiss grabbed onto a pole to balance himself up. Everything was righted immediately and Phillip stood himself up and shook his long, golden hair angrily. "What the f**k was that? I have half a mind right now to go and have a word with the driver right now; I could have been hurt."
"Sit down, you, before you make a complete embarassment of yourself right here in front of everyone," said a gruff voice into Phillip's ear. Phillip turned around and saw a middle-aged man wearing a beanie tight atop his head, with a stubble of unshaven facial hair, and the smell of stale whiskey wafted over the entire subway car as he made his precense known.
"And who do you think you are," Phillip demanded, "to tell me what I ought to be doing or ought not to be doing on this subway? Who made you Lord and Judge over me, huh?"
"No one, of course," replied the scruffy man patiently. "But you've got the whole train staring at the two of us now."
"No, YOU have the whole train staring at us, you pathetic, homeless piece of shit! With your glazed over eyes; your raggedy, second-hand clothing, probably picked from the bowels of a dumpster in Brooklyn; the look and smell of someone who's been living off nothing but booze for weeks at a time; and you have the gall to tell me I'm being embarassing on this train? It's people like you that disgrace society, not I! I oughta---"
Phillip moved towards the man with no more than fury flashing in his eyes and evil intentions on his heart. The man backed a couple paces and withdrew from his front pocket a sleek black object and flipped it open to reveal a knife of gleaming silver. "You oughta what, son? Oughta take me out, oughta euthanize me, oughta put me out of my misery and put yourself out of your own in the same? That it, kid?" The homeless man laughed and smiled wickedly to reveal a set of yellowing teeth, a few of them chipped and broken in some places. "You aint from around here, are ya, kid? And I don't just mean New York, like the upstate or Manhattan or wherever else you rich snobs come from...I mean here! The streets."
Phillip stood, looking horrified at the knife in the homeless man's hand, and looking at the angry black eyes in the man's face, and wishing he'd never said a word at all. The man advanced on him and the smell of stale whiskey penetrated Phillip's nose in brutal fashion. "N-no..." Phillip stuttered. "I didn't mean...I mean I shouldn't have...I just..."
"Just what, pretty boy?" he roared, the knife coming closer and closer, until finally it reached Phillip's face and touched his cheek. It found its way down his cheek in a cut and he groaned, clutching his face with pain, though no one on the subway dared move to help him.
Finally, a voice came over the car, saying "Stop 182, North Manhattan," and Phillip Weiss grabbed his briefcase and bolted off the car, bleeding and embarassed, hoping that never again would he have to look upon the face of the man who cut him, and knowing that never again would he ride the subway with the unwashed huns of civilization...those barbaric bastards.