362 Rescue

Posted by walking rek on Dec 15, 2009 in living rek

Last Wed nite a guy got bashed in the street outside our house. I woke up to the sound of grunts and smacks and indiscernible cries. At first I thought it was the local trippers sparring again at 3am, but no. This was brutal. The cage fighting event I’d recently attended paled in comparison to what I saw unfold under the street lights that nite. It still  makes me feel sick to think about it.

My flatmate FJ knew all about  it too. His room was closer to the action then mine.  I was still half asleep and too stunned by the intensity of the violence to make a move, but FJ had the sense to get our front door open and start talking to the attacker. I couldnt quite hear what he said from my balcony, but it startled the perp enough to send him on his way after emptying the victims wallet.

Taking my cue, I fly downstairs and out into the street shouting to FJ to call the cops and an ambulance. I didnt really know what to expect when I knelt down next to the poor guy. He was very still.  His face was a pulp. His bare chest was already starting to show bruises. I cover him with a blanket and start talking to him. He resumes some degree of consciousness. He tells me his name and that he is from Barcelona.

Soon enough there are a few people milling about including my old school mate and neighbour Scottie. He lives 5 doors down. He kinda strolled up casually dressed like he’d just been shopping. I ask him if he heard the commotion and he said that he couldnt sleep and was ironing his shirts (?!). Scottie is training to be a paramedic so he took over first aid until the ambos eventually turned up.

In the meantime, the cops arrive in one of their riot trucks. Not sure what FJ told them on the phone, but they came prepared. They start taking statements when someone shoots one of those uber cool but highly illegal mega green laser beams down the sidewalk from a couple of hundred meters away. Then then cops get a call on their radio that a group of kids are igniting cars using flamethrowers along the same street that we live on. It takes them a little while to make the  link between what we have told them already and this latest development. They take off in their truck.

When the ambos arrive, Scottie gives them the full brief. No stab wounds thankfully, but our friend from Barcelona is not in a good way. He gets taken away to emergency quietly but quickly.

Afterwards we all stand around for a while in our dressing gowns and boxers. Except Scottie who is as cool as the proverbial cucumber in his jeans and Drop Kick Murphys tshirt. Seems like noone really wants to go home after that ordeal. Another neighbour takes the opportunity to introduce himself  “Hey guys, seen you round, I’m ***. Nice to meet you.”  We exchange war stories about what we’d seen and felt that gruesome hour. It was full on. Eventually we all part ways, but I doubt anyone got much shut eye. Maybe we should have cracked open a beer.

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