vacation souvenirs
I just got back from Hawaii, but this is all just about the last day.
Brad and I met with a nice couple from Australia for drinks (Joe & Amy). We were feeling frisky and wanted to see if we could score any blow. It's our last night, we want to party all night, none of us are coke heads, it's all safe and good times etc.
REWIND: The first couple of days we were hooked up with some Hawaiian weed from some really cool people, and the very first thing they told us was NOT to buy off the streets. Ever. We heard this from multiple people, it seemed to be the general consensus of the island.
BACK ON TRACK: So after our first legit-source offer fell through, our memories must have said "fuck you" to what everybody had told us, because the streets came straight to us and we were just so damn happy that it had practically fallen into our laps that we didn't remember jack shit about what people had tried to tell us. For what we usually pay $60 for, this guy was trying to offer us for $100. We said no way, Brad said $80, the guy said sure. He showed it to us, we felt it, we made a transaction in front of Joe and Amy's hotel. I shook his hand. He'll be around for a couple of hours if we need more, he says.
We then celebrate by pouring drinks while Brad pours the contents of the bag on the table. He looks at it and suddenly says, "We've been had," I put a tiny bit to my tongue just to make sure there was zero trace of the harsh chemically taste... maybe it's just been cut a lot. The guy outside is obviously gone, and after tasting I'm 100% positive that we just bought a rock of gymnastics chalk for the haggled-down bargain price of $80.
The four of us go out and drink a whole bunch to numb the pain of realizing that we completely could have avoided being made into total fools. After last call and on the way back to the hotel, I realize my camera (and all of our vacation photos) are gone. Cue hysterical drunk sobbing.
"That's him. That's him. They've found him."
When I looked up, all I saw was running. I saw our "dealer"'s tan cargo shorts running away from Brad and Joe, took off my hooker-high stilettos, and you better believe Amy and I ran our asses right after them. They turned into a side street and we followed. Why this street? His buddies were there to help him out. Cue screaming bloody murder, because that's exactly what I thought I was watching.
Joe is a bouncer, I'm talking linebacker huge, and he's on one side of the street with two other guys in a big tangly mess of bodies that sure looks like a brawl. Nobody looks like they're winning. Especially not Brad on the other side of the street, who is a fiesty sonofabitch but not nearly as tall or huge as our 6'2", fattish, fake drug dealing friend who decided to take him on alone. As Brad is bent over, I can only see his back, which is torn up everywhere and has an unsightly amount of blood all over it. I thought I was watching him being stabbed to death.
We had created quite a scene on a quiet street at 4:30AM, what with the howling and the sobbing and the begging to "please stop" and the heads being smashed on the pavement and me hyperventhilating to the point of booting in a flower bush. The 3-4 minute fight felt like it lasted an hour, and it might have if the Honolulu police department were not so motherfucking efficient.
None of them had any weapons, but none of our stories matched even a little bit. I'd put money on it that they knew exactly what the situation was. We had no choice but to patch ourselves up on our own and go back in silence.
FAST FORWARD: Now, of course, we're lying to all of our family and friends. We got mugged! Oh, how cruel the streets can be to innocent bystanders who are definitely in no way affiliated with anyone who commits illegal acts and asks for what comes to them.
Brad brought home a pretty large gash on his head, several large scabs and bruises on his legs, an ugly limp from two wrecked knees, and a torn-up back with scratches and cuts all over it. We left the shirt in the hotel trash.
Brad and I met with a nice couple from Australia for drinks (Joe & Amy). We were feeling frisky and wanted to see if we could score any blow. It's our last night, we want to party all night, none of us are coke heads, it's all safe and good times etc.
REWIND: The first couple of days we were hooked up with some Hawaiian weed from some really cool people, and the very first thing they told us was NOT to buy off the streets. Ever. We heard this from multiple people, it seemed to be the general consensus of the island.
BACK ON TRACK: So after our first legit-source offer fell through, our memories must have said "fuck you" to what everybody had told us, because the streets came straight to us and we were just so damn happy that it had practically fallen into our laps that we didn't remember jack shit about what people had tried to tell us. For what we usually pay $60 for, this guy was trying to offer us for $100. We said no way, Brad said $80, the guy said sure. He showed it to us, we felt it, we made a transaction in front of Joe and Amy's hotel. I shook his hand. He'll be around for a couple of hours if we need more, he says.
We then celebrate by pouring drinks while Brad pours the contents of the bag on the table. He looks at it and suddenly says, "We've been had," I put a tiny bit to my tongue just to make sure there was zero trace of the harsh chemically taste... maybe it's just been cut a lot. The guy outside is obviously gone, and after tasting I'm 100% positive that we just bought a rock of gymnastics chalk for the haggled-down bargain price of $80.
The four of us go out and drink a whole bunch to numb the pain of realizing that we completely could have avoided being made into total fools. After last call and on the way back to the hotel, I realize my camera (and all of our vacation photos) are gone. Cue hysterical drunk sobbing.
"That's him. That's him. They've found him."
When I looked up, all I saw was running. I saw our "dealer"'s tan cargo shorts running away from Brad and Joe, took off my hooker-high stilettos, and you better believe Amy and I ran our asses right after them. They turned into a side street and we followed. Why this street? His buddies were there to help him out. Cue screaming bloody murder, because that's exactly what I thought I was watching.
Joe is a bouncer, I'm talking linebacker huge, and he's on one side of the street with two other guys in a big tangly mess of bodies that sure looks like a brawl. Nobody looks like they're winning. Especially not Brad on the other side of the street, who is a fiesty sonofabitch but not nearly as tall or huge as our 6'2", fattish, fake drug dealing friend who decided to take him on alone. As Brad is bent over, I can only see his back, which is torn up everywhere and has an unsightly amount of blood all over it. I thought I was watching him being stabbed to death.
We had created quite a scene on a quiet street at 4:30AM, what with the howling and the sobbing and the begging to "please stop" and the heads being smashed on the pavement and me hyperventhilating to the point of booting in a flower bush. The 3-4 minute fight felt like it lasted an hour, and it might have if the Honolulu police department were not so motherfucking efficient.
None of them had any weapons, but none of our stories matched even a little bit. I'd put money on it that they knew exactly what the situation was. We had no choice but to patch ourselves up on our own and go back in silence.
FAST FORWARD: Now, of course, we're lying to all of our family and friends. We got mugged! Oh, how cruel the streets can be to innocent bystanders who are definitely in no way affiliated with anyone who commits illegal acts and asks for what comes to them.
Brad brought home a pretty large gash on his head, several large scabs and bruises on his legs, an ugly limp from two wrecked knees, and a torn-up back with scratches and cuts all over it. We left the shirt in the hotel trash.