Conchaga
Let's fuck some shit up
I was in the retail store I work in, and I was doing some busy work when four suspicious characters came into my store unbeknownst to me. When I discovered them doing suspicious things, they immediately started acting even more suspiciously by grabbing their things and walking toward the entrance to the store. I follwed them to keep an eye on their suspicoious behaviour.
This is when everything starts getting less normal. The gentleman with them asked me, "Is there a problem?"
"Should there be a problem," I returned.
"Well, it looks like you think there's a problem."
It goes on like this for a few more lines with him accusing me of staring at his two female friends. I mean, I wasn't staring at his friends. I was staring at their bags to see the contents therein. I was trying to ascertain whether or not they had stolen anything.
I just give up and asked the girls to show me what was in their bags. They simultaneously did an about-face and started heading for the exit to the mall. The closest exit is through a restaurant; so I start yelling for security.
Meanwhile, their two male accomplices bolted for another exit. They ran towards the car to get it started so that when the ladies got there they could bolt.
As soon as that happened I stood in front of the car and assumed that they didn't want to upgrade thier crime spree from simple retail theft to attempted manslaughter.
I was wrong.
The wheelman gunned it and pinned me on the hood, action movie-style.
I'm laying there, grasping at the hood and pounding his windsheild yelling at him to stop. I just wanted to get off of this thing before it killed me. He obeyed my wish. Just not exactly as I wanted him to. Slamming on the brakes, I lose my grip and barely land on my feet. He thought that I was off the car sufficiently and then jammed the pedal to the floor and crushed my left heel bone. That knocked me over and then he drug me a good five feet making the area below my right knee look like someone took a cheese grater to it.
Once I was free, they drove off at a very high speed.
Now, out of the close to a dozen witnesses, wouldn't you know that not a one of them got a license plate number. Don't that figure?
Easily a few minutes later a Security Guard finally shows up and starts asking me questions. Which I answer to the best of my oh-my-god-my-ankle-feels-like-jello-and-hurts-so-bad-I-want-to-shoot-laser-beams-from-my-eyes ability.
Luckily a good samaritan armed with a cell phone called 911 and shortly we're accompanied by a police cruiser and an ambulance. The ambulance crew puts me on a back board, and into a trauma collar. Even though I keep insisiting that its my foot that hurts. While on the ambulance I make small talk with the paramedic. He tells me that since I'm in a "trauma accident" he has to cut my clothes off. This is quite depressing to me as I am wearing my new DragonForce shirt and this was the first day wearing it.
Side Note: I'm going to e-mail this story to DragonForce to see if I can't get a free shirt out of the deal.
When I arrive in the hospital, I'm met with the dramatic gathering of doctors and assistants you see on those hospital shows. All for my poor broken foot. They start poking me, proding me, asking me questions, sticking fingers in my butt, and giving me injections (none of which were pain-killers).
All the while, I'm still in great pain and someone comes up and introduces himself as a chaplain. Now, remember, I'm still being molested three ways from sunday by all the physicians and they're not alleviating the pain or stress of my injury. This jerk starts asking me for the phone number of someone to call to let them know where I am. I can't quite even spell my own name at this point and I give him some number that was actually incorrect by two reversed numbers. The guy comes back and told me the number didn't work and asked me to repeat it. At this point the flood of physicians had subsided and I was now on pain meds. I calmly repeat the number to him and he makes some snyde remark about how that's the number I gave him earlier only with the numbers switched. I swear if I could've gotten out of that hospital gurney I would've slapped him.
Eventually my girlfriend shows up and shortly thereafter my mother. They're not allowed to come back and see me because they, for some unknown reason, still have me sitting in the Trauma Room. For those who don't know, the trauma room is one grade above the ER. That's where life-flight victims from serious car accidents and major industrial accidents are taken. Not to mention the gunshot wounds. When they are allowed to finally come back it's only one-at-a-time and with a "chaplain" escort. When they leave the doctors eventually feed me and give me a diagnosis.
I had apparently broken my left calcaneous and simply lascerated the living hell out of my right leg. They put a splint on my leg and tell me to come back to an orthopaedist in a week.
The hospital supplied me with a cool blue jumpsuit because they cut off all my clothing. I got a fresh pair of crutches. And due to insurance purposes, they wheeled me to the front door and let me go home. Where I've sat on my ass for the last week.
I'll keep you updated.
Oh yeah, the title of the whole thing is because the four people in their black Suzuki Reno were themselves, niggers.
This is when everything starts getting less normal. The gentleman with them asked me, "Is there a problem?"
"Should there be a problem," I returned.
"Well, it looks like you think there's a problem."
It goes on like this for a few more lines with him accusing me of staring at his two female friends. I mean, I wasn't staring at his friends. I was staring at their bags to see the contents therein. I was trying to ascertain whether or not they had stolen anything.
I just give up and asked the girls to show me what was in their bags. They simultaneously did an about-face and started heading for the exit to the mall. The closest exit is through a restaurant; so I start yelling for security.
Meanwhile, their two male accomplices bolted for another exit. They ran towards the car to get it started so that when the ladies got there they could bolt.
As soon as that happened I stood in front of the car and assumed that they didn't want to upgrade thier crime spree from simple retail theft to attempted manslaughter.
I was wrong.
The wheelman gunned it and pinned me on the hood, action movie-style.
I'm laying there, grasping at the hood and pounding his windsheild yelling at him to stop. I just wanted to get off of this thing before it killed me. He obeyed my wish. Just not exactly as I wanted him to. Slamming on the brakes, I lose my grip and barely land on my feet. He thought that I was off the car sufficiently and then jammed the pedal to the floor and crushed my left heel bone. That knocked me over and then he drug me a good five feet making the area below my right knee look like someone took a cheese grater to it.
Once I was free, they drove off at a very high speed.
Now, out of the close to a dozen witnesses, wouldn't you know that not a one of them got a license plate number. Don't that figure?
Easily a few minutes later a Security Guard finally shows up and starts asking me questions. Which I answer to the best of my oh-my-god-my-ankle-feels-like-jello-and-hurts-so-bad-I-want-to-shoot-laser-beams-from-my-eyes ability.
Luckily a good samaritan armed with a cell phone called 911 and shortly we're accompanied by a police cruiser and an ambulance. The ambulance crew puts me on a back board, and into a trauma collar. Even though I keep insisiting that its my foot that hurts. While on the ambulance I make small talk with the paramedic. He tells me that since I'm in a "trauma accident" he has to cut my clothes off. This is quite depressing to me as I am wearing my new DragonForce shirt and this was the first day wearing it.
Side Note: I'm going to e-mail this story to DragonForce to see if I can't get a free shirt out of the deal.
When I arrive in the hospital, I'm met with the dramatic gathering of doctors and assistants you see on those hospital shows. All for my poor broken foot. They start poking me, proding me, asking me questions, sticking fingers in my butt, and giving me injections (none of which were pain-killers).
All the while, I'm still in great pain and someone comes up and introduces himself as a chaplain. Now, remember, I'm still being molested three ways from sunday by all the physicians and they're not alleviating the pain or stress of my injury. This jerk starts asking me for the phone number of someone to call to let them know where I am. I can't quite even spell my own name at this point and I give him some number that was actually incorrect by two reversed numbers. The guy comes back and told me the number didn't work and asked me to repeat it. At this point the flood of physicians had subsided and I was now on pain meds. I calmly repeat the number to him and he makes some snyde remark about how that's the number I gave him earlier only with the numbers switched. I swear if I could've gotten out of that hospital gurney I would've slapped him.
Eventually my girlfriend shows up and shortly thereafter my mother. They're not allowed to come back and see me because they, for some unknown reason, still have me sitting in the Trauma Room. For those who don't know, the trauma room is one grade above the ER. That's where life-flight victims from serious car accidents and major industrial accidents are taken. Not to mention the gunshot wounds. When they are allowed to finally come back it's only one-at-a-time and with a "chaplain" escort. When they leave the doctors eventually feed me and give me a diagnosis.
I had apparently broken my left calcaneous and simply lascerated the living hell out of my right leg. They put a splint on my leg and tell me to come back to an orthopaedist in a week.
The hospital supplied me with a cool blue jumpsuit because they cut off all my clothing. I got a fresh pair of crutches. And due to insurance purposes, they wheeled me to the front door and let me go home. Where I've sat on my ass for the last week.
I'll keep you updated.
Oh yeah, the title of the whole thing is because the four people in their black Suzuki Reno were themselves, niggers.
