Reposted from March 31st, 2009.
BART, for those of you who don't know, stands for Bay Area Rapid Transit. It's basically a subway station. After getting out of college, I was unable to get a ride home. Fortunately for little ol' me, the BART station takes me back to my town of residence. Unfortunately for me, the BART station from my school is a good 3-mile walk, so I started walking. The town where my college rests is quite pleasant, so I had little or no fears walking to a nice well-kept neighborhood where the only residents are rich old white people, although I have to occasionally put up with the snobby middle-schoolers who live in such luxury that he smartasses can't recognize that they've had everything given to them on a silver platter. They tend to leave me alone at college now since a few weeks ago I charged one from the side while he rode by on his bike without a helmet on. I didn't stay long enough until the paramedics arrived, but nonetheless I think it really sent a message. They were still cleaning the blood off the sidewalks when I showed up the next day.
I had my music to listen to on the walk there, but carrying an art portfolio and a backpack full of books can get somewhat tiring. Eventually I seen a middle-schooler peddling up from behind me in the bike lane while I walked home. I charged him from the side and sent him careening into traffic. I recognized the bike, but I didn't know where. Either way, the kid wasn't needing it after the car sped over him, so I continued to casually peddle my way to the subway station.
The BART station is a dingy place to be. It's for the people who aren't rich enough to commute like the rest of us so they have to use public transportation to get around. I've seen some colorful people there for the first time. One of the oddest things I found was a pack of playing cards, all with nude women on them. Not nearly as odd as the box for a strap-on my brother once found there. Either way I felt out-of-place with my 400-dollar leather jacket and school supplies among people with shiny metal jammed in their teeth or unshaven middle-aged men who smelt of urine and booze. Although the booze might've been me, I've been drinking since 7am and continued to on the entire way there thanks to my good friend Jack Daniels. That might explain some of my behavior.
I accidentally bumped into an African American gangster and I seemed to piss him off, one can't really hear anything when you have Dave Grohl shouting like a madman through your headphones into your ear. I said sorry, but he kept shouting at me. After I called him a meanie he pushed me and I nearly fell over. Not being the one to take such impolite behavior I pulled out my switchblade and stabbed him 3 times. As he stumbled back towards the railings, he shouted over the sound of the roaring subway station "***** this is crazy!" I then shouted "THIS. IS. SPARTA!" and kicked him onto the tracks. Well, he would've gone onto the tracks if the approaching subway didn't clip him mid-flight.
The ride home was silent and uneventful for the most part. People seemed to overlook what random act of manslaughter I just committed but I didn't really mind. But there was a prostitute in the subway cart I was in. She offered me some free services but I refused since she looked more worn out than my dad's 1983 Nissan. But she was persistent and insisted, so I had to shut her up somehow. I took up her offer and forced her to deep-throat my Jack Daniels bottle while I smashed the back of the bottle and dropped a lit match into it. She went up in flames and started throwing up fire until she wheezed and hit the ground, eventually burning herself out. But the subway lacked anything flammable aside from the pungent aroma of booze in the air so I didn't burn to death in a subway cart before I reached my house.
I got off the cart when it arrived at the station and made my way home, winded from the 4 or 5 miles I walked. It was a decent day, although a shame I wasted a bottle of Jack Daniels on some dime-store hooker.
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