At the sound of Chris' whistle, Cisco
scurried back to the van as everyone was
loading up. Just as he hopped up into
Chris' lap, Chris said, "I asked the atten-
dant directions to our motel. He said it
was about nine blocks north and to the.
left of Market Street." They proceeded as
per the directions.
The motel was to be found with no
problem, but finding a parking slot was
another thing. They emptied all of their
equipment in a storage area and settled
on a parking slot six blocks from the
motel. They hopped their boards to ride
the way.
Being unable to resist the temptation
any longer, Tim whipped out his giant-sized
poster marker and proceeded to write,
THE BIG BOYS ARE HERE!" on every
available space, such as Stop signs and
on the curbs at crosswalks.
As Tim was putting on the final touches
on the side of a police truck, he heard a
voice from far above his head.
"Hey, you skateboarders, wait a
second," the voice screamed.
The Boys looked up to see on top of a
tall building under construction, the figure
of a guy who was waving his arms about
wildly. The boys were about to turn and
flee, but they figured that this was only
one guy and that he could be smashed
quickly if necessary.
Upon climbing down and reaching the
second floor, the hard-hatted figure
jumped down the last floor and with a big
grin on his face, ran over to a tool chest,
whipped open the lid and retrieved a
heavily thrashed skateboard.
Walking up to the four, the steelworker
said, "Hey ya guys. What'cha good for?
My name is Scott and I skate, as can be
seen. Hey, I know of a great pool across
the Bay at an abandoned 'blind, deaf and
dumb' school. Olympic-sized, man. Hey, I
know what. I'll take you over there if you
want. I'll take off the rest of the day right
now, whadaya say? I'll round up a couple
of cold ones, whadaya say, huh?"
The Big Boys looked at each other and
wondered if this guy could be for real.
They took the gamble and Biskut said,
"Shore. Why the hell not? Our van's just a
couple of blocks back."
"Shine the wheels. Don't need it when
you've got BART. You must be from out
of town, Scott said as he stuffed his
working gear into a pack. "This way.
Guys. They all rolled to BART and took
the quick trip, which soon brought them to
the pool.
The pool, the Big Boys immediately
noticed, was exactly the same as the pool
in Tucson. How fortunate they thought
they were.
Scott, fully padded, walked over to the
edge of the deep end, put the tail of his
board down and acid-dropped in for a
warm-up run consisting mainly of frontside
and backside edgers.
Tim reeled back. "Whoah. Y'all been
skatin' pools for very long?"
38
"No, this is only about the third time."
"I think you skate in a now way," Biskut
voiced.
Fred, who was refraining from skate
activity, due to injuries suffered, added,
"Hey, Scott. You wanna come check us
out tonight? We're playing with the Dead
Kennedys at the Indian Center. Roadie for
us and we'll get you in."
Scott pondered the proposition. It's not
often you get something for almost
nothing. "Hey, I'll tell ya. After weighing
out the situation, I think I might take you
up on that. And hey, whadaya say that
before we go, we could pick up a couple
of cold ones for the ride back?"
And with that everyone decided to jam
out the pool with a lightning strike. Tim
was just getting sweepers over the 'Death.
Box' wired, when suddenly a security
guard came forth through a hole in the
fence and demanded that the insurgents
relinquish their skate squatter's rights and
vacate the premises.
The activity at the door was hectic.
Tickets were almost sold out as hundreds
of Northern California's elite "Skater-
Thrashers" lined up, down the block,
waiting to see the Dead Kennedys and
their lead singer: Jello Biafra, the Dark
Overlord of "THRASH."
Scott, quite stoked with his position of
roadie for the evening, pulled the stage
curtain aside enough to see the soon to
be "Pit of Fury" start to team and brim as
the entrepreneurs shuffled into the arena.
From this distance, he could see that in
each and every eye of the ones who
belonged the glistening sparkle of a
certain feverous emotion called 'Energy."
This emotion readied itself to be released
at the command of the overlord.
The Big Boys were ready to go on. The
bright shining faces of the audience held
no anticipation. No anticipation because
they knew that this is what had to be done
and that it had to be done this way.
The curtain was drawn and as the
stage lights turned deep red, Tim's taped
fingers violently and repeatedly strafed
the six strings of his guitar, churning up a
high screech. The poseurs and wannabees
in the crowd cringed at the sound while
the hard core stood fast, eyeing the
airlanes and perch points of the stage
area.
Tim, very satisfied in getting attention,
settled in to some legitimate chords and
opened the evening with full beat.
The band rolled on through a virile set
and midway through one of the faster
songs a bulldog-looking skin head
climbed up on stage next to Biskut. He
ignored the band altogether but hawk-
watched the audience until he spied a
"Gawker" clad in Devo paraphernalia. He
then, ritualistically, jumped down onto the
unsuspecter's back, Jack-boots first. The
devoid creature struggled for footing but
the power of bulldogs in boots is a little
overbearing when one is such a poseur in
a place where poseurs don't belong.
A now calm skin head reached down
and picked the unfortunate one up by the
knape of the neck, looked into his face
and said in a calm, honestly sincere
voice, "Sorry, I thought you were my
younger brother."
The badly shaken new waver type
retreated to the dark, mellower recesses
of the perimeter.
As Biskut sang, he watched as the
same skinhead made his way back
towards the stage with a knowing grin on
his face, then climbed up for more of the
same.
Finally, the stage was clear of the Big
Boys, who quickly put their equipment
away so they could join in on the melee
they knew was to come. They weren't
going to miss out on this. No, not after
coming all the way from Texas. No way.
They wanted the San Francisco.
Punkers to taste the unholy sting of Texas
sweat.
The D.K.'s were on stage now as the
band rolled into the introduction of "Police
Truck. The lighting on Jello made him
appear to be rising from Hell. A dark
forbidding jackal, arms outstretched,
slowly rising to the upgrading tempo of
the churning of the band.
The hard core waited intently for the
command. The room resembled a
pressure cooker of sorts, as the noses of
the rosy faces who knew flared. Finally:
Tonight's the night that we got the
truck (THE OVERLORDS COMMAND
TO LET LOOSE)
Goin' down town, gonna beat up drunks.
(THE MUSIC ALMOST DROWNED
IN THE CLAMMER OF A
THOUSAND BOOTS)"
For forty-five minutes this tirade purged.
The high output of the music had a direct
line into the nervous systems of the
thrashers, giving them unheard of energy
and stamina. No one would go home until
he said they could.
The meek were battered and bruised to
find that they shall not inherit HIS arena.
The Big Boys held firm to the throngs,
biting through the neon with rage.
Because they weren't getting out till their
dues were paid.
EPILOG
After a long night's sleep, the Boys
were bummed and regretted the long trip
back to Texas. They exchanged addresses
with Scott along with good-byes. Biskut
started the van, turned in his seat to the
rest of the crew and said, "Let's go home."
THUS ENDS THE ASSAULT OF
THE BIG BOYS ON CALIFORNIA.
THEY SHOWED WHO THEY WERE
AND SAW NEW PLACES. THERE
WILL SOMEDAY BE A TIME WHEN
GIANTS WILL ROAM THIS EARTH
ONCE AGAIN. THE BIG BOYS
WILL BE THRASHING THEN, IN
THE LEAD PACK.
-MOFO-