Sliding star, Omar Hassan (previous page) let it hang out but not
enough to beat a scrappy veteran. Chris Gentry (left) felt comfortable
with his lien melon torques on the home factory ramp. It's hard to tell
if Hawk (below) is coming or going during a half-Cab over the hip,
but he spun into third place. Buck Smith (bottom) throws this
lien-to-disaster into seventh, while Christian
(right) sails a tail grasp to touch-
down right behind him
in eighth.
fighting men. Eyes were peeled for pistol totin' federales, stray
monitor lizards and the giant, automobile-preying prehistoric
attack eagles. None in the formation considered very seriously
the rumors of roving bandits and crooked cops who are known
to seek out poor individuals trying to go "the other way" across
the border. That sort of downer thinking wasn't about to con-
taminate their frolicking brain waves. Instead, their cerebral
crystals focused on the prospects of a smoothly-executed opera-
tion alternating with visions of overindulgence and the notori-
ous Montezuma's revenge with an icing of Mondo genocide,
courtesy of Jose himself.
PANIC IN DETROIT: A large succession of storms had swept
along the California coast, causing the assignment
to be postponed and almost com-
ANIZ
horse-shit cigarettes, serapes, nickel fish
tacos, cheap beer, stuffed toads on wooden
Harleys, taxis brush painted with housepaint.
back firing zip-guns and some good lizard
skinned wallets
The airport is noisy with hundreds of
humans on their way to see the Padres or the
Chargers or some other mindless function for
lemmings so well known to this region. As a
security measure, the group operates under
the guise of Die Teufel Brigade, or, in the lan-
guage of the country they are about to enter,
El Diablo Brigado. Theirs is a simple opera
tion in theory and on paper. A basic unde-
tected border crossing leading to a predeter-
mined coordinate where they would set up a
base camp from which a succession of opera-
tions were to be carried out. The objective.
described to Teufel by a snakelike oriental
woman in a dark corner of a Chinese bar in:
Gilroy, seemed OK enough, and the pay
sounded real good. A quasi-Reggae
Festival/Surf Contest/Skate Contest and big-
breasted bikini contest during Spring Break in
Rosarito Beach, below Tijuana-good poten-
tial for sun, suds and snatch. No doubt many
rich kid students would be sinking below the
borderline for the festive occurrence, he
mused. Thinking back to past border cross-
ings, he recalled the demeaning nature of self-
righteous ugly Americans who spit upon their
hosts when not on their own well-trodden
turf. How is it those mealy mouthed saps with
their expensive educations can take their hot-
shot, daddy-bought Carrerras way down
44 THRA MAGAZINE
surfers are on a chocolate wave alert
Mex-a-way, and expect to get away with pushing
around the locals with a serious amount of down-
the-nose verbal abuse while acting as if they owned
the world? He's seen it in Belgium, he's seen it in
Carpathians, the back alleys of Amsterdam, the
front alleys of Paris proper, the subways of Tokyo, a
bathroom in Berlin and even a restaurant behind a
giant pagoda in Saigon. The snake lady said that to
properly reach the destination they must catch the
Alaska Airlines Antarctica express to LAX, hop a
twin-prop into S.D., then rent something last, unas-
suming, with four-wheel drive and a tape deck
that'll crank to at least 15. Once across, take one of
those dusty highways that go along the ocean,
south until you see a giant contest halfpipe. He
didn't trust the bitch for a second. She had the kind
of eyes that make men constipated, or at least
slightly irregular. The Devils Brigade gets off on
omens, but not those that make moles out of good.
pletely cancelled. Once
deep behind the border,
Teufel had Tonto place a
beam back to Oberkom-
mando Daphne Detroit
for updates on mission
status. After several min-
utes of convo with
OKD... "Bad news Boss,"
Tonto says. "Big Mamma at
home base says that because
of the severity of the storms,
sewers have backed up into
the ocean, and the surfers are
on a chocolate wave alert." He
shakes his head as he pulls off
the headphones and puts away
the set. "Go figure, boss. The
surfers don't want to surf the
turds." "Yeah," interjects the Bull-
dog, who has been absolutely
quiet up to this point, "and all of
the great skaters skate crap all
of the time."
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY
DEGREES IN THE OPPOSITE
DIRECTION: The hoedown on the
lowdown leading up to the eventual
execution of the contest are sketcha-
hoola and hard to figure at this junc
the great skaters skate crap all the time
ture. The obvious development is the
fact that the Die Teufel Brigade suddenly
found themselves stationed at an old
shoe warehouse in Santa Ana, not far from Mickey's
Enchanted Castle. Some called it the Skating Place
of Optimum Sight, but Bulldog informed it was just
a crazy Mayan woman's vision; something about a
shadow of the "Virgin De
Guadalupe cast on the side
of the building next to the
garbage cans at sunset.
Teufels brain began to pop
and sizzle again, "Could it
somehow tie in with the
fact that the comp was
supposed to happen in
Mex, and maybe there was
gonna be something signif-
icantly and decidedly Mex
about to happen at this
event?" he asked outloud.
To underline the gothic
meaning of it all, El Briga-
do Diablo choked down
hardcore Mezcan ingesti-
bles at a Frijole joint across
the street from the hotel.
BIG RAMP WITH NO EYES: Those who got wind of the changing in
plans and were able to make the switch using the compasses furnished
with the instructions to the Mex location didn't amount to very many Just
a little over forty dudes, tops. Oh yeah, and one girl, Carabeth Burnside.
This stands to be quite a change from the normal dosage of over a hundred
entrants. As Die Teufel Brigade entered the warehouse compound, the
finals of the Contest of the Lost Site had just begun. Word from those first
encountered in the ramp's immediate vicinity told of ripping being done
by almost each and every one of the competitors. Blaize Blouin punched
hard lines through the round walls of the ramp, Bod, whose Mum and Dad
were in attendance, flew hairy sorties across the flat wall portions; Mr.
Youssefpour careened massively high F&B airs, usually overhead; Remy
Stratton, thoroughly flourished, using the bowl end to launch himself over
the hip to monstrous tail smashers; Nicky Guerrero soared horizontally at
eye level to those on the platform; McGill wailed across the ramp, combin-
ing every line possible in the bowl and on the flat walls: Justin Lynch was
getting the highest anyone's seen without hands and Donnie Myhre was a
savage pistol-whipping vert maniac.
Bulldog thought Mike Crum was just some young punk kid hanging out
around the ramp, making some of the older crew feel a little like W.C.
Fields. In truth, he rode the ramp like he owned it and almost proved it
with plenty of fast lines and coping-to-coping coverage. Mike made his
board sing with high backside one-footed tail grabs over the hip and nose
grinds going either way. He consistently flowed with McTwists, backside
360° ollies and switch-stance tail grab revert-to-Caballerial combinations.
Buck Smith is as an aggressive force as can be reckoned with. His fear-