Posted on 10/25/2007 1:59:25 AM PDT by DieHard the Hunter
FRiends,
I have been persuaded by a fellow FReeper to post one of our Guardian Angels Patrol Logs to the Free Republic. I do so hesitantly: FReepers are merciless critics and they hold posters accountable to a very, very high standard.
I have decided that this is OK: otherwise I would not post to the FR as "DieHard the Hunter". You will judge my Patrol Log by its merits. This is the first contribution, a Pilot. It will either stand or fall on its own. If you like I will post more, and if not I will shut up and say nothing futher.
Of necessity, the language of the Street is salty, so please if this annoys you don't read this thread any further. I have edited out the bad language, consistent with good taste to the best of my ability. But long ago I decided that the language of the street needed to be somewhat preserved, because this is what we encounter all the time. Not alot of point sugar-coating it.
Have you ever wanted to be a Guardian Angel? A Volunteer -- men and women -- who wear gleaming crimson jackets and red berets, who train in the Martial Arts, First Aid and CPR, and who deter crime in their Communities, acting as role models to youth-at-risk, and protecting those who Society does not champion?
If you have, then contact me by FReepMail. I will put you in contact with your local Guardian Angels.
Anyrate: this Patrol Log is for you...
---cut here---
September 8/9 2006: Henderson Patrol #37, Waitakere City
Four-thirty in the morning, nearly seven hours ex-post-facto, and the adrenaline is still keeping me awake.
A sequence of Unfortunate Events have decimated our wee Waitakere City Chapter. Poor excuses have reduced our membership down to its grass roots: Excuses and Bullsh-t left-and-right. And so it was that it was just BatBob, Alex and me tonite, on Patrol, in Henderson.
No matter. I was with my Originals: the Lads. Free from the taint of all that had gone before, and everything that came after that.
Two guys with Heart who were there from the start were going to Patrol with me tonite. These are guys who don’t run away from danger: instead they run toward it, as I had seen back in March during our first knife incident, a few brief months ago.
It was dark. I was to be Patrol Leader tonite, and as there were but three of us, I decided to do something a wee bit different: we’d do Diamond, but with me at Point, and with my Partner (BatBob) and my 2nd (Alex) taking up the rear. We decided not to do dark alleys tonite: not enough guys to send runners in and unless something of an emergency nature happened we would all stick together as a tight wedge, closer than normal, walking at Patrol Speed.
At the beginning of each Patrol it is our custom to frisk each other for weapons, thoroughly. This is a part of our Public accountability: we are an unarmed foot patrol. We will always be held accountable for being unarmed: if we encounter the Bad Guys, well, we begin our encounter unarmed and that is their problem not ours. The law is on our side, and our training will balance things out.
So, after pat-down we crossed the foot bridge into Trading Place: still a dark, grotty end of town, but it has been greatly improved by the building of the new library. So I posted the Lads up at the mouth of the alley and jogged within eyesight around the cul-de-sac, shining my torch into the dark bits but staying out. Nothing happening anyrate.
“Pair UP!”
We did a quick tour of the underground parking lot where the Maori Church meets. They were indeed meeting tonite: we checked around their cars for Bad Guys trying to break in (none) and along the river bank for Bad Guys hanging around up to no good (none). I poked my head into the church, gave a wave to the Pastor (he waved back) then we departed…
At the corner of Trading Place and Great North Road, there were about twenty kids gathered. “Who the F--K are THESE GUYS!” one of them exclaim.
“We’re going over there, Lads…” Moving quickly across the cross-walk: there are construction barriers thru the middle of Great North Road now, as the City Council is helpfully building huge islands to choke off traffic thru this arterial route thru town, to encourage us all to take bikes or walk all the way to Auckland to get to work. Sometimes I wonder if these pointy-headed Council folk actually live in the real world. Then I marvel that I was once one of them…
We jogged together across the street by the all-nite Fish & Chips Shop. A huge Samoan guy had peeled off his jacket and was in his tee-shirt. Huge bulging muscles. “C’mon MotherF----r! One-on-one!” The scene is forever captured in my memory: the Turkish owner of the Fish & Chips shop looks horrified – the human manifestation of Munsch’s recently-recovered painting “The Scream”. The whole scene painted in orange arc-lite glow. A kid with really big hair – an Afro (haven’t seen one of those since the 70’s) with his mouth open, aghast.
A tall and thin Somali punk stood opposite the Samoan, with two Somali friends behind him. I did the maths in my head: these Somali punks will be massacred if push came to shove. Then we all saw the glint of the street light against the silver blade of the knife in the Somali’s hand.
“Knife!” I dunno which of the Lads saw it first – it wasn’t me. Large kitchen knife: nothing so sophisticated as a Stiletto. Just a large ugly and probably dull serrated knife.
“F--k this Sh-t!” exclaims someone. “It’s the GUARDIAN ANGELS! Run!!!” The Somalis run across the street, dodging cars. Horns honking: no matter — they get into their get-away car (predictably no plates, no registration, no business being on the road. But the cops won’t stop ‘em because there are two sets of laws: one for those who are law abiding, and another for those who are Bad Guys.)
The Lads and I spread out amongst the crowd: “Anybody get cut?” “What was this all about?”
BatBob is questioning the Samoan with the shirt off. Another likely looking lad is waggling his fingers downward, in “West Auckland” gang signals, shaking his head. Right – that’s my man to question: a dyed-in-the-wool Bad Guy — so I get into his smartass face. He isn’t expecting this: so he starts asking questions.
Q: “What’s wit da outfits? Who you Motherf----r?”
A: “We’re the Guardian Angels, mate. Volunteer Community Safety Patrol. We train in the Martial Arts, First Aid and CPR and we keep the streets safe at night from violent crime.” (Level One, start with Respect, straight out of the Manual)
Q: “That right, Motherf----r?”
A: “Hey Tough Guy. What happened here?”
Q: “Nuttin’ Bro’.” (Bad body language)
A: “So what does this mean, ay?” (showing him his gang sign, moving to Level Two)
Q: “Dunno what you talkin’ ‘bout Motherf----r.”
A: “Bullsh-t, mate. And don’t ‘Motherf----r’ me – I don’t like it. It's rude to swear. You were telling that bloke not to tell us anything or else, right?” (Level Two)
The Bad Guy rolls his eyes, looks away.
A: “So what happened? Why you guys hanging around here anyrate? The Fish & Chips guy don’t want you hanging around here – you’re not buying anything, just making trouble, scaring off his customers. So what’s the deal? Why you here? Why don’t you beat it?”
No answer.
A: “POST UP.”
“Chieftain, I’m going to ask the shop owner”, says BatBob. I nod, and Alex and I post up. BatBob is like a Jack Russell Terrier: he’s a compact fighting machine and utterly fearless. He senses that the Turkish guy who runs the Fish & Chips shop wants to talk and he’s right onto it like the scent of prey. And the shop keeper does indeed want to talk – he has more than plenty to say! How happy he is to see us! We came in the nick of time! These kids have been ruining business! They hang around here and fight all the time, scare away the customers! Tonite, this is what happened…
Twenty or so kids disburse into the night: their fun-and-games ruined. My Bad Guy slopes off along with them. I’ve no legal reason to stop him leaving but I’m sure he knows more than I was able to gather from him.
Meanwhile, Alex is interacting with some of the Samoan kids that remain: he’s magic. Dunno how he does it, but he’s a treat to watch. An overgrown street kid, mid-twenties: somehow and somewhere he learned exquisite manners – he persists in calling BatBob and me “Sir” even tho’ we’ve pointed out a few times we’re not Commissioned Officers of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Very tall and lean, he moves like a cat: he’s studied at least six martial arts forms according to BatBob, but he won’t tell us anything much about his past. Which is fair enough, I guess. The street kids are attracted to him (as are all girls forty-and-under) and they will open up and talk to him whereas they will shut up and say nothing if I ask…
“Nothing more to be learned here, Sir.”
“PAIR UP!”
“Mistaken identity. The Somali punks had been roughed up by some Samoans earlier tonite. So they went home, got a knife, and went looking for the first Samoans they could find. Now, the Somalis are going home to find about twenty more Somalis, then they’ll find the next group of Samoans to fight. Doesn’t matter who, so long as they are Samoan.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “These punks are out of their Effing minds. They better keep their ugly little tribal war out of Henderson, tonite – that’s all I can say. This is Angel Country.”
The rest of the Patrol was quite uneventful: two hours later we decided to call it quits.
It’s 11 AM Saturday: I haven’t slept yet – adrenaline. Playing the scene over and over again in my mind: no movie could ever be as good as Real Life. And we had some Real Life last nite.
> So when can we expect the next installment?
> Wow, DH! Yes, I want to read more! (Please?)
I will get another one ready for early this week. Thanks for your encouragement!
*DieHard*
That was pretty good. Your ‘playwright’ style really lends itself to mental imagery. Very enjoyable.
Cheers, and thanks for that!
I will be getting another one ready for posting early this week.
Kind regards
*DieHard*
Great stuff........keep ‘em coming.
Oh......and God bless you for what you guys do.
> Oh......and God bless you for what you guys do.
(grin!) Cheers, mate!
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