After the bars let out the other night, I was treated to another freak show beneath my bedroom window.
A guy was walking up the street and boy was he pissed. He was screaming at the top of his lungs:
"THOSE FUCKERS STABBED ME IN THE HEAD. STABBED ME! COME ON! COME ON OUT! CHAD JONES 6684! CHAD JONES 6684! FUCKERS! FUCKERS FUCKING STABBED ME IN THE HEAD! 6684 MOTHERFUCKERS!" etc. Up the street Chad went, yelling, screaming, then he made a u-turn and came back down the street, screaming about getting stabbed in the head, how "they" had done this to him, and now where are they, they're hiding and they aren't gonna come out and face him.
A poor soul, apparently a friend waiting for him, said in a low voice to Chad, "Dude. Let me take you home. You'll feel so much better about this tomorrow." So Chad and his unfortunate babysitter left (in a car, natch).
Chad Jones 6684? Is this his spy number or something? "Jones. Chad Jones." Sitting at the roulette table in a tux, sipping a martini, with a big knife sticking out of his head.
So being the nosy bitch I am, the next morning I went downstairs right away to look for blood from 6684's head wound. No blood. No knife. No nothing!
I know-- the knife was a metaphor! That's it! Or maybe not. Maybe Chad is just a maniac with a drinking problem. Just like all the other drunks under my window.