What I mean is, when you're a pissed off cynical bastard, you use your brain a whole lot more than when you're running around in havoc-mode double fisting whiskey and lager.
It's a whole lot harder writing posts now. But fuck it, I'm gonna try.
So we wandered the streets for some time, and came across this payphone which started a conversation about drug dealers and payphones and do they even still allow incoming phone calls?
Let's see. [Ring!!] Yes they do.
I pick up the phone and yell into the mic piece, “Drugs!!! We have DRUGS here!!!”
and Dom pokes me, “Uh, hey, theres a cop car right there.”
I think he's kidding, but I turn, and sure enough, right next to the pay phone is a police van, with an open window, and shit, a uniformed arm hanging out of it.
“Um, haha, uh yeah... RUN!”
Kind of joking, kind of not, I sprint a few steps from the intersection, but somehow we haven't attracted the cop's attention. What does this mean? Has drug dealing ceased to be a priority for law enforcement? Or are philly cops really that good at spotting satire?
Either way, I feel safer.
We pass by some manikins standing in their underwear with their heads cut off, and we notice this guy, all dressed up, standing by this car. Is he defending it?
“I dare you. Walk up to the car, and touch it.” I whisper.
“And start talking to it.” Dom suggests.
But the dare goes unfulfilled, making the car-guard's night all the more uneventful. I don't know exactly what he was expecting.