I Lessthanthree Pilkington…a story of near death.

Just after 2am, Downtown LA, Randall and I are walking towards my car after leaving the birthday party of one Katalina Williams. As I was the designated drinker of Newcastle Brown Ale this evening, I tossed Randall the keys and we were off.

As we drove through the streets, I was reminded that there’s nothing quite like Downtown at 2am. Massive buildings, vacant of any life, towering into the starless sky. The streets rest, empty and dark, save for the occasional tumbleweed…this used to be a desert after all.

As we made our way around the Staples Center, all was well, just another drive back to Long Beach ahead of us. Paused at a traffic light, waiting to negotiate the left turn for the 110 on-ramp, we watch a flat black motor coach make it’s way across the intersection in front of us, just as his light turned red. Noting it’s odd appearance, I ensured Randall “That was Satan’s bus,” as it made it’s way up the ramp.

We received our green light, and as we were making the left turn, we noticed some bright lights coming from our right. Soon, they were right behind us. Not appreciating that they were almost dry humping the Beemsicle, I, much like Randall best put it in his blog, was “keeping up foreign relations.” This…was to no avail.

As one lane opened up into two, our new friend in the Lancer came alongside us on the driver’s side and, in one desperate motion, slammed on his brakes and swerved to the right…straight towards us.

Thanks to Randall’s F1 skills (watch out Ralf) and the performance prowess of the 330i, we narrowly avoided contact with both the Lancer and the barrier by less than two feet on either side. The Lancer continued sliding out of control in front of us, right, left, right and then finally back to the left, stopping in our lane onto the 110. We had long since stopped moving and just as I began to note the license plate number, our friend emerged from the Lancer.

The prick was about 5′10, skinny as a rail, wearing, and get ready for this: a Brady Quinn Cleveland Browns jersey (seriously how gay for Brady Quinn do you have to be to already have his Browns Jersey). This guy was pretty much the poster child for Doucheblog.com Making his way towards our car, Randall and I both sat and watched calmly as his girlfriend, who was still in passenger’s seat of the Lancer, screamed and spastically flung her arms in the air. He stopped at the driver’s side window, reared back and punched the glass as hard as he could.

In all honesty, I had expected shattered glass to be present in my car at any moment…but alas, the magic of Pilkington (they really are “First In Glass”) aligned with the weak soul of a Brady Quinn fan, and the only damage inflicted was probably a few shattered knuckles and a broken wrist. Randall and I later recalled weighing out our various options had he broken the window. From Randall’s favourite…running him over, to mine, getting out and beating the shit out of him, thinking about the justice system and the ridiculous jail time that could be involved in both, Randall instead piloted us out of there in true Italian Job fashion.

And then it was over…there was no way he could ever hope to catch us.

It took hours for me to get to sleep, and I think I only did because of the Newcastle. Randall never succeeded. There is truly nothing like the adrenaline cursing through your veins from a situation like that. You are unstoppable. You are invincible. You are Chuck Liddell Quinton Jackson on a Saturday night. I think we might still be.

If you’d like to hear the driver’s account of the story, and I would highly recommend doing so, Randall has posted such a blog over at his site.

Disclaimer: I do not support Tom Cruise vDouche.0, but since Randall only references v1.0, I fully endorse his blog.

~ by Kyle Davidson on May 26, 2007.