The itch we didn't know.
The itch we couldn't scratch.
The hockey stick,
The plastic gun,
The absence of the snatch.
In the electric blown out fog of my memory we were a roving band of hooligans.
Tyrants.
Plastic rifles and wooden Disneyland muskets on our backs, we patrolled Screenland drive as if we had vowed to protect it, and some other neighborhood sought to take it. Willing to pay the raspberry price.
Some other horde of pre pubescent miscreants with the implied firepower to overcome us at any moment.
Our block was sacred- not because we were told it was, but because it was ours. The treads of our power-wheels held this section of earth to the face of the planet, and without them it would be nothing. It would be Verdugo Blvd. grown-up waste. It would be the shitting grounds for big kid scum. It'd fall helplessly into the hands of "Dinner at six, bed by nine" parents who's retinas had been tattooed with the likeness of Lenny. Who's ear drums had been manipulated and shaped by the thunderous and unyielding 8 o'clock thunder of their "Law and Order" church bell wail.
We had a job to do. This block belonged to the kids. The Ninjas. The Basketball Allstars. The Street hockey kings in oversized black and white jerseys. The Commandos in ill fitting fatigues and big sister cammo face paint. The card merchants with an untold wealth in their deck. The Pog barrons with riches in their neon tubes.
Like any well trained unit we all had our roles to fill. There was, first and foremost, our leader- Garden Hose Greg. Greg was the oldest and had the experience and know-how to keep us alive when shit got hairy. We were all of variable age so he was elected leader by default. He had all the tricks. This motherfucker could fill a water-balloon faster than anyone i've ever met, to this day. And god damn if he wasn't a surgeon with the garden hose. Once saw him nail a kid four houses down and across the street without getting a drop on his chords. Then there was his sister- Donna. This girl had at least a year on all of us and knew how to use it. She could play both sides. Everyone wanted a little attention from the older girl, she could make you stupid with a glance. Next, ( in order of rank and age ) was Kyle. Sonofabitch was 3 times the size of the biggest guy in our unit and about half as bright. Wasn't much for strategy but just the sight of the boy would keep you at a distance. No one fucked with Kyle. After that was Rad. Now, Rad had a temper. He was the living, breathing definition of a 'Loose Cannon.' He'd follow the plans Greg laid out for a while then lose his shit on whoever was closest. It didn't always work out in our favor, (in fact most of the time one of us wound up at the wrong end of a rubber snake, or worse- a brick) but when his "Talents" did shine on our side it was as if we had harnessed a force of nature. In reality we didn't harness shit. Next up was Myself and the Tornado. We were the "Bash Bros". Born on the same day, the same street, with the same reckless abandon, and an identical affinity for "the Mighty Ducks", Tornado and I were unstoppable.
We were a team from birth. While we were both members of the Screenland Dr. Militia (SDM) we had plenty of solo mischief under our belts. Me and the Tornado were the only two who had fully explored the catacombs and dungeons of our territory and lived to tell. We bore the scars of week long groundings.The memories of crawl-space beasts with 3 inch fangs and no souls. The wisdom of day long living room adventures into the mind, into territories unknown to most. Through lands of "Golf Magic" and past the four legged creatures native to every backyard in our territory. We were brothers and remain so till this day.
But the SDM wasn't without its peripheral soldiers. Every great army employs mercenaries.
The Gurkhas of the british, french, and foreign legion. The GalloGlass of Scotland, The Swiss guard of Vatican city. Yeah, we had our own.
There was Bloody Valentine from the Kenwood territory, He wasn't the kind of kid you brought to the front line but this guy had an arsenal to be reckoned with. Be it high-powered super soakers with extra ammunition capacity, to long range precision Nerf weaponry. This wasn't someone you wanted on your side, it was someone you couldn't win without. He was outside our lands but the ruler of an adjacent territory. He kept his lands quiet without raising a finger.
Some might disagree, but I am a fan of the mystical. I believe in an army without some sort of shamanistic sooth sayer at its aft is without conventional direction. A strategist can only get so far without someone who doesn't just think outside the box, but lives outside the fucker. We had a priest. Waxy. He was out of his mind but in tune with the out of tune chaos that surrounds us all. Waxy would show us what was and what wasn't. What could be and what couldn't. What was never, and possibly, what would be. He lived on the outer rim and a journey to his territory was more of a pilgrimage than a march. Only leaders were aloud. The Maple territory was absent void of combatants. It was neutral ground. A place for contemplation.
Our ranks were prepared for any foe, any invasion. We had the weaponry and the know how. We had the leadership, we had the Allies. We had the vehicles, siege engines- well, they did.
Bikes, roller blades, scooters and skateboards were more so recreational vehicles. Scouts would sometimes use bicycles on account of their speed an silence but PowerWheels were our war horses. Well- their war horses.
Greg, our General, had a jet black Jeep with room for a driver (Usually himself) and a gunner(More often than not his sister Donna). His machine was faster and more sleek than the rest of the convoy, and rightfully so. Kyle had a beast of a machine to match his physique. A bright red 4x4, lifted. This thing was scrapped and scarred to shit. Perfect as far as he was concerned. Rad had a low to the ground Ferrari with a gold stripe down the center. It was fast as hell but had pretty low battery life. Not a problem. So did he. Bloody Valentine had a silver BMW of some kind. This machine was so damn quiet he could make the alley run- back and forth- without a soul knowing. The vehicle was tops but his knowledge of those alleys is really what let him move so deftly bellow the radar. There were soft spots. Ridges and valleys. We could spot em on foot but V had the terrain memorized. Tornado's ride was similar to Kyle's but in better condition. It was red and a different model but served the same purpose: brute force. I would ride tail gunner a lot of the time but some operations required us to split up.
So I'd have to take my own ride.
My own ride?
No.
I didn't have my own ride.
Maybe it was because I never asked. Maybe I knew my parents couldn't afford a bullshit plastic battery powered car I would end up using for a year and a half. Maybe I was afraid if I asked for a bullshit plastic battery powered car and dint get it my life would end.
The itch we couldn't scratch.
The hockey stick,
The plastic gun,
The absence of the snatch.
In the electric blown out fog of my memory we were a roving band of hooligans.
Tyrants.
Plastic rifles and wooden Disneyland muskets on our backs, we patrolled Screenland drive as if we had vowed to protect it, and some other neighborhood sought to take it. Willing to pay the raspberry price.
Some other horde of pre pubescent miscreants with the implied firepower to overcome us at any moment.
Our block was sacred- not because we were told it was, but because it was ours. The treads of our power-wheels held this section of earth to the face of the planet, and without them it would be nothing. It would be Verdugo Blvd. grown-up waste. It would be the shitting grounds for big kid scum. It'd fall helplessly into the hands of "Dinner at six, bed by nine" parents who's retinas had been tattooed with the likeness of Lenny. Who's ear drums had been manipulated and shaped by the thunderous and unyielding 8 o'clock thunder of their "Law and Order" church bell wail.
We had a job to do. This block belonged to the kids. The Ninjas. The Basketball Allstars. The Street hockey kings in oversized black and white jerseys. The Commandos in ill fitting fatigues and big sister cammo face paint. The card merchants with an untold wealth in their deck. The Pog barrons with riches in their neon tubes.
Like any well trained unit we all had our roles to fill. There was, first and foremost, our leader- Garden Hose Greg. Greg was the oldest and had the experience and know-how to keep us alive when shit got hairy. We were all of variable age so he was elected leader by default. He had all the tricks. This motherfucker could fill a water-balloon faster than anyone i've ever met, to this day. And god damn if he wasn't a surgeon with the garden hose. Once saw him nail a kid four houses down and across the street without getting a drop on his chords. Then there was his sister- Donna. This girl had at least a year on all of us and knew how to use it. She could play both sides. Everyone wanted a little attention from the older girl, she could make you stupid with a glance. Next, ( in order of rank and age ) was Kyle. Sonofabitch was 3 times the size of the biggest guy in our unit and about half as bright. Wasn't much for strategy but just the sight of the boy would keep you at a distance. No one fucked with Kyle. After that was Rad. Now, Rad had a temper. He was the living, breathing definition of a 'Loose Cannon.' He'd follow the plans Greg laid out for a while then lose his shit on whoever was closest. It didn't always work out in our favor, (in fact most of the time one of us wound up at the wrong end of a rubber snake, or worse- a brick) but when his "Talents" did shine on our side it was as if we had harnessed a force of nature. In reality we didn't harness shit. Next up was Myself and the Tornado. We were the "Bash Bros". Born on the same day, the same street, with the same reckless abandon, and an identical affinity for "the Mighty Ducks", Tornado and I were unstoppable.
We were a team from birth. While we were both members of the Screenland Dr. Militia (SDM) we had plenty of solo mischief under our belts. Me and the Tornado were the only two who had fully explored the catacombs and dungeons of our territory and lived to tell. We bore the scars of week long groundings.The memories of crawl-space beasts with 3 inch fangs and no souls. The wisdom of day long living room adventures into the mind, into territories unknown to most. Through lands of "Golf Magic" and past the four legged creatures native to every backyard in our territory. We were brothers and remain so till this day.
But the SDM wasn't without its peripheral soldiers. Every great army employs mercenaries.
The Gurkhas of the british, french, and foreign legion. The GalloGlass of Scotland, The Swiss guard of Vatican city. Yeah, we had our own.
There was Bloody Valentine from the Kenwood territory, He wasn't the kind of kid you brought to the front line but this guy had an arsenal to be reckoned with. Be it high-powered super soakers with extra ammunition capacity, to long range precision Nerf weaponry. This wasn't someone you wanted on your side, it was someone you couldn't win without. He was outside our lands but the ruler of an adjacent territory. He kept his lands quiet without raising a finger.
Some might disagree, but I am a fan of the mystical. I believe in an army without some sort of shamanistic sooth sayer at its aft is without conventional direction. A strategist can only get so far without someone who doesn't just think outside the box, but lives outside the fucker. We had a priest. Waxy. He was out of his mind but in tune with the out of tune chaos that surrounds us all. Waxy would show us what was and what wasn't. What could be and what couldn't. What was never, and possibly, what would be. He lived on the outer rim and a journey to his territory was more of a pilgrimage than a march. Only leaders were aloud. The Maple territory was absent void of combatants. It was neutral ground. A place for contemplation.
Our ranks were prepared for any foe, any invasion. We had the weaponry and the know how. We had the leadership, we had the Allies. We had the vehicles, siege engines- well, they did.
Bikes, roller blades, scooters and skateboards were more so recreational vehicles. Scouts would sometimes use bicycles on account of their speed an silence but PowerWheels were our war horses. Well- their war horses.
Greg, our General, had a jet black Jeep with room for a driver (Usually himself) and a gunner(More often than not his sister Donna). His machine was faster and more sleek than the rest of the convoy, and rightfully so. Kyle had a beast of a machine to match his physique. A bright red 4x4, lifted. This thing was scrapped and scarred to shit. Perfect as far as he was concerned. Rad had a low to the ground Ferrari with a gold stripe down the center. It was fast as hell but had pretty low battery life. Not a problem. So did he. Bloody Valentine had a silver BMW of some kind. This machine was so damn quiet he could make the alley run- back and forth- without a soul knowing. The vehicle was tops but his knowledge of those alleys is really what let him move so deftly bellow the radar. There were soft spots. Ridges and valleys. We could spot em on foot but V had the terrain memorized. Tornado's ride was similar to Kyle's but in better condition. It was red and a different model but served the same purpose: brute force. I would ride tail gunner a lot of the time but some operations required us to split up.
So I'd have to take my own ride.
My own ride?
No.
I didn't have my own ride.
Maybe it was because I never asked. Maybe I knew my parents couldn't afford a bullshit plastic battery powered car I would end up using for a year and a half. Maybe I was afraid if I asked for a bullshit plastic battery powered car and dint get it my life would end.
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