Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
Sliding by the Bakaara Market
On Friday, 19 JUN, I got a call from code name SPAWN OF MONGO, from here out known as Spawn. He told me the story. I took the call on my earbuds, then turned them off and handed the phone to the Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo (aka SuperNurse), then I put the phone on speaker and we all talked it through again. I listened through the lens of tactics and Situational Awareness. TL&TMM listened through the filter of being a nurse and caregiver. Then we spent about an hour talking it through together on speakerphone. I purposefully broke up the discussion, so that Spawn would have to to tell the story over and again. That works to settle the mind and hold the demons at bay. He told me straight up when he called, he needed to talk in order to tamp down on the endocrine hurricane that hits in traumatic situations. I could hear it in his voice; not shaky, so much, as trying to speak through all the hormones, as tho from a deep well.
This is the story as relayed to us. Any incorrect statements are my fault, not Spawn’s. Plus, I’m Irish; you want the facts or you want the truth?
Spawn was moving from a good part of town to a better part of town to check on his contracts. Between the good and better, there was a not-so-good, very bad, kind of awful part of town. No worries. Zip through, get from A to B, and keep on making money.
Spawn was moving from east to west on the upper part of a “T” intersection. The north-south part of the “T” that terminated at his road had a stop sign on it; there was not a light, nor a stop or yield sign on Spawn’s piece of road. As he approached the intersection, he espied a guy on a bicycle that had a little lawnmower engine attached to the rear sprocket (to, you know, save all them valuable calories one would otherwise expend pedaling). The guy was blowing down the sidewalk and used the last driveway before the intersection to pull onto the road.
As spawn passed the intersection, he felt a big thump vibrate through the vehicle, accompanied by a bang. What the? Given that he was driving just under the posted 25 mph speed limit, he was able to bring the truck to an almost immediate stop. He cut the ignition off, exited the truck, and begin to do a walk-around, headed for the rear of the pickup. As he did, the driver of the car that had traversed the intersection at the same time he did and yelled, “there’s a dude there!”
Spawn raced around to the rear of the truck to find Bike Boy lying on the street. His bike was crumpled up, and his saddlebags had exploded, littering the road with small glassine baggies that Spawn could only assume were drugs. Turning to the other driver, and pointing with a blade hand in order to assign responsibility, he pushed out a loud and thunderous, “Call 911!!”
Spawn reached into the cab of the truck and grabbed his aid bag. The company vehicle came with a little first aid kit, probably for insurance purposes. His personal aid bag was much more…extensive. Spawn used the time asking the standard pre-aid questions, Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me? Are you all right? to glove up. As he finished getting the gloves on and hollering, Bike Boy—choking—semi-rolled to his side and started spitting teeth out. As he did so, great gouts of blood began spurting out of the back of his head. Nothing bleeds like a head wound, but Spawn thought that the amount was excessive.
Gloves on, Spawn moved to Bike Boy. He hitched up the fanny pack that he regularly wore slung diagonally across his chest, and did a finger sweep of Bike Boy’s mouth. Not much chance of getting bit, this guy’s corn is well and truly shelled. It took two swipes to get the dental debris out of his mouth and let Bike Boy breathe. Still, his respiration was choky and labored due to the amount of blood pouring into his ruined mouth. Spawn pulled a hemostatic bandage out of his backpack and laid it out next to Bike Boy. Bike Boy started the kind of deep, guttural moaning that Spawn had ever only heard from people very badly injured. Gently, he tried to feel out Bike Boy’s head to determine whether he was dealing with a big bleed or a shattered skull. Bike Boy’s melon felt like it maintained integrity through the impact, but it would take the ED and imagery to truly determine the extent of the damage.
As Spawn began to work free the bandage one-handed while trying to support Bike Boy’s head at the best angle to keep his airway clear and not let him drown in his own blood, three cars pulled up to all three points of the intersection. Two Beamers and a Mercedes. The drivers exited their vehicles and faced outward. It was like they were pulling security. Passengers got out and approached Spawn and Bike Boy. All the passengers were expensively dressed, with jewelry, mostly gold and diamonds, dripping off of them. With nary a glance or a word, they began policing up the little transparent baggies. They pulled the saddlebags off of the bike and loaded all the baggies into them. Then, they went back to their cars and left.
Makes sense, thought Spawn. Transport the drugs by mule, but keep the mule under surveillance to make sure he gets where he’s going, with no loss of product.
While the Armani mafia had been securing the baggies and sterilizing the area, quite a crowd had begun to form. Spawn could see, through his peripheral vision, cell phones aimed at him, no doubt taking video. He couldn’t help but notice that he was the only white boy in sight. He could also hear the comments from the crowd, the gestational mutterings of a crowd blossoming into a mob.
“Another white man running down a black man, same as it ever was.”
“Man, he just ran that boy right over without a second thought.”
Hello? I’m right here, and I seem to be the only one ready, willing, or able to provide first aid.
This scene, thought Spawn, definitely has the potential to devolve into the Bakaara market. Some of the ladies in the crowd were even wearing linen dresses and muumuus colorfully dyed in East African patterns. As a kid, Spawn had obsessed over the Battle of Mogadishu. He could recite the minute-by-minute chronology of events probably better than Mark Bowden, author of Black Hawk Down. He knew the names not only of every soldier killed, but also of every soldier wounded, and most of those who were on the op. He knew a lot of them, was friends with and went to school with their kids. He knew all about what could happen if things went Bakaara. He was concerned, but not worried.
Spawn had been training for as long as he could remember. He’d tapped out his first Green Beret at the age of 16. He’d then been stupid enough, when his old man was able to make one of his infrequent calls home from Iraq, to crow about it and say, “Come on home, Old Man, I’ve got something for you!” His old man had taken it gracefully and when he got home beaten Spawn mercilessly, on the mats. He’d had an avid interest in firearms, working in a series of different firearm establishments just to get his shooting and gunsmithing skills up to where he assessed they should be.
The fanny pack that he habitually wore across his chest held a Glock 19X, loaded out with a 23-round extended mag, plus two extra extended mags, and an aircraft aluminum LED flashlight in one of the packs exterior pockets, just to give him a less-than-lethal option, and, uh, sometimes you need a flashlight for light. If ya’ll kick this off, I got all kind of friends to bring to the party.
One voice rang out of the crowd as Spawn heard the approaching sirens, “Man, I saw the whole thing. That dumb brother blew right through the stop sign and piled his dumb ass up on the side of that truck. You think the white boy was able to swipe him head-on with the side of his truck? C’mon, use your damn head.”
That seemed to mollify the crowd a little bit, and Spawn hoped it would help abrogate the crowd-to-mob slow boil.
Soon, the police and the EMTs showed up. Spawn knew most of the police, despite the fact that they were all masked. He trained at the local dojo with most of them. The EMTs took over the care, treatment, and evacuation of Bike Boy. The police pulled Spawn to the far side of the road, and formed an ad hoc cordon between him and the crowd of still possibly volatile onlookers. Finally, statement given, he slung his aid bag over his shoulder and prepared to sit the truck and get out of Dodge.
“Eh,” said one of the cops, “why don’t I follow you out of the neighborhood, at least a coupla blocks.”
Published in General
Okay, con permiso de mi hijo, as they say down south, three times that Spawn got fired:
Firing One: As a loss prevention officer for Target, Spawn had to monitor the store and make sure that merchandise doesn’t just walk out the door. Target has a pretty sophisticated loss prevention system. If the computerized inventory has a delta with sales for a certain product, the system will cue the cameras for the loss prevention officer (LPO, just ’cause I don’t want to keep typing that) to review. When/if the LPO identifies the shoplifter stealing merch, the LPO has the cameras tag the thief, and the image is exported to all the other local Targets, so that facial recognition software can tag that guy/gal as soon as he walks into another store (most thieves, if they determine a MO works for them, will use it over and over again at various stores, usually of the same chain).
So Spawn had eyes on a probable shoplifter as soon as the guy walked into the store. He watched the guy load up on various items that were the same as the other stores he’d hit. Now, a shoplifter has to have passed every opportunity to pay before the LPO can intervene, which basically means by the main entrance/exit. Spawn positioned himself there while the guy bought a pack of gum or something so that he wouldn’t look suspicious. Because every one goes into a Target to buy just a pack of gum instead of stopping at the local Circle K.
Spawn positioned himself at the doors, but the canny little bastard (Spawn, not the shoplifter) knew he was in dead space for the CCTV. So the shoplifter saunters out, Spawn gives the obligatory, “Excuse me sir, can I have a word?” and grabs the guy. The guy grabs back, trying to fight off the grips and, as they stepped into the camera-covered area, Spawn lets go his hands and the cameras capture this mook dragging my son. Perfectly innocent. Nothing I could do. Then Spawn executes a fair dinkum hip toss, and once the guy’s on the ground and Spawn’s mounted, he puts the guy out with an Ezekiel choke.*
Target stated that every thing he did was correct, and they appreciated the lengths that Spawn went through to prevent loss of merchandise, but they were not going to accept liability for such zealous enforcement of their own policies.
Fired.
*Spawn jacked the CCTV footage. Kid’s got game. I could argue around the eaches of his technique, but it was well done, completing the mission and guarding the health and welfare of the shoplifter.
A cousin of mine who grew up in New Orleans had the honor one year of being an attendant in a Krewe ball, during Mardi Gras. En route to the party, she got rear-ended by a car full of teenagers. She and her mom got out, assessed damage, called the cops and waited . . . and waited . . . until they finally figured that due to Carnival, no one was coming, so they exchanged information with the kids and rushed off to the ball.
Turned out, a squad car actually did make it to the scene, seconds later. The kids were still there waiting on a ride, since their front end was totaled and they proceeded to spin a wild tale to the cops about the horrible “hit and run” they’d just been in and all the injuries they suspected they were suffering as a result.
When asked if they’d managed to get a license plate, make or model, they said they could do better than that — and handed over the piece of paper on which my niece had clearly written out all her information. Geniuses.
The cops still couldn’t stop laughing when they tracked down my niece later, to follow up and get her side of the story.
Firing Two: Working as a bartender (Spawn says that anyone who refers to himself as a mixologist is a douche-canoe), Spawn had a customer, whom he’d just cut off, throw a lowball glass at him. Spawn executed a beat down of the miscreant.
Me: Okay, sounds legit. Dude assaulted you, you responded. No harm no foul.
Spawn: Pop, you don’t get it. You can punch me in the nose, smash me in the the mouth so that I have that very cool blood-rimed smile, but I’m not going to beat you down for that if I’m on the job.
Me: Okay. So why?
Spawn: the guy threw the lowball glass, I ducked, and the glass hit the wall, right over our open ice machine.
Me: Okay.
Spawn: No, you don’t get it. We’ve got to turn the ice machine off, totally drain it, and then scour it. Then we have to do a flashlight search for little glimmers and then a bare hands test making sure there are no slivers of glass left in the ice machine. Then we have to sign off, certifying it’s clear, which means we do the damn job right.
And our ice availability, in a very busy bar, is cut 50%. Less drinks going out for the house. Less tips ’cause customers are not happy at the service times. It sucks when that happens. So I beat the piss out of that guy.
Me: Sounds righteous.
Fired.
Nah, brah. It is.
This conversation is bringing out some great stories.
See, now I’ve got enough food service jobs way back on the early side of my ridiculously extensive work history, that the minute I read this I thought, “Noooooooo, not the ice machine!!!!!“
I’d have probably leaped over the counter and started swinging at that point, too.
The bartender doesn’t have to do that. He just has the bouncer escort the gentleman out the door.
Damn, I could have sworn that door was open a minute ago …
Firing Three:
Spawn was hired as a bartender of a high end club (country club? Mebbe, don’t know what them rich folk call it at that level) in the West Palm/Delrey area. He had competed for the job, and had been hired, under the explicit understanding that he’d be able to work his way up. Spawn wanted to wind up being the hospitality, bar, and restaurant manager. Kid was like a shark hitting that job.
Annual membership dues for the club were $240K per year. Obviously that doesn’t include regular/per visit costs. Spawn gained a sudden, visceral understanding about F. Scott Fitzgerald’s comments about the rich (look, you can only be ordered by diners on the terrace to “turn the breeze down” so many times before it leaves a mark. Appropriate, deadpan response: Yes, Ma’am, I’ll talk to management immediately).
Halfway into a shift, Spawn saw a guy stumbling out the club to a parking lot, fumbling around with his car keys. Really stumbling, really fumbling.
Spawn: Hey sir. Can I help you get a ride.
Drunk: Nope. ‘Mmma drive home.
Spawn: Hey, you’ve had a couple drinks, why don’t you let me call you a cab?
Drunk, literally suffering a gravity storm right there: Nnn. Mmm good. Gonna drive home.
[Spawn grabs the guy buy the upper arms, just to keep him from falling on his keester]
Spawn: Look, what about Uber. Everybody loves Uber. What about I call you an Uber ride?” (cause you’re about a bazillionaire to be a member here, and too cheap to take a damn cab)
At this point, a manager shows up, asking, “is there a problem, here.”
Spawn: This cat’s in no ways able to safely get home, I’m trying to get him either an Uber or a cab.
[Drunk mumbles and stumbles some more]
Manager: He’s a member. He can leave however he wants.
Spawn: Hey man, it’s only 9:30 at night. My wife, my kids, could be out on the road right now. Your wife, your kids could be out on the road.
Manager: He’s a member. He can leave however he wants.
Spawn: Okay. Cool. [snatches the keys out of drunk’s hand, throws them out into the dark, aiming generally for the nearest water hazard] You’ll find my two week notice right next to this ass’ car keys.
Fired.
I love this guy!
Don’t. He’s convinced he deserves a fan club. Should he ever stumble across comments like this, it’ll only encourage him.
I see what you did, there.
Whoa! Spawn awesome.
Remember the story about the ninja nanny with the emerald earring? Spawn and Ninja must marry. (if she is real.)
Boss, one thing I would have done differently in the opening incident: A couple minutes after telling the one person to call 911, I would recommend he point to another person, preferably one who is doing a video, and shout, you! Call 911, tell them I need an ambulance fast! Two things: that will produce valuable evidence of his intent, etc. And . . . story time.
This happened to a friend of mine, when I was a park ranger. He ended up on a somewhat remote beach tending to a guy who was injured somehow. This was BCP (before cell phones) and normal radio communication in that park stank, when it worked at all. He told an onlooker to go find a phone and call 911. The person said he would, and ran up the hill toward, presumably, his car. A good half hour later – no ambulance. Turned out the guy never did call anybody. He just took off. The second guy my friend sent did follow through. Then an ambulance did arrive, oh, 15 or 20 minutes later, as I recall. Given the location, that was pretty impressive response time.
Jules, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. Spawn is ninja nanny’s big brother. For reals.
Look through the comments of the Nanny; Shenae is based on my oldest daughter. Poor Spawn had to put up with her ruckuses his whole darn life. And her little sister. And the little sister after that.
I almost feel bad for the li’l feller.
Wait. No. No I don’t. Suck it up, cupcake.
Q, Concur, it’s one of the things spawn and I talked about during our debrief. Pointing to an obstreperous member of the crowd and charging him/her with calling 911 is another venue for preempting the formation of a mob. Getting that loudest person on the phone with dispatch, then asking and answering questions with dispatch through the medium of that person that was amping up to murder you…well, if you can do that, you been through way to much messed up stuff.
Oops, OMG, I take it back. Uninformed suggestion on my part. They can be super heroes in tandem.
G-d knows we need a hero. Or two.
I see next time Spawn and Call Sign Prom Queen are in the same place:
<Up from behind, Spawn doesn’t hear the open palm, aimed for the back of his head>
**SWAAAAAK**
S: What the hey…?!?!
PQ: Did you hear what some lady suggested?!?
S: Huh?…
PQ: #%&*@$!!! <Storms off>
S: Wha’d I do, Dad???
BossM: ♪♫♪♫….
When I was at Costco we had the biggest Samoan dude I’ve ever seen, Willy, on LP, hands the size of catchers mitts. They gave Willy three strikes though.
Eminem wannabe makes a dash for the door and Willy is there. Eminem tries to hurdle the row of carts and Willy snatches him out of the air to the shouts of managers six registers away, “Willy, let him go!” Willy looks at me for direction, I being a supervisor with different opinions than management over what to do with scumbag whiteboys with lifted merch. I give Willy a shrug that says, “Meh, do whatever you want to him,” while Eminem’s legs are kicking in mid air, albeit slower as Willy squeezes him, maybe to death? Willy lets go. Reprimand. Strike one.
Willy confronts another white boy, tosses him against the employee lockers. White boy pulls a knife and slashes Willy’s arm. Willy’s about to cave in slasher boys face, “Let him go, Willy!” Willy, fuming lets go and watches slasher run with a bloody knife all the way past the front end (100 people at least, including yours truly). Stitches, reprimand, strike two.
Willy confronts belligerent chubby white guy trying to escape via emergency exit (the doors have a ten second delay). Chubby Bunny pulls a revolver and pistol whips Willy’s face. “Let him go, Willy!” Nah, Chubby’s got a gun. Willy disarms him, holds him till APD arrives.
“Willy, corporate called. You’re too aggressive. You’re a cashier now.”
Costco is stupid.
And Willy deserves a Medal of Freedom.
Costco owes Willy a 3 raises and an apology.
I’m not able to count that as a firing. He quit before he was fired. They just waived the 2 weeks notice.
Spawn FOR. THE. WIN. Good on ’em for doing the right thing.
The best thing I’ve ever heard about the knife hand is that when one points with the index finger “three fingers are pointing back at you…….” Not so with the knife hand.
Clearly Black Lives Matter……….
Just in case…….
Angels in the outfield……..
Great story @bossmongo. Tell the Spawn “he dun’ guuhd…..”
Boss, I don’t say this lightly, but you better send your boy to Shaolin mountain. This world might not be good enough for him-
In particular, when a propaganda campaign has indoctrinated people to believe a group of related stories, confirmation bias will shape their recollections of what they see. Particularly when the actors in the drama look like they fit the roles specified in one of the propaganda scenarios.
Thank you for the post @BossMongo. Spawn may butt heads with some people but he obviously has his head screwed on right. Not to be all BLM (which I am not), but I do want to think of and remember all the black people in many years earlier (I’m thinking 1920s, 30s, etc) where the black person would be the one surrounded by a bad crowd that would judge him or her only by the color of their skin. The crowd your son encountered were mostly judging him by his skin color until someone spoke up. It is one of the reasons why I do not understand those who want to make us all only our skin. We’ve come so far I hate to see it thrown away by people who have no idea of history. Again, great post.
They can protect us against the scourge of Snowflake™ and Safespace™.
@bossmongo, based on the comments section of this post , he’s already got a fan club. And based on the stories of the three firings, he’s quite self- motivated: encouragement is unnecessary, to say the least.
Boss, you are a bad boy. You need to be spanked.
But of course. You are the drama queen!