Walking Target
This is a long one. That's all you need to know. Skip if you no likee.

This was many years ago. I forget exactly when, but I've blotted it from my mind. The single most nerve-jangling thing that's ever happened to me, especially to someone not used to being faced with full-on, entirely malicious aggression. Nope, even the 3 travellers that hijacked my car one evening splattered head-to-toe in blood, doesn't quite beat it.

To be fair(ish), I was a pretty stupid-looking person at the time. Sporting an over-stretched, hugely baggy black and white jumper, pinstripe trousers, crap black shoes, a pineapple style haircut and some hefty extra weight, I was close to asking for it.

After an extended weed-smoking session with a friend in the windy seaside town of Hastings, I decided to make a dash for the last train home. Hastings is an easy place to coax weed-paranoia from the most level-headed of people at night, when the seafront is deserted, and all that can be heard is the clanking and creaks of the dilapidated flagpoles swaying in the icy breeze. There's also lots of places to lurk.

As I rounded the corner towards a set of steps, a figure lurched out of a shop doorway. Well over six feet, pale, and sporting few of his own teeth, and undeniably menacing, he might as well have had 'crack addict' (which was pretty rife in Hastings at the time) branded on his pock-marked forehead. 'Got a cig, mate?' he rasped. Being a naive fool, I said 'yes, of course', and handed over my rolling gear. He pocketed that. 'I need a tenner', he said. 'I don't have any money', I answered nervously, as I began to cotton on. I really didn't. No change, no cashcard, as I was hoping to hop the train home gratis. 'If you don't give me some money, I am going to fucking stab you. I've got a knife in my pocket'. 'I don't want to miss my train', I squeaked. Wrong move. Now he had a bargaining chip. 'I'll get you to your train, mate. I'll get you there safe'. Somehow, I didn't believe him. Especially as he was trying to herd me off in the opposite direction.

These sort of exchanges continued as we wandered ever further from the station, with the possibility of catching the train receding into the distance. The threats grew ever more excessive 'I don't care if you have any money, I'm going to slice you from ear-to-ear anyway' was a choice example. He was enjoying himself, simply because he knew I was shitting it. I needed a plan, and I needed one soon.

The amount of shops were starting to thin out as we moved towards the estates, and very few of the non-junk food variety would be open by now. The streets were deserted. We were drawing close to a dingy kebab shop, and I realised this might be my last chance - he wouldn't try to do me over in front of anyone, would he? Would he? As we passed by, I dodged inside, with a mutter of 'I'm hungry'. He followed. The two men behind the counter visibly flinched at the sight of him. I ordered some chips, and he ordered them to get him a glass of water. As we stood at the counter, me with a helpless look on my face, and him hissing in my ear that if we didn't walk out of here soon, he would cut me up in front of everyone, and four years would be nothing to him, the realisation dawned - no-one in here would help. No-one would even phone the coppers. They were more scared of him than I was. Shit.

'Let's go, you fuckin Southern poof!' - I couldn't conceivably delay it any longer. It was time to go. One last chance to get out of this, or be damned. As we were about to exit, I noticed he was still holding his glass of water. 'Can't take that with you, mate', I piped up. 'oh yeah', he rasped, and turned to put it back down on the counter. This was it - run like fuck to wherever. I was off. And so was he. I was no athlete, being a smoker, and a fat bastard simultaneously, but sheer adrenalin was going to keep me moving. It had to. I chanced a look back. he was still in hot pursuit - but this time, the possibly-fictional-but-can't-be-sure blade was in full view, gleaming everytime the moonlight hit it. Run like you've never run before, you flaccid waster. I don't know how long I was running, but when I finally stopped, it felt like my lungs were caving in, my breath a racking wheeze. If he was still on my tail, I was fucked. But I listened hard, not wanting to turn round, and heard nothing except the lap of the sea, and distant yells of the drunk. It was a long, slow walk home.

I didn't go anywhere near Hastings for the next couple of weeks, and told no-one why. By telling no-one why, i ran out of excuses pretty quickly, and was finally coaxed along to a drum 'n' bass night at a dingy club. All was pretty peachy for a couple of hours - amateur MC's shouting themselves hoarse, some tunes I knew here and there - and then, i saw him. Standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, wearing a long, black trenchcoat, staring straight at me. I'd undergone a hasty makeover during that time, the least of which a full headshave, but it was a very, very tense moment. I broke his gaze, and stared at my drink, pondering a throat-slitting demise. I looked back up, and he was gone. I've never seen him since, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

Apologies for length. That is all.
( the_other_jeff_lebowski Croutons on my tits, Mon 14 Aug 2006, 13:28, Reply)