sitting late at night on king st newtown when a muscular skinhead, face distorted by hate in grubby white singlet and braces appears and starts thumping a nearby security guard. the guard is confident and heavyset and i am certain that he will quickly di
spense with the ugly fucker but a nervous dread and queasiness stains my
innards as i see the guard fall, calling my name through the blood in
torrents down his uniform.
more skinheads appear as i run to the guard's car for the phone, frantically fingers slipping on the numbers as i try to dial the 9 digits for the ambulance, thinking on the third attempt that this is just like one of those bad dreams where all control over self and environment is lost. it doesn't help my concentration when six dumb unknown quantities are bellowing and rocking the car, finally smashing the windows with crowbars. i get through and hurriedly explain while shrinking from the glass showering over me, but the ambulance woman tells me soothingly that they'll send someone round to pick up the bodies tomorrow morning before the phone goes dead in my ear.
now the skins have all my belongings gathered in a trailer, scot's in another, and i have twenty seconds to save something before they torch the lot. desperately i gather my uni stuff, some books, and my doona to my chest before miserably witnessing the senseless destruction of my meagre possessions. the next morning the police arrive and keep eagerly asking me over and over again if i was raped, disappointed by my negative response.
scot and i shuffle limply down the street, while i wonder if i can get an extension on my visa card to replace the lost stuff. stumbling down a grassy hill we find ourselves in an old people's home gazing hungrily at the scones and jam on the table while the old dears in faded flower-prints and the WWII veterans take their places. scot grabs their attention by informing them that he fought in the war at the battle of fort something-o-other, and yet the police still treat him badly after fighting for their country.
we notice the grey-haired ones staring behind us at the door-way where a man and boy have just entered: their heads are clenched fists, red white and tense. as the young boy's head clenches and unclenches angrily he tells us how since the war his father has never been the same, how he is so congested with rage he cannot speak, and the boy in turn is suffering.
another man mutters something and fist-head-man lunges forward with a shriek swiping a knife off the table plunging and plunging and plunging it repeatedly into the chest of the offender.
* i have received much e-mail from american skinheads concerning this particular story, much of it obnoxious, patronising and numbskullish. yawn. however, a one rev. manuel fernando nunez has proved articulate, thoughtful, non-violent, non-racist and an all-round good bloke, to the point that i have decided to add a disclaimer.
the above story describes australian skinheads and is not meant to be read as a tar-brushing encompassing non and anti-violent skins elsewhere in the world. happy manuel?
but to the rest of you who have written - get a dead dog upya
copyright 1995 lisa bode