Random and Ancient Stories of Fist Fights Observed at Broadway and Denny

A friend of ours just told us a little story today about how her Marine boyfriend, recently back from a tour of duty in Iraq, tried to break up a drunken fight a couple months ago outside the Jack in the Box at Broadway and Denny. Our soldier in question was out late one night with a drunken friend, who decided that what he needed most out of life was the thrill of throwing orange traffic cones in to the street, and then inevitably one of these hit a passing car. The offended driver jumped out to kick some ass, but the man's obesity handicapped his ass-kicking abilities and soon the lard-ass found himself on the ground under the fists of the drunken cone-thrower, who managed to successfully rip the fat bastard's shirt off. Our Marine -- unscathed from his deployment to the Middle East -- intervened to break up the fight, only to have the fat man's girlfriend jump out of the car and punch him in the face, slicing the flesh around his eye with her ring. If surviving the Sunni/Shiite conflict gives one a justified sense of confidence bordering on invulnerability, then take heed: Don't fuck with porked-out pears while in such close proximity to the hallowed grounds of Jack in the Box, for they are the protected chosen people enjoying magical defenses near their promised land.

There is something about this intersection, some haunted Shining shit, that brings the aggro out in people. One Saturday morning a year or two ago, we were standing in line outside of Vivace and we saw these two mooky-looking meathead frat-tards pointing at and berating some cracked-out-looking Broadway kid who looked a lot like an even more emaciated-than-usual Bright Eyes -- if such a puny, skeletal character can even be imagined -- probably because the kid was making a muttering, spastic, meth-head spectacle of himself. The shit-talking prompted the meth head to shout out something about how his meager frame may project a false sense of weakness, but in actuality (we're paraphrasing here) his body possessed "90 pounds of pure hate!" Suddenly, the little Bright Eyes boy ran/flew across the street and -- impossibly -- picked up one of the meatheads, who had to have been at least twice the kid's size, and then threw and/or body slammed him against the window of the Jack in the Box. He slammed him again and again and then beat the man down with his fists into the ground in the bushes. The frat guy's friend stood by watching and did absolutely nothing, offering no support whatsoever and continued to drink his milkshake while wearing his white visor, as though contemplating the wearing of said white visor, positioned slightly off-center. The persecutor-turned-victim, lying on his back on the aforementioned hallowed grounds of Jack in the Box, held up his hands in a feeble display of surrender and the crack head boy -- inexplicably! -- in turn held out his hand to help his victim to his feet. They shook hands like men and parted ways, awkwardly negating all the preceding drama and injecting like a wet fart a palpable sense of embarrassment into the crowd of passive spectators. A stranger standing next to us in line for coffee reflected that it was too early in the morning for that. But he was wrong: It's never too early for that. We love you, Broadway and Denny.