“52 on the second floor!” A frantic voiced scratched over my walkie talkie.
“Come again with that transmission! Where on the second floor is that 52?”
I ran down to the second floor and every head was turned in the same direction. People were running towards the fight like debris summoned towards a black hole. I dodged through the mob and when I got to the middle of it I saw three teens rolling around on the ground and one giant being held by Dean Flint a few feet away.
Flint was almost signed by the Steelers as a linebacker in the 70s, but he was old now. The giant in his arms was young. And huge. Tall and unusually muscular, with dark black skin, yellowish eyes, and a smear of blood on his right cheek. Flint stumbled around as he tried to restrain him. There were a couple female safety agents there but they just walked past, wanting nothing to do with it. Then one of the kid’s arms got loose from Flint’s bear hug and flew around like a high tension wire that had just snapped. I jumped out of the way. I’m usually eager to let some of my aggression and frustration out by breaking up fights, but I wasn’t getting anywhere near this guy. It was suicide, and today wasn’t the day.
The giant became still for a moment as he closed his eyes and gathered his strength. Flint was still holding him tight around the torso when he let out a scream and started chugging down the hall like a massive train trying to gather steam. After a few steps, he was running like someone in waist deep water and dragging the 275 pound Flint behind him like a fallen rider. He was trying to shake Flint. Buck him off. But then Flint pulled an old football trick. He lifted his legs completely off the ground, transferring all his weight to the kid’s upper body, and they both came crashing down on the filthy floor.
By the time they had dusted themselves off and gotten back to their feet, the giant had forgotten all about Flint. He was now face to face with another guy, a light skinned kid with short little nappy dreads, who had just been walking by and had taken exception to being bumped in the chaos.
“I’m from Far Rock nigga!” the kid spit violently into the giant’s face (You know your neighborhood is rough when just mentioning it is considered a threat).
“I’m from Far Rock TOO…. NIGGA!” Roared the giant with a snarl. Spittle was popping from his mouth like shrapnel. “They call me KG! Tha SHOOTER!”
Dreads wasn’t intimidated though. Or at least he didn’t show it. He leaned in even closer, tilted his head to the side, and in a menancingly calm voice he said, “Well they call ME ‘Click’. Tha Shooter…”
Two shooters! Whaddya know. Should be a fun night in Far Rockaway, I thought. Just then, an extremely fat safety agent ran up and, together with Flint, they tackled the giant and all three went crashing through an open classroom door and it was on again. Students who, a few minutes before, before had been sleeping through a history lesson were now standing with their backs against the wall as the giant flailed around, ripping up desks like a tornado. He disappeared from my view at one point so I ran to the other door to get a better look. He had ripped out a large wooden drawer from the teacher’s desk and was now swinging it wildly at the safety agents, trying to beat his way back into the hall. “Jesus!” I yelled, and I jumped back from the window.
“Someone cuff him!” Yelled the Head of Security.
I didn’t stay around to see what happened though. Instead, I made my way back to the Deans office to take statements from the other “bodies” in the original fight. They were telling me their side of the story when the Head of Security walked in and interrupted. “I saw everything! Five days for those two.” And so it was.
One of the moms showed up a few minutes later, upset that her son was being suspended. She rolled her eyes at every explanation I offered, and then cut me off to demand to speak with the principal. I couldn’t stand the lady, but I immediately agreed to show her to the principals office. Just one less for me to deal with. As soon as we entered the hall I had to physically hold her son back again because he almost punched another student who he said had looked at him wrong. When the other student had gone I let the kid go and shook my head in exasperation. Mom didn’t seem to grasp the irony of the situation.
Later on, Flint asked the secratary to pull up the fight on the cameras. He wanted to see his tackle.
“If I hadn’t been theah, he woulda killed that kid,” Flint growled. “With tha strength that kid has, he woulda killed him! I know. I was holdin’ him back, and I ain’t exactly weak. But that was a good tackle I had there, Pistol. That’s how they teach ya ta tackle! Because if he hadn’t a fell, he woulda torn every ligament in his back.”
“Oh right. You fall and then they have to fall too, right?”
“Yep. And anotha way to stop somebody is you put yoah thumbs right up unda theah arms like this, and they have ta stop. They have ta stop. It’s a pressha point. And another one is this.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed down hard on the muscle between my thumb and forefinger. I let out a whimper. “Hurts, don’t it?” I just massaged my hand and nodded. “Now ya know why I’m heah, Pistol,” he said with a grin. “You’ve been thinkin’ that I’ve been sittin’ around heah doin’ nothin’, ain’t ya? Well, THIS is why I’m heah.”
“Nah, man. I haven’t been thinking that.”
“Come on, Pistol, ya don’ have ta lie, okay? But I’m tellin’ ya, if I hadn’t a been theah, we might’ve had a DEATH on our hands, okay. That kid didn’t start it, but he was gonna finish it. Trust me, I know tha type. He’s a finisha.”