In the tradition of all things clickbait, the title of this article is precisely that. I didn’t get shanked for wearing streetwear, but I did get stabbed only a few hours after receiving a new shirt in the mail.
Hey, I’m back
I just moved back to my college town to start my senior year after interning in my hometown. Give a shout-out to the GI Bill. It was a typical Friday during the summer: birds, barking, beer.
At some point during the summer, I made about nine purchases from brands I found on /r/streetwearstartup. Your boy had packages from both coasts and overseas, from small brands like Leftovers, SLEEP, and Steady Hands.
It would have been like Christmas in July, but it was August.
Because I sat at a desk all summer, I had to do a fit check if you know what I mean (got fat). Cool, some of this fits. I slam a beer before getting ready for an evening of debauchery.
Downtown we go
In the spirit of all things basic, my fit was precisely that. Black and white Vans, chinos, a new graphic tee. Joke’s on me; I don’t even skate.
We get to the bar; we’re drinking our drinks, mingling with some folks. Fortunately, all the good bars are along the same street, as they seem to be in every college town ever made.
When I go out, I’m comfortable roaming around solo if I have to. I did just that and wandered to another hot spot.
Let’s take shots quick
Alright, here’s where the action happens.
So I’m standing at the bar after running into a friend of mine. We’re about to order a shot because that’s what we do. It was kind of funny because he made the joke that we “better hurry up before my girlfriend shows up.” Like clockwork, she shows up like two minutes after he says that.
She’s cool; we’re bullshitting about summer for a bit. Out of left field, this old dude comes up and grabs her arm. Whatever, I’m not saying shit. But my friend was.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
Oh, you and her both don’t know this guy, this should get interesting. “Don’t tell me what to do,” says the old dude.
“Well, that’s my girlfriend, so don’t touch her.”
Sidenote: The old dude is about 5’10, 240. My friend is probably about 5’8, 140lbs. I’m 6’4, 260lbs. For a size comparison, see the next picture.
At this point I’m like fuck this old guy, he won’t leave with my friend telling him to so I’ll step in.
See previous exchange. The conversation went the same way, minus me saying it was my girlfriend.
“What? Are you going to stab me?”
We start telling the old dude to get the hell out of the bar when he pulls out a little switchblade and flicks it open. As dumb as it sounds, my first thought was straight up “what, are you going to stab me?”
Yes. An attempt, anyways.
See, the mistake he made was trying to come over the top, when he should have just got me straight in the ribs. It took a few microseconds to realize what he was doing, then it clicked, and I was like oh shit! Grabbed his wrist before five other guys around us swarmed him.
Moral of the story: If someone pulls a knife on you, punch them in the nose.
Also, talk shit, post fit.