Baby I'm a Rich Man

Last night we had us a good old Mission stabbing.   We ain't had one in a spell, but nothing brings the folks together like a stabbing.  Everybody come out--5 police cars, crime scene van, fire truck, journalists, photographers, whores, a pair of college cutie twins come for to volunteer in the chow line, and all the boys had out their cells shooting video and telling kinfolk near and far about the bloody violence we all gathered for.  A good, honest community spirit was in the air.  Lots of rolling papers made the rounds, the Friday pizza truck come by even though the cops was crowding the street.  As stabbings go, it was a real humdinger . . .

. . .Okay, I was going to start with a lugubrious, ruminative paragraph, exquisitely poised and balanced, on the way violence springs up among us, but this blog needs a tonal tune-up, so don't hold the tiny post for today against me while I tinker a bit.

Last night we really did have a stabbing, apparently two guys having an argument about money.  One jabbed the other about 10 times in the leg, puncturing an artery.  20 disciples tied a tourniquet.  It happened right in front of the place where I usually sit against the wall and read before being admitted to chapel.  I wasn't there, missed the whole thing damned thing!  I saw the blood stain behind the yellow police tape.

Now it's important to understand that in this milieu one doesn't just run up to your friends and acquaintances and ask "What's happening?  Gosh, fellows, what's the scoop?  Give me the straight dope, pals!"   Every dig for information must done with the utmost sidling obliquity, even when trying to find out what's being served for breakfast.  Direct questions are out.   So now I've got to do some serious eavesdropping and misdirection to find out what I want to know.  None of which has anything to to with the who, what, where, and why of the stabbing.    See you later.