Thugs

I was at the beach yesterday, sitting out my kid's nap in the car, reading my novel. Two muscle-bound guys sat on the guard rail in front of me in the shade, smoking and drinking 6-packs and talking colorful story.

"And then I had trow the barstool, it wen ricochet lie dat off his head!"

or

"He had hit me but I buss him up, I say to him 'ho, das the end of your boxing career!'"

One guy was in a longsleeved neon orange shirt with a pencil line beard around his jawline and sleek sunglasses. The other guy was shirtless. And that guy-- there was something funny about him. For one, he was obviously the beta dog. He kissed up: "you see, das why we friends! Cuz we nice guys, but you nevah mess wid us! We the same!" And during one of his swashbuckling adventure stories ("Deze guys had come corner me in da batroom an den...!") the other guy lowered his glasses and ogled a passing 16 year old Filipina in a thong, without even a pretense of paying attention.

And the kicker: he was faking it. The beta guy was-- for sure-- from LA. His pidgin was totally forced, the accent off, the emphasis stilted, and he threw in clunky mainland slang.

In short-- he was a thug transplant. A malihini pirate.

Eavesdropper me, I felt for the guy.