Stabbing Westward at Denny’s
Continuing in the vein of the Taco Bell post, here’s something else I wrote a long long time ago, on my birthday in 1994. It recounted a stabbing my friend Jim and I kind-of witnessed at the Denny’s in Newark. No, not Newark NJ as you might have assumed, but Newark DE. Here’s the post::
Newsgroups: alt.captain.sarcastic, alt.food.dennys, alt.stupidity, alt.angst, alt.basement.graveyard, alt.music.nin, alt.music.ween, alt.slack, alt.surrealism
From: kkoller@nyx10.cs.du.edu (captain sarcastic)
Date: 9 Aug 1994 04:07:27 -0400
Local: Tues, Aug 9 1994 4:07 am
Subject: Stabbing Westward at Denny’s
[This is a true story, and is Copyright 1994 Captain Sarcastic]
So, Big Jilm stops by my place and asks me to go with him to get some food
at Denny’s for my birthday (today, Aug. 9) and I say, “sure.” So, we hop
into his car and run over to Denny’s. We order, and eat, and everything
is going swimmingly.
Suddenly, before we get the check but after dessert, we hear a loud crash
of breaking glass, and a waitress saying, “call 911.” Oh, joy. So I
start to look over at the area of the restaurant that the crash came from,
which is in sort of a corner behind a partition. Two people run out from
behind the partition, and leave the restaurant.
Suddenly, I see a hand rise up behind the partition holding a glass full
of water and ice. Then the hand rapidly disappears behind the partition
again, and a large crashing noise follows. Another person then runs out
from behind the partition.
Our waitress is now on the phone calling 911, and the service is even
worse than the normal Denny’s service. Two more people come out from
behind the partition. Actually, one person sort of *threw* the other out
from behind the partition and then jumped on him on another table, making
yet another smashing noise. Oh yeah, the one guy’s eye was bleeding
profusely, and the other guy was sort of half-covered with blood.
“Oh, a fight,” I casually say to Jim.
“Yeah,” he says back.
As they sort of get closer to where we are sitting, we stand up and sort
of move back, figuring it would be a bad idea to get in the way of flying
bodies. Then one guy pulls out a Denny’s butterknife, and begins rapidly
stabbing the other guy up against the front counter area. I mean, we were
close enough where you could hear the knife entering flesh.
“Hey Jim, he’s stabbing that guy,” I casually say to Jim.
“Yeah,” he says back.
“Maybe we should leave now,” I casually say to Jim.
“Yeah,” he says back.
We go outside, and bolt to the car at sort of a brisk pace. There’s a
little white car parked at the end of the parking lot, and the two guys
come out of Denny’s sort of slowly, and limp their way to the car.
They’re both bleeding pretty well, and they get into the same car. Who am
I to understand these things?
“Hey Jim, let’s get the plate number from that car in case someone’s dead
or something,” I casually say to Jim.
“Yeah,” he says back.
Jim then takes off after the car, which had a pretty good head start. We
get close enough after about 2 miles (staying far enough back to avoid
things like gunfire) to read the plate. Delaware has simple six digit
plate numbers, no letters, so it’s easy.
We head back to Denny’s, and there’s a cop there in the lot.
“Hey Jim, let’s pull up next to that cop and tell him the plate number,”
I casually say to Jim.
“Yeah,” he says back.
We pull up next to the cop, and he rolls his window down.
“Hey, are you here for that ruckus that just happened in Denny’s?” I
casually ask the cop.
“Yeah,” he says back.
“Hey, we got the plate number from the car, do you want it?” I casually
ask the cop.
“We can’t really do anything, since we don’t have a victim,” he says back.
I think to myself that yeah, the victim’s in the CAR, dumbass, and we have
the PLATE NUMBER, assmunch, maybe you can go find em or something? I sort
of keep that to myself, though, remembering back to other encounters with
the police where I had that sort of attitude. I love it when you present
a critical piece of evidence to a cop, and he doesn’t even say, “Thanks.”
“Yeah, I thought I saw you guys pass me at the intersection,” says the
cop, casually.
“Yeah,” I say back.
“What was that number? he asks, casually.
I give him the plate number.
“That was a green Chevy Nova, right?” asks the cop, casually.
“No, it was a small white hatchback of some sort,” I say back.
“Oh,” says the cop, casually, and rolls up his window and talks on the
radio for a while.
We go back inside to pay the bill, and there’s spattered blood all over
the front area of the restaurant, and the area where they were sitting
looked like a small bomb had hit it. The guy that was getting stabbed
repeatedly was moving really slowly to the car, and with the amount of
blood that he lost, I would say that he probably ended up dead, especially
since the car was headed not to a hospital, but into an industrial park.
My adrenaline was hardly raised, and neither was Jim’s.
We had a little talk about that, and neither of us could figure out why we
weren’t really even shocked at seeing this stabbing taking place right in
front of us. Weird. Anyway, I gotta go now, cos Jim and I are sitting
around drinking iced tea and playing Doom.
–
Captain Sarcastic <kkoller@nyx10.cs.du.edu> alt.captain.sarcastic is BAD.