Stabbing Westward at Denny’s

Posted August 9, 1994 from Newark, Delaware.

From: (captain sarcastic)
Newsgroups: alt.captain.sarcastic,, alt.stupidity, alt.angst, alt.basement.graveyard,,, alt.slack, alt.surrealism
Subject: Stabbing Westward at Denny’s
Date: 9 Aug 1994 04:07:27 -0400
Organization: University of Denver, Math/CS Dept.
Lines: 103
Message-ID: <327dfv$>
Summary: ow
Keywords: stab dennys yeah
Xref: alt.stupidity:17985 alt.angst:26746 alt.basement.graveyard:1322 alt.slack:15332 alt.surrealism:1445

[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 <> alt.captain.sarcastic is BAD.
I am GOD here!

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