Written in a Guy Ritchie style frame + a “Heat” tribute. 2013 (pre-7/16 DPD)

The First Night

As the late August afternoon sun hits Keith’s downtown window at an angle, the heat isn’t direct but still manages to radiate on the inside. Holding the iPhone and feeling the sweat layer building between his ear and the glass, he tries to concentrate on what his Mom is saying.

She’s very happy for his chance to live and work in a place like downtown Dallas, but still expresses safety concern about being out late on the streets.

“You’re not going to get a bicycle are you?”

“No Mom, either I’ll drive from the parking garage to like Trader Joe’s up the street or one of the choices in Uptown.”

“That’s where a lot of the great brunch places are right?”

“Right, fancy, lots of gay community and big money fashion influence which is why I’m not living there. Just not my scene Mom, same for a lot of the night events here — I’ve got money for taxi cabs. That also means no drinking and driving.”

“You better watch that drinking — and quit smoking will you?”

“Ok Mom, there’s a lot to unpack and I think Peanut is hiding somewhere, this place isn’t huge but still.”

Keith turns from the window to survey the boxes stacked on top of his limited furniture, and thinks he sees a dark tortoiseshell tail poking out somewhere.

“Aww, poor kitty, well Dad and I love you and if you need us to drive in just give notice because it does take a while from out here. A copy of a key to the place would be nice too.”

“Sure thing, I did put you two on the approved entry list with the office as well. Love you lots and talk to you later!”

Waving the phone momentarily to get the big red End Call button up, he made sure the connection was done before wiping the beads of sweat and streaks against his right thigh, letting the clean khakis take care of business.

Keith catches his reflection in the window, and through it, the skyline view from his place towards the South and East, and feels a quick sense of pride.

With the new Omni Hotel’s light show visible — recently turned pink for the Mary Kay Cosmetics 50th Anniversary celebration in town — but also the traditional sights like the lit sphere of Reunion Tower, it took time to earn this view.

For a generally modest, career minded late twenty-something originally from a redneck town out way past Fort Worth, he felt a quick rush of satisfaction for getting to this point, doing it the honest way, and looking the part by being in good health and nice clothes.

There were loans to pay off, but if this kind of success could keep up, things might be worth the stress. For now, unpacking would feel excellent, he thinks, heading over to put his phone in a speaker dock and play the most recent Radiohead album.

The First Weekend

Coming in just after 9:50 PM, Keith feels beat and drags himself inward, not even breaking stride as he drops his keychain onto the entryway table with a bit of a crashing jangle.

Once he gets to the couch and sets down his bag, off come the shoes, the shirt, and that’s when Peanut arrives from wherever to start rubbing on his leg and ask for food; Keith actually looks forward to talking at his cat with the frustrations built up from work. Peanut is a good listener when hungry.

“London pulled a scam on our team, it was really gutsy and dumb at the same time — we’re not in the business of doing their analysis, we’re not qualified for that anyway! They know we take care of formatting and presentation and help structure language and make graphics, but their work? No way…”

While it’s late, Keith knows that the job pays well enough to get him a nice place within walking distance now, afford the nice TX Whisky from Fort Worth he measures and pours into a glass, slowly adding ice on top to cool and keep from splashing any out.

“It’d be different if we had support from up top, you know? Somebody who would come down on these people, I mean it’s simple,” Keith says, still in the middle of being wound up about the day.

“Just take one or two of them and send an email with a public shaming or lecture that their behavior is an example of what not to do. It’s like these people who give me trouble do so because they know they can get away with it. Doesn’t matter a thing to them that they’re pushing a ton of stress toward me, does it?”

Whisky in hand, he digs out his phone and puts it on the speaker dock. Having come home late almost every day, he’s been able to have The Daily Show on live as he showers and settles down. John Oliver is the host in residence while Jon Stewart is out making a film, and even after a couple weeks, Keith is trying to figure out if he likes the result or is just indifferent. Peanut tries to walk in front of him to prevent a clear path to the couch.

“Oh, food for you, that’s right.”

Over at the tall pantry cabinet, he reaches up into the higher shelves to get a can of soft food for Peanut, who is a picky eater. Twice a day, one brand, about 6 different flavor selections, that’s it.

Leaning over to open the can and put it in the bowl, he hears a noise from the street, a high pitch type of engine gunning it in neutral, revving up and dropping fast, splashing the buildings with sound that reverberates through windows and even the TV background noise.

Finished serving feline dinner, Keith turns off the living room light and walks over to the window to get a look at the source.

A motorcycle, the sport bike type, lime green, high intensity xenon blue headlamp, probably a Kawasaki customized even more than what Keith could see, but he knew at once it is the source. When the light changes, the big green machine rolls ahead, with the rider getting just enough momentum to pull the clutch into neutral for more revving between lights.

Keith shakes his head, it was just like the guys with their Harleys when they’d go play pool, or when in a summer parade like July 4th, but at least that was during the daytime and it was easy to tolerate occasionally.

The Kawasaki made Keith wonder if there would be more cars and show-offs, like Porsches or jacked up Ford F-250s with big growls, but he felt like he already knew the answer. Most places downtown use the Valet system, but there’s still enough street parking to watch the place fill up around some of the better music places or the one Jersey Shore style dance club.

Moving downtown meant learning in advance where the monthly shooting was likely to occur and just not be there; but dealing with the noise from the one Kawasaki managed to hit Keith when he was looking for a focus for his frustration and anger from work — he found it.

Next Month on a Saturday

“So how many different motorcycles did you have?” Keith asks Ollie.

“Over time there were four, three sport bikes and my last one was a cruiser style with a high-performance engine, so it was a lot of fun. Now I’ve got a three year old VW GTi.”

Keith nods along as the bartender at Torchy’s Tacos hands Ollie his draft Deep Ellum Brewery beer, the mid-day light cutting through the dark amber. Both with full glasses, they clink a “Cheers” and sit back to enjoy the first couple tastes of the crisp and big flavors.

“Yeah, this is why I like having a car again though,” Ollie said, “because riding a motorcycle and having alcohol really don’t mix. Between the perspective that cars don’t see you and therefore are oblivious to killing you, dulling senses, reaction times, adding arrogance or reducing balance are all negatives to avoid. Just a couple beers like these would mean I’d wait a while and drink water to get my skills back.”

“So that’s life with a motorcycle, but not really a hobby right? Is that different?”

“Right, the people who ride for fun are usually a lot more bold when they get in a group. I liked to go on weekend morning rides out about 30 minutes from here, where there were great roads and no traffic; a convoy of like 10 bikes riding kind of hard but on good behavior is what it’s about.

Those stunt-type groups are crazy — they try to stop traffic on freeways, on that new Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge — so they can drag race and do wheelies and burnouts. Basically they’re jackass teenagers.”

“Not your scene?”

“Not at all, plus they give others a bad name. I think that’s why I enjoyed the cruiser style a lot more toward the end — people didn’t think I was trying to race through traffic, so it felt a little different.”

“You’re not joking, I’ve been in my new place about a month now, and I guess it’s a summer thing, but the sport bike groups come through Friday and Saturday nights for like a few fly-by passes, but they’re not flying by, they’re slowly rolling through revving their engines as much as they can.”

“How many are there?”

“At the peak I think about 30, they kind of move about in this mass so I couldn’t keep track. Once it gets more than 20 the sound volume just goes way up.”

Ollie’s brow crinkles as he tries to imagine the noise and then what it could be like in downtown. “Have you used a decibel meter? You can get an app on your iPhone that does a decent job. Enough to convince the cops it’s a problem.”

“I’ve watched the cops actively avoid the motorcycle mass — it’s like they know they’re outnumbered so they stick to a patrol routine where the groups can roll through pretty much untouched,” Keith shrugs before taking a sip of beer.

“Oh, wow, yeah that’s tough.”

“Yeah, it’s been one of those things that I want to do something about, but don’t see any practical solution like with authorities. I bet people have reported it for years. I don’t think they’re interested in changing their route.”

“Well,” Ollie says with a suspicious grin, “what if we gave them a sign that they’re not welcome to come through anymore, and strongly motivate them to change their route?”

Keith’s quiet desperation in his chuckle showed just a bit of optimism within skepticism.

“Right, we just convince 30 motorcycle tough-guys in helmets and some riding gear that we’re going to muscle them out of downtown. I’m impressed at your ambition.”

“What if I told you I had an idea that turns the tables on them — that all of a sudden, having 30 people on motorcycles in helmets and riding gear becomes a liability?”

“Like a trap?”

“Mmmhmm,” Ollie says over a long sip, “still have your paintball gear back out with your parents?”

The Next Day

A low growling V8 sound comes from around the corner as the well-cared for mid-1980s silver GMC pickup slowly turns left. Ollie in the passenger seat sees Keith on the sidewalk, standing by an empty parking spot with a meter.

Ollie points this out to the guy driving, Rex, another friend from the old town. Keith feeds some quarters into the meter, enough to hit the 2 hour maximum, and Ollie and Rex get out of the truck.

While Ollie looks comfortable in shorts and a Bermuda shirt, Rex’s bigger frame, almost pro linebacker size, never seems able to tolerate the heat, even as a Native Texan. Behind sunglasses he still squints all the time.

“You’re both wearing walking shoes. Great.”

“I wonder how long they’ll keep doing their rides after the fall turns into winter,” Keith continues, knowing Rex was representing the Harley Davidson gangster contingent who hates sport bike riders for a lot of reasons.

If asked, by about the third reason his temper gets going and it’s best to change the subject or leave.

Rex also has a history with Ollie and Keith when it comes to paintball, a type of activity lots of different guys out in the rural areas could enjoy, a mix of hunting and teamwork and playing war, it made a lot of friendships outside of high school that have stuck around well into adulthood.

Walking to the main two-way street, Keith points toward the East, “This is their main drag, my window being about two blocks down there. As you can see, the building heights around here slap that noise everywhere up and down the corridor.”

“Lots of restaurants around here,” Rex says, “are they open late?”

“Some, but almost none have a patio presence — people have to come outside to smoke, but even then, they are crammed into little roped off areas.”

“Why did you pick this intersection?” Ollie asks, noticing the side street they parked on is a one-way, crossing the two-way.

“This is where they like to turn left, use this side street, then take the one-way back toward Deep Ellum and loop around again if they feel like it. They’re used to stopping here I think, and there are two buildings here that will really help the strategy.”

Keith gestures with his head upward, toward each side of the street.

Rex and Ollie look and notice what the benefit of the intersection really could be — two parking garages, each on top of shops below, giving the five to ten levels of parking a very high angle to look down on the street…not easily accessible.

“It’s prime firing position downward.”

“Oh, nice,” Ollie says, “three on each side maybe? These guys wear helmets right? I don’t want to have the paint going too fast and actually break skin or possibly even knock somebody out. If somebody falls and hits their head and dies that’s going to really pull in the heat — manslaughter at least.”

“I think we can test the velocity before doing this,” Rex says, “it’s Keith’s idea so we can shoot at him to make sure it won’t be lethal, right Keith?”

“Fair enough,” he says, rubbing the top of his head thinking how much that will hurt in the name of safety consciousness for potential victims. “If we’re going to be raining a paint assault from three to six guys, I mean I think they’ll get the point they’re not welcome, we don’t want fatalities.”

“Yeah once they get out of here I don’t think they’ll be coming back soon,” muses Ollie, now studying the left turn and if the motorcycle crew would prefer to go straight down the road for escape.

“As long as the momentum of the paintballs ain’t so harsh as to knock anybody over, and even hitting bare skin wouldn’t leave more than a light bruise like being pinched by a toddler, I think we’ll be fine.”

“There is a chance one or more from the back will try to come up the garage at us Keith, I’m ok with everything so far but what’s the escape?,” Rex questioned.

“I’m not interested in doing the Hollywood Bank Robber thing and trying to shoot my way out with a paintball gun when one of those motorcycle guys, probably several, have actual guns. You are keeping this in mind right?”



“Yeah Rex, I’m still worried that one of them in the front might have the idea to shoot back with live ammo, but there’s one thing the cops around here do take seriously, and that’s pistols and alcohol. They will genuinely swarm, knowing this area is home to consistent gunplay and it makes them look bad. This is one thing that calling in an anonymous tip, just this one time, can help address.”

“You mean like having the cops frisk them in the street?”

“Pretty much, that’ll piss them off enough to keep with their cruise in protest and realistically the cops will only check out the first section if the call sounds serious enough, so yeah, I’ve got a burner phone in mind for that.”

“Nice, but about escaping?” Ollie wondered, “I mean are we going to do this in swim trunks and t-shirts or deck out in some tactical soldier dress-up to get psyched?”

“I’m thinking more of a covert mentality, Professional with a built in outfit change, but overall, head-mask to hide face, button down shirt, dress slacks, black running shoes and Nike gym bag.

The car will have been parked early in the morning by a friend, so all you do after the rain making is dump the gear in the trunk, get rid of the slacks over the shoes to reveal the surf shorts underneath, put on an Affliction t-shirt and stupid ball cap, then try and take a back exit. Maybe even go up a couple floors and cross over to a different building, then exit that way.”

“That’s gutsy, if it takes too long one of the motorcycles could be up in time to catch us,” mentions Ollie, looking like he’s nodding his head and counting how many seconds it would take for one of the bikers to figure out the entrance and race on up, “if just one of them already knows the garage, then they’d be on us like nothing.”

“Would you rather be in a car leaving the scene? That’d be really obvious Ollie, I think three guys in a car going into a swarm of angry bees would be attention getting.”

“Ok Keith, I still say this escape part needs a bit more planning, I’d almost rather hide in the back of a panel van or the trunk of a Lexus or something.”

“You think you can fit in the trunk of any brand of car with Rex?” Keith asks suspiciously.

“Like I said, Keith, more planning needed.”

One Week Later, a Saturday Night at 11:30 PM

The flashing blue and red lights up the street are a great sign; Keith confirms via text message to the other team that through the binoculars he can see the cops checking over the first group of sport bikers.

By asking them to remove their helmets and show no guns present, the cops are generally frustrating a group that was having fun just minutes before.

When the lights stop, the engines come back to life; again they gently roll in a pack of about 25, clogging traffic and revving with a vengeance. They are smooth and predictable.

Looking the part all decked out in running gear, almost to the point of being a caricature of a jogger — headband, white ear buds, bright yellow shoes, sunglasses at night — a friend of the team hits the crosswalk request button to flip the light to red at the target intersection, and it works as planned.

The leader of the pack rolls to a stop and the jogger merrily prances up to the guy, hands him a piece of paper, and then sprints away, taking a shortcut between buildings that not even a motorcycle could fit through — he was gone. The message the lead biker read was simple:

“DON’T COME HERE ANYMORE.”

With his helmet tilted down, the first shot hit him on the back somewhere in the shoulder blades.

Bright pink paint.

Stunned, looking upward with a tilt of the head was a bad idea, as the next shot hit just enough of the facemask to splatter pink paint all over his visor.

The direct hit started a percussive symphony of gas powered semi and fully automatic paintball guns, full blast and drowned out by the revving motors.

People on the street had no idea why the motorcycle riders started twisting and jolting around — the revving got quieter, but then the sounds of motorcycles falling over could be heard.

The rapidness of the firing and the staggered triggering kept a steady stream relentlessly spraying the motorcycle group. More cycles started falling over as the riders couldn’t plant their feet with any traction on the road.

The precision of the semi automatic shots contrasted with the duo of high speed fully automatic gunners, the continuous splattering of paintballs on the blacktop like torrential rain drop explosions of pink mist, making escape in any direction seem impossible.

Within thirty seconds, the assault stopped. The street was almost quiet.

Helmets were coming off and the shouting began, but the firing squads were retreating quickly and trying not to stumble from the throbbing bolts of adrenaline over heavy breathing with each step, knowing the police sirens would be coming soon.

Running through Keith’s mind was the message they all memorized and were thinking in union:

Get to the checkpoint and by then all exits will be clear.

An Hour Later

The front desk security at Keith’s building are the ones who allow guests in, and they always prefer to have a heads up when expecting any number of people beyond two.

Giving a plausible reason helps, and it’s best to be at home when company starts arriving — having them wait in the lobby is possible, but not preferable. Coming home sometime after 1 AM, Keith and Ollie were carrying Joseph A. Banks shopping bags and looked tired.

“Hey Trent, yeah I left you a voicemail this morning about a few of my cousins dropping in later tonight; did you have a chance to hear that?”

Trent looks up from the computer monitor, probably watching the pool patio security camera, but he was alert enough to grunt and give a thumbs up. He may have been drinking again.

“Yeah you can spot them easy because they like Affliction t-shirts, catch you later.”

The Next Morning

“Do we know how many? I mean look at this, had to be at least four right?” wonders Detective Todd Nelson, holding the manila folder and examining the pictures taken by the crime scene unit shortly after the assault.

Nobody was injured other than a couple bruises and sprained joints from slipping and falling.

With the cops up the street and having checked over the motorcycle group based on an anonymous tip about guns and booze, the team last night did a good job taping off the shooting gallery aftermath long enough to get plenty of evidence and then re-open the street for the rest of the night.

Nobody bothered to clean up the paint, so cars had cut tracks through the pink sludge, adding streaks of black rubber by the morning when Detective Nelson showed up.

Thumbing back to the write-up, witness accounts allege at least five, but not more than ten. The shooters got help from a runner who delivered the message to the lead guy, the one who got hit five times before they moved on to mowing down the rest, and these were accurate experts. Only one side of the road got painted, and it’s painfully obvious the teams were prepared and in the parking garages.

The write-up mentions no trace of them from the suspected firing positions, and that area patrols didn’t identify any suspicious persons or stashed bags or really any trace of the crew.

Poof, gone.

Studying in his imagination and lost in thought, the occasional downtown resident would walk by with a dog or a Starbucks, take a look at the paint on the street and not even bother asking Detective Nelson why he was there.

Looking again at the write-up, he began to wonder the same himself.

Whatever went down, it’s not like these guys were sloppy. They even played the Saturday night shift into being their frisking team, and there are hundreds of stores online to buy pink paintballs, so what are the odds on this? At the end of the file, he sees one final sentence with a heavy underline: