Rolling Blackouts
Well-known member
The Terror Tour
Part 1 of ?
Some name’s have been changed or omitted.
Intellectual Property is Theft.
Hope Ya'll Enjoy!
Comments, advice, and death threats are appreciated!
After damn near two glorious months of wreaking havoc and debauchery upon Santa Cruz, our crew finally summoned the motivation required for another rail tour. While Santa Cruz holds a deep place in my heart, the drudgery of another coastal winter and seemingly endless scene of aggressive tweakers, asshole cops, and arrogant yuppies was more than enough to spark my wanderlust. Southbound – by any means necessary was the dominant ethos. And so with minimal foresight, varying experience and excessive ambition, the four of us geared for disaster.
Bumming a ride from a friend, we found ourselves dropped off in Oakland just after sunset, somewhere near Jack London square. Haplo, Rags, Hayduke, and I donned our overburdened packs and began the long, bewildering march through West Oakland towards the Desert Yard. Navigating our way through the gauntlet of industrial wastelands, which were comparably far more welcoming than the local residents, we found our hop out spot below the interstate. Predictably enough, we’d missed our nightly reefer train to Roseville. We set camp among the brush between the yard and the long since abandoned, yet heavily secured Amtrak station. Upon waking the following morn, the group consensus was one of impatience. Sick of lethargy and instant death coffee, we opted to bag the next ride, whatever it was. Patience is a virtue.
Soon enough, an IM DS with four BNSF units came rolling through. With uncharacteristic coordination, our crew sprinted over two sided strings of empty buckets and hurled ourselves into the fast moving deep well. It took about thirty seconds to realize how foolish our decision had been. This particular train wasn’t on the departure track, but was cruising in-bound towards the Port of Oakland Facility – one of the largest shipping facilities and the beating iron heart of capitalist globalization. …Fuck. So Stupid.
By this point, we found ourselves surrounded by a labyrinth of razor wire fence, dozens of surveillance cameras, and still moving too fast to safely bail out. Perhaps six dozen workers and security guards trolled about the horizon sprawling shipping compound, amid mile long lines of eighteen wheelers awaiting the next container load. Giving up all pipe dreams of escaping this industrial nightmare and psychologically preparing ourselves for a lengthy stay in jail, we chugged the remnants of our food, passed a few Milwaukie Beasts, and scribbled down legal aide phone numbers on our arms. Power smoking the last of my tobacco, I barely had time to ponder what charges the DA would soon be throwing at us, but I figured they’d find a way to misconstrue drunken hobo trespassing into a federal offense for attempted terrorist sabotage, or some such pig jargon.
We emerged from the illusion of obscurity climbing out of our well just as the iconic East Bay cargo cranes began unloading the first of the containers. The facility pigs were on us like flies on homebum shit. Expecting them to jump from their vehicles and detain us without hesitation, we just kind of stopped dead in our tracks, and stared at them like deer in headlights. As blatantly fucked as the situation appeared to be, every one of us was sporting a tremendous shit-eating grin. Most civilians will never tramp enemy territory like this, the ground zero of neo-liberal globalization.
“Hurry Up! and Watch Out for the Trucks! Those Guys Don’t Give a Fuck!” The loudspeaker from one of the pig vehicles warned us. Obeying a series of incoherent yells and hand gestures from this supposed authority, we submissively followed his slow moving truck through miles of infrastructure. Surreal hardly begins to describe it, as we slowly tramped our massive rucksacks behind the Bull’s truck, all the while catching waves, smiles, and condescending laughs from the hundreds of waiting truckers. With lights flashing, the Bulls surrounded us on both sides and proceeded to quietly escort us through the razor wire front gate at the breakneck speed of 3mph. With a shout of something like “Good Luck” or “Fuck Off!” they turned and left us standing next to a roach coach taco truck. At this point we were incapacitated with laughter, the absurdity of the situation was really too much. By our own drunken incompetence we had infiltrated the second largest shipping facility on the West Coast and walked out in broad daylight without a question. Then we got tacos.
Part 1 of ?
Some name’s have been changed or omitted.
Intellectual Property is Theft.
Hope Ya'll Enjoy!
Comments, advice, and death threats are appreciated!
After damn near two glorious months of wreaking havoc and debauchery upon Santa Cruz, our crew finally summoned the motivation required for another rail tour. While Santa Cruz holds a deep place in my heart, the drudgery of another coastal winter and seemingly endless scene of aggressive tweakers, asshole cops, and arrogant yuppies was more than enough to spark my wanderlust. Southbound – by any means necessary was the dominant ethos. And so with minimal foresight, varying experience and excessive ambition, the four of us geared for disaster.
Bumming a ride from a friend, we found ourselves dropped off in Oakland just after sunset, somewhere near Jack London square. Haplo, Rags, Hayduke, and I donned our overburdened packs and began the long, bewildering march through West Oakland towards the Desert Yard. Navigating our way through the gauntlet of industrial wastelands, which were comparably far more welcoming than the local residents, we found our hop out spot below the interstate. Predictably enough, we’d missed our nightly reefer train to Roseville. We set camp among the brush between the yard and the long since abandoned, yet heavily secured Amtrak station. Upon waking the following morn, the group consensus was one of impatience. Sick of lethargy and instant death coffee, we opted to bag the next ride, whatever it was. Patience is a virtue.
Soon enough, an IM DS with four BNSF units came rolling through. With uncharacteristic coordination, our crew sprinted over two sided strings of empty buckets and hurled ourselves into the fast moving deep well. It took about thirty seconds to realize how foolish our decision had been. This particular train wasn’t on the departure track, but was cruising in-bound towards the Port of Oakland Facility – one of the largest shipping facilities and the beating iron heart of capitalist globalization. …Fuck. So Stupid.
By this point, we found ourselves surrounded by a labyrinth of razor wire fence, dozens of surveillance cameras, and still moving too fast to safely bail out. Perhaps six dozen workers and security guards trolled about the horizon sprawling shipping compound, amid mile long lines of eighteen wheelers awaiting the next container load. Giving up all pipe dreams of escaping this industrial nightmare and psychologically preparing ourselves for a lengthy stay in jail, we chugged the remnants of our food, passed a few Milwaukie Beasts, and scribbled down legal aide phone numbers on our arms. Power smoking the last of my tobacco, I barely had time to ponder what charges the DA would soon be throwing at us, but I figured they’d find a way to misconstrue drunken hobo trespassing into a federal offense for attempted terrorist sabotage, or some such pig jargon.
We emerged from the illusion of obscurity climbing out of our well just as the iconic East Bay cargo cranes began unloading the first of the containers. The facility pigs were on us like flies on homebum shit. Expecting them to jump from their vehicles and detain us without hesitation, we just kind of stopped dead in our tracks, and stared at them like deer in headlights. As blatantly fucked as the situation appeared to be, every one of us was sporting a tremendous shit-eating grin. Most civilians will never tramp enemy territory like this, the ground zero of neo-liberal globalization.
“Hurry Up! and Watch Out for the Trucks! Those Guys Don’t Give a Fuck!” The loudspeaker from one of the pig vehicles warned us. Obeying a series of incoherent yells and hand gestures from this supposed authority, we submissively followed his slow moving truck through miles of infrastructure. Surreal hardly begins to describe it, as we slowly tramped our massive rucksacks behind the Bull’s truck, all the while catching waves, smiles, and condescending laughs from the hundreds of waiting truckers. With lights flashing, the Bulls surrounded us on both sides and proceeded to quietly escort us through the razor wire front gate at the breakneck speed of 3mph. With a shout of something like “Good Luck” or “Fuck Off!” they turned and left us standing next to a roach coach taco truck. At this point we were incapacitated with laughter, the absurdity of the situation was really too much. By our own drunken incompetence we had infiltrated the second largest shipping facility on the West Coast and walked out in broad daylight without a question. Then we got tacos.
