There’s a gang that’s not only baffled investigating federal agents, but the entire Los fuckin’ Angelas community.
This isn’t because they’re elusive as ghosts towards authority, or because their stock remains high in the business of uncontrollable chaos.
It’s because they have a distinct loyalty towards their cause which allows them to do something that’s socially unusual.
They beat the shit out of each other.
They do this not for the sake of garnering attention, but rather to keep the building blocks of true friendship in continuously working condition.
Trust and respect, ya’dig?
Because if you can’t get through a war that takes place inside of your own circle without that bond breaking down, then how the hell can you expect that you’ll get through one that’s on a grander scale?
You see, it’s the politics that disrupt a good thing, man.
When there’s too much emotional skin in the game, feelings get hurt.
It all takes on the form of this ugly, miserable, personal thing that distracts. And it’s that moment when you get distracted that you end up as the gallows’ headlining feature, and ultimately a campfire for roasting marshmallows over.
And they may never admit to it like I am, but the boys mirrored the vision of this gang well before we were ever branded as Jet Set Radio – when we were just three roughcut, competitive bastards skating the empty pools of Highland Park.
We all wanted to be the next big thing and between our exploding egos, as well as the cluster of douchebags that didn’t dig our company, it would have been easy to let politics ruin us.
Instead, we aired out all of our bullshit right there on the pavement by beating each other’s asses – with a couple of instances where I may have lost consciousness from the sight of blood – and then got back to business not with individual agendas, but as a motherfuckin’ unit.
Skinned knuckles, a freshly rolled doob of the freshest, and a hug that symbolized an undying brotherhood that was able to let go of the side shit.
Sure, was there that time when Tag rested his shockingly enormous ballbag on my forehead when I was asleep because I landed a trick that he couldn’t, while Ether took a picture of it and posted it to Instagram?
Or the time where Tag wasn’t paying attention and ran straight into me, so I vaulted his skateboard into the air, with a field goal kick, square into Ether’s face and blasted her nose into a bloody mess?
That one may or may not have happened – because I passed out? But come on, you dig it.
Fuck the politics.
Fact is that in the end, as the night draws on 261, Jet Set Radio will be fucked up.
And you can be sure that it’ll be done by our own hands and inflated egos.
But like that unnamed LA gang, we’ll walk out of it – together.
Stronger than ever, baby – all the way to the goddamn stratosphere.