Subway Altercation Over Vape Smoke

Don't bring that white bullshit.

Did I tell you to stop talking to me?

No.

I don't give a fuck about that. Stop talking to me.

Here, aboard a New York City subway train, a routine commute

erupts after a man allegedly blows smoke into a woman's

face. An act of commuter diplomacy so refined it

soon

turns the carriage into a mobile courtroom where everyone is a witness,

several are attorneys, and nobody has the full story.

At all. At all. Go ahead. Fuck, I'll knock you out

on this train. Play with me if you want to.

Fuck, I'll knock you out on this train.

It is here we encounter All Day Chrissy, so named for

chronicling nearly every waking hour of her own appearance, interrupted

only by the occasional online proclamation that she will, at

some unspecified point...

Really get my panties in a tizzy.

Firmly locked in a player one frame of mind, she promptly bats the phone

from Honolulu Blue Lou's hand, apparently convinced that multiple

camera angles only confuse the narrative.

That's a final warning.

Call the cops.

You boy. You slap me one more time. You boy. You boy.

Two strikes. You a boy. You know what three strikes mean?

You a boy.

You know what three strikes mean?

After a customary round of Bronx flirting, equal parts reluctant

chivalry and community theater, Honolulu Blue Lou

begins counting strikes with the solemn patience of a little league

umpire, informing All Day Chrissy that she is already on two,

and repeatedly asking whether she understands what happens at three,

while she struts about the carriage like a meth-fueled fembot.

You a boy. You know what three strikes means?

You a boy.

You know what three... Bitch.

Don't touch me. That's two strikes. You hit me twice.

All right, I'ma show you.

You, you hit me twice and it's on video.

Call me another bitch.

You hit me twice.

Call me another bitch.

The encounter now advances into what behavioral experts call the

B-I-T-C-H protocol. Behavioral

infantilization through competitive hostility, in which,

"Call me, bitch," is countered with, "You get one more strike, bitch,"

as two adults temporarily surrender higher brain function and argue

like two unsupervised seven-year-olds at a Chuck E. Cheese.

I ain't touch you.

Call me another bitch.

I ain't touch you.

Call me another bitch on this train.

I did not touch you.

Call me another bitch on this train. I promise you.

Bye, bitch.

Call me another bitch on this train.

Bitch.

Why do you think I'm playing? What you think I care about your phone?

Predictably, All Day Chrissy exhibits a textbook case

of

Napoleonic syndrome, advancing into the personal space of

Honolulu Blue Lou with all the confidence of someone who has

never once considered the consequences.

Sensing an opportunity, Honolulu Blue Lou calmly deploys

the ancient bitch calling card, a linguistic lure

specifically evolved to provoke the self-appointed alpha queen into

abandoning what little emotional regulation remained.

Keep going.

Get over there.

Unable to tolerate an angle she did not personally approve, All

Day Chrissy swats at Honolulu Blue Lou's phone while

one of the resident old heads aboard suggests they relocate the

spectacle to a spot further away from him.

Two strikes. They holding up the fucking-

I'm not holding up nothing.

Yes, you are.

No, I'm not.

Yes, you are.

No, I'm not.

Yes, you are.

No, I'm not.

Yes, you are.

I'm defending myself.

No, you're not. He didn't touch you. What the fuck?

It is here that All Day Chrissy inadvertently encounters a genuine

alpha queen. Thoroughly outclassed by the newcomer's

sheer

vocal authority, she receives a blistering public

scolding for delaying an entire subway train over an

alleged face full of vape smoke. A grievance that, while

understandably irritating, scarcely warranted transforming an entire

subway line into interactive dinner theater for several hundred

unwilling commuters.

You don't know what happened before we got on the train.

I ain't touch no one.

You fucking wrong.

I ain't touch no one. What'd I do?

Shouldn't be mean, bro.

In perhaps one of the more bewildering exchanges in deep state

cringe history, Honolulu Blue Lou's increasingly

feeble plea of innocence is suddenly interrupted by a local

elder known only as Mumble Unc, who appears to

say either, "You shouldn't be mean, bro," or, "It should have been me,

bro." Regardless of the actual transcript, the matter will no doubt be

debated for weeks by the unpaid forensic linguists inhabiting my

comment section cesspit.

What'd I do?

Should've been me, bro.

I'm not touching no one.

It should've been me.

You're telling me I-

You should've been me.

Telling me-

It should've been me.

Don't worry about it. Don't worry about it.

You fucking tripping.

You fucking look stupid.

I didn't touch no one.

The bizarre exchange continues as the Mumble Unc suddenly

channels his inner Marlon Brando, solemnly insisting, "It

should have been me." Whether he is volunteering to receive the slap,

mourning a missed opportunity, or merely participating in a conversation

audible only to himself remains unclear, while a

nearby commuter clad in an I Love New York shirt

watches on with the thousand-yard stare of a man quietly

realizing this is just a typical Monday commute.

So we'll end this docudrama early, as tradition demands,

because at a runtime now exceeding over five minutes, only

viewers over the age of 40 still possess the attention span

required to discover how anything ends.

And thus, an alleged face full of vape smoke becomes

a

stalled train, a public tribunal, and five minutes of

strangers auditioning for authority.

Proof that in modern New York, the smallest vape cloud can still

produce a full-scale weather event.