Hubris

It’s Sunday, the 14th of July, 3:20pm. It’s raining somewhere far away. X and I are sitting peacefully on a fallen tree trunk by the lake. He has a joint in his hand. I have a 40. “Do you know what hubris is?” he asks. “Your most defining trait.” I say. “Nah, that’s chutzpah.”

“Ah, fuck! Pig.” he says as he chucks the joint. The cop walks over to us, the two solitary figures sitting by themselves where no respectable men are found. The cop looks at the still smoking joint, puts two and two together, and strikes X on his upper arm with his baton. X stands up, towering over the cop by at least four inches. Unflinching, the cop says, “Tell me what you were up to, or I hit you again. And don’t give me the medicinal usage crap. I know the penal code, bitch.”

“Well, I know the Constitution, and my rights, bitch. Can’t compel me to be a witness against myself under duress. You just fucking assaulted me.”
“I have solid proo-”
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me, you little shit. Do you know the DA? Here’s what you’re going to do next. Call a lawyer. Show up in court. Bend over. Spread your ass cheeks and wait. I’m gonna fuck you over so hard your fucking father won’t be able to help you shit for the next four days. Wanna make that call or wanna walk the fuck away?”
“Dude, just piss off.” I mumbled, disgruntled.
The guy took a step back when…
“Wait!” X yelled, “Who’s gonna fucking apologise?”
The guy just looked down and muttered something unintelligibly.

“See? That’s chutzpah.”
“Still seemed a bit like hubris to me, man”
“Whatever, it worked.”
“Could have been a little less harsh.”
“Why?”
“How do you know the DA anyway?”
“I don’t know who the fuck the DA is.”

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