You woke up late as usual given that the night before was the first gathering before the battles. The stale smell of fire, smoke, and beer and recalling that yes, someone did in fact throw a couch in the fire during the night of chaos; which is where embers met your shirt and left holes lingering.
It’s chill, you didn’t like that shirt anyways. Not forgetting that you witnessed a large chested chick crush a beer can with her tit causing roaring cheers of accomplishment. The sense of comradery everywhere and laughs of seeing your friends getting pushed into the bushes for taking a piss too close to everyone else.
Stoked to see the battle wounds from friends that trekked all the way back to Richmond from Chicago and Brooklyn for the weekend event that brought you together so many years ago. Shoes still soaked from the rain ride back from Church Hill and dying for a cup of coffee.
Shit, 2pm? Let the games begin.
The ride to Belle Isle was very reminiscent from the first time you experienced Slaughterama back in 2009. This year was different though because this year was for you and your friends. The elements were not a challenge but a refresher in learning your dedication to seeing your friends get pelted in the face with a soft tipped PVC pipe and buried in flour and Roman candle smoke.
3pm, and it’s time to watch everyone bike around in circles while consuming the gatherings from last night’s scavenger hunt. Oh, the nausea associated with watching the consumption of a 7 lb can of baked beans accompanied with a can of vegan seaweed Jello, a chocolate rabbit the size of your Tibia decorated with Thyme pubes, washed down with a 40oz of Steel Reserve. Oh, there’s the vomit…
4-wheeler bicycle race in circles just in case the boxed wine from the previous event wasn’t settled in enough. Thank the previous event for coating the puddles full of half eaten tortilla chips and ruby red waste. Some of that could be blood but we’re not done yet.
Soon after was the game of no-foot, down to anyone who had a bike. You watched as your friend (who has mastered bike polo) own two games in a row while watching everyone get doused with fire extinguishers full of white-shirt-staining cherry Kool-Aid all while throwing outside bikes into the arena as a way to knock the opponent off of their bike.
The rain started the pour harder causing a cloud of mist keeping you all in. You were officially protected from the public.
No one wanted in and certainly no one wanted out.
There was a pause in events to re-up on liquid confidence or stupidity depending on who you ask. Group trips to the bathroom and trying to stray our dear friend away from pissing on the dead bird found near by. Hugs, beers, laughs, pick ups, throw downs, rides, small challenges, found candy, stoner metal, catching up, and photographs.
Soon the game of whiplash. Only those who didn’t mind getting their asses buried in the concrete were to participate in this debacle. Thankful like hell that your most idiotic friend was to throw a tire over his torso with a bungee chord attached to himself and another opponent. The end reaction is the same for both competitors but who will eat shit the hardest and who will eat it first? Naturally your friend nails his helmet covered head on the concrete after a thrash and is ordered not to get up out of fear of a concussion. You run over and he has a shit eating grin on his dirt, blood, and debris covered face.
He’s okay. That idiot.
Up next is the event everyone has been waiting for. The tall bike joust. You pat your friend on the back and asked him if he’s too wasted. He says he not that drunk and that’s good enough for you. You and six of your friends cheer him on while helping him maintain his balance before the start. You find yourself chanting “Holy Shit” with everyone under the pavilion and then the sound hits. Time to go. Round after round of balance maintenance and cheering until before you know it, it’s already around 7pm and it’s time to go.
While observing the battle grounds before leaving, you smile and reflect on how this event, and Richmond, have really changed your life as whole.
It was never about winning or gaining some type of street cred or hating your friends for inventing something as ridiculous as the skillet chug. It was always about engaging in something that happened once a year because you all were able to fucking stick together.
As previously stated, this year was different; it was probably your last Slaughterama because it’s about that time to leave Richmond. Riding over the bridge you say your last goodbye and thank Richmond for some of the best memories of your life.
Now…where’s that buffalo tofu sandwich from 821?
