Christian Fletcher debates with Michael Ciaramella!
To read the lead up to this heated debate, click here!
So there I was, sitting in the middle of Pepi’s Sports Bar in Capo Beach, CA, with the entire crowd looking at me.
They were ready to witness a slaughtering. My slaughtering. At the hands of their beloved, if slightly psychotic hometown hero, Christian Fletcher.
Christian didn’t like some things I wrote about him. In fact he thought that journalists, or “mag fags” as he calls them, were by in large pussies. That we took things out of context and avoided interaction with our very subjects. That we sensationalized and opined on topics which we didn’t fully understand.
He’s not wrong.
And it was my time to pay for these sins, via a presidential-style-debate about grom abuse, in front of his home crowd. His friends and family. A constituency loyal to the point of tattooing Christian’s namesake on their half-shaven domes. Does Slater even have that?
I was Bernie Sanders at a Trump rally. A non-Herbie longboarder at Lowers. My destruction was not just expected, but a foregone conclusion. Still, I had to hold my ground.
Christian took a seat beside me and grabbed the mic. The rest is history.
I’ll let you decide for yourselves how the debate went, but I have something to say about how it ended.
Christian threw out a few baseless insults (You’re fucking retarded, You aren’t even a fucking American), after which I was pulled from my seat by Christian’s bouncers.
These guys didn’t even work at the bar, they were just there “in case you get a little lippy” (Christian’s words). The crowd cheered wildly as I was yanked from center stage.
While being helped out the door, one of Christian’s boys stopped to tell me something.
“Don’t worry man,” he said. “It’s all part of the show.”
That made me feel a little better.
After being removed, I went for a walk around the block to consider the night’s events. Once I’d pieced it all together and realized it wasn’t just a weird dream, that everything I’ve written did in fact take place, a tremendous laugh came over me.
Then I called Christian to see if he’d like a goodnight kiss. In reflection I realized he had been, mostly, a gracious and welcoming host. Sadly there was no answer.
Before driving off, I sent him a text. “Thanks for the wonderful evening,” it said. “Hope to see you soon!” He didn’t respond to that one either.
I’m still not sure if Christian Fletcher hates my guts, or if this entire operation was his idea of fun. Of boyish camaraderie. Of testing my limits…
Either way, we’ll always have Pepi’s.
Editor’s note: if anyone was at Pepi’s that evening or knows someone with pictures or video of the event (especially JP Van Swae), please send them our way!