Burn it down: anti-hero flamethrower 2005.

FIRE, FIRE, BIG BLACK SMOKE. Fire, fire, ain't no joke. Fire is for some people a cleansing. To burn it means to let it go, turn it to the ash from where it came. Some skaters burn boards when they're done. Some burn things of dead friends; it's a form of closure. Simple, it is--some people just like to watch a righteous burn. Me, every January I go around burning discarded Christmas trees. Yep, I'm a pyro. Chased by the pigs, the adrenaline gets me hyped.

We went to Europe this last June to hit some contests and bomb some hills and get out of town. First stop was Bologna, Italy. They have a bangin' Dreamland skatepark that is beyond gnarly. We set up camp, and lucky for us they had a fire place. Sleeping in the bushes, burning everything in sight became the norm. Tony Trujillo raped that park with his stuntwood, just cruising. He put hits on that shit they ain't ever going to see again. The coals were simmering when we decided to hit the contest in Austria. They have a monster concrete park right next to this shitty little bike-skate-rollerblade juker. The kids too chicken to ride the bowls could still get their crooked grinds.

The promoters put us up at some hotel, and right from the start we had friction. "You are in Austria." steroid merchant rollerbladers with earrings were telling us. What to do? Well, you know the contest was your basic Omar. Patch blast off while we just heckled from the stands. Trujillo rocked it lazy style, but fuck those retards telling us shit. There was a fight in the courtyard of the hotel. They outnumbered us and made it clear we were not welcome. Late that night someone lit the wooden skatepark on fire. much like last year's Carbondale event. The place was still smoking when we left town for Switzerland.

WE HAD A WEEK to kill before Marseille, where Tony Truillo and Tony Miorana were both pre-qualified. We went to Switzerland and posted up at a fountain and kicked it vagrant-style, washing up in the fountain and relaxing on the shores of Lake Geneva, bombing hills--oh, what epic days we had. Word was out that the rollerbladers from Austria were "gonna get us" at Marseille. They knew where to find us.

After a quick stop in Annecy, we headed for "our gang fight in France." The line was drawn. The "top pros" were on one side and our crew was on the hill. Marseille just ain't what it used to be. It was slow, people with walkie talkies, TV screens. We're here to skate, not to be told what to do. The pussies from Austria never came up to us, and, well, they weren't ready for what we had.

Some call us vandals. Some call us assholes. Shit, we don't care.