It echoes around the concrete, bubbles up like a witch’s brew in a cauldron, spits out into the night like sausage fat.
It is cruel. But it is genuine.
The skater lies on the cold ground, holding his ankles. He is hurting.
“It’s not even my board,” he shouts.
The laughter spreads. Other people are laughing now. Not just the drunks.
He failed to land his trick.
The laughter grows. It will outlast his pain.
