Friday, March 24, 2006


A sharp blow to the back of the head with a blunt, heavy object does not, in real life, produce the same result as it does in a Hollywood movie. Your victim will not swoon, sway, nor stagger. And, chances are, your victim will not fall dramatically to the ground perfectly unconscious, ready for you to do with him as you please. No, this is not what really happens. In real life, your victim will most undoubtedly become very, very angry. He will then turn on you, enraged, and will likely proceed to fight back, and, riding a wave of adrenalin, may actually come out on top in spite of his newly acquired mashed cranium - and won't you be embarrassed then?


Surprised at the sudden turn of events, you don't even have the sense to ditch your weapon - dumb shit. You may be light on your feet when full of the fear, but you're not so quick carrying a - what is that? A crowbar? Length of steel pipe? Doesn't matter; it's working to my advantage now. My head may be starting to sting, but this little bit of pain won't keep me from tracking you down and making an example of you.

Tearing through darkened alleyways, my breath is heavy and my lungs are about to climb out of my fucking throat. With each breath, I can feel them clawing their way a little further up the soft flesh of my pharynx. But I keep going. I'm thinking about the terror. It drives me. Your terror. The terror I will bring when I catch you.

Closing in - little prick. I register a clang as you finally think to ditch your tool, letting it fly into a brick wall. But it's too late; you're tired and I'm right behind you. There's the desperate shuffle of sneaks on gravel and the metallic rattle of a chain link fence.

Me? Well, I'm just getting started.

All at once, my hands are on the back of your coat and I pull you off of that fence and onto the ground in one fluid movement. Kick dirt in your eyes, throwing you further off your game, and my hands are at your throat crushing your Adam's apple. I feel your heart beating faster and faster. You plead, but I'm not even hearing you.

Each punch to your face takes me further and further away from the pain in my own skull - and I'll only stop when I grow tired. All through, I'll wipe my hands off on your blue jeans, stand up, and take a moment to fancy the slight glimmer of moonlight in the shiny mess of groaning flesh that was your face.

I'll let you know that you messed with the wrong guy, and add that I could have told you right from the start that you weren't going to get the outcome you were hoping for. Was never in the cards. I'll tell you all about biology, and how it actually takes quite a lot to bring down a fully grown man. I'll stick around to tell you these things because I care. And I care only because I'd hate to see you make the same mistake again.

Next time, you might find someone a little less understanding.

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