Violence A Weapon

 

Brad put his ear buds in as he boarded the subway for his daily commute home. He was lucky this day. There was a seat for the forty minute ride out to the suburbs. This was rare so he felt pretty good about himself. Among the usual commuters there was a group of young men speaking very loudly making the other passengers uncomfortable. He saw they were passing around a bottle and were taking turns looking up from the conversation they were engulfed in. They seemed to be looking over the passengers. Something about them made Brad feel uneasy.

After ten minutes into his podcast Brad had practically forgot about the young men. He was so involved in his program he barely noticed one of them standing right in front of him with his back to him. The youth turned around and motioned for him to take out an ear bud.

Brad obliged. “Yeah?” he asked.

“You got the time?” The youth asked.

With an icy feeling in his stomach Brad looked at his watch. “5:45” he answered.

“That´s a nice watch, man. You don´t worry about anyone taking from you?” the youth asked.

“Not a bit” Brad answered feeling negative electricity in the air. He was being honest. Brad was an amateur fighter with at least ten fights under his belt and endless hours of sparring with trained athletes.

Brad went to put the ear bud back into his ear when the youth said “Not so fast, man. I´m not done talking to you”

“Well, I´m done talking to you” Brad said as he continued to put the ear bud back into his aural cavity.

The youth smacked the hand sending the ear bud flying as far as the cable would allow. Brad instantly stood up. The youth was considerably bigger than him. “I don´t want any problems. I am just trying to get home” Brad said.

“I don´t want any problems either” the youth said. “Just that watch”

Brad was a small man. He looked like an easy target to intimidate, especially in his work attire which was a button shirt with a sweater pulled over and some khaki Dockers. The youth was banking on the fact he could scare the watch off of Brad’s arm.

“Please, buddy, just go back to your friends. We can pretend this never happened” Brad said almost whispering as to let the youth save face.

The youth dropped his right arm and Brad instinctively knew what was coming. It did. A very sloppy right hand slowly made its way towards his face. Brad easily avoided it by barely slipping it and followed the movement with a short elbow to the youth’s neck. This dropped the kid on the crowded train forcing people to cram to the sides to avoid the hulking, falling body. Brad remembered the friends. How would he handle them was his only thought. The kid was down and probably out of the fight because the wind was completely knocked out of him.

As he saw the youth on the floor of the train struggling to breath he made a decision. Passengers were on their phones frantically calling the police. Brad promptly mounted the youth´s chest and started pounding his face into a pulp with an avalanche of elbows. He looked towards the kid’s friends and realized his plan was working. They were paralyzed with fear. They saw his technical ferocity and did not want any of it. Thankfully the train came to a stop and the doors opened.

As the terrified passengers flooded out of the car, a mix of police and subway security burst in. It was a horrible sight. A scrawny business man was on top of a thugged out kid whose face was not even recognizable as human. The police cuffed a protesting Brad. “Tell it to the judge” was their only retort as they read him his rights.

Because it was Friday night, Brad had to spend the weekend in jail. He could only see the judge on Monday. Due to the severity and violence involved, Brad was kept in a cell to himself. He was without human contact, save the brief moments a tray of food was passed through the door.

Monday finally came and Brad was led down the corridor to see the judge. He was disoriented and disheveled. His sweater was thrown over his arm and crunchy with the dried blood of the youth he had beaten.

As he stood in front of the judge he asked what he was being held for.

“For now, attempted murder, possibly murder. The kid is not doing so well” the judge informed him. “Tell me your side of the story”

Brad told him every minute detail. The judge nodded the whole time.

“Well, I tend to believe you, son. Two others in that kid’s group ripped off a couple of wallets. One even smacked an old lady because she had nothing to hand over. I just have one question. Why did you beat the kid so badly?”

“Your honor, I was afraid of his friends attacking me. I felt if I scared them it would keep them at bay. It did. I saw the terror in their eyes and it kept them back” Brad answered. “The same way the kid tried to use fear to get my watch, I used fear to protect myself from his friends”

“Fair enough” the judge said. “You´ll have to go to court regardless”

“I understand” Brad said as his heart sank.

A few months later Brad had his trial. He hired a good lawyer. The charge was manslaughter. The youth did not make it. After a highly publicized trial Brad was exonerated of any wrong doing. It was ruled self defense. After the trial Brad decided to take his life savings and start a martial arts gym. It specialized in self defense.

 

Bear Fight!

Barry was the toughest bear in the forest. He was 10-0 in professional bear fights and 8-0 as an amateur. He was the current bear fighting champion. The up and comer, Burt, was young and hungry and ready to take Barry´s belt. They weren´t very fond of each other outside of the ring so this looked as though it was going to be a barn burner.

On the day of the big fight, Barry came down with a virus. He had trouble getting out of bed. His manager, a skunk named Sammy, was ready to call off the fight. Barry refused. He could not lose face to the young punk, Burt. Besides, it would ruin his legacy.

Barry and Burt squared off in the middle of the ring. The referee went over the rules of the fight. Barry noticed a twinge of fear in Burt´s eyes. Burt recognized the exhaustion in Barry´s eyes and his confidence grew a bit. The referee sent them to their respective corners.

Barry knew he could not take many body shots. His digestive system was wrecked by the virus. Burt wanted to avoid Barry´s heavy front paws. He knew one touch and he could go to sleep. He desperately wanted to take the fight to the ground.

As they were circling each other a slight boom echoed and scared the birds out of the trees in the distance. Suddenly Burt felt a piercing sting in his chest. Breathing became next to impossible. All he could feel was a burning, his vision was no longer clear. He started to fade. Consciousness failed him.

Approximately 300 yards a hunter lowered his rifle. He looked to his partner. “Got dat Bear!”

As all the animals, with the exception of Burt, ran away from the championship fight Barry cried “I AM STILL CHAMPION!”

 

 

If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough

 

Alan´s grandfather was his hero. As he laid dying he gently pulled Alan toward him by his thin seven year old arm and whispered “Son, if you´re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough”

Alan didn´t really understand what his grandfather meant by these words for some years. When he did discover what he meant he thought his grandfather was a genius. Then after a quick Google search, he realized he was really a plagiarizer on his deathbed, but nonetheless, the words packed wisdom.

Alan was a terrible student. He got low grades in all subjects except physical education.  He could barely read well into his Junior High years. Alan was like a powerful Massarati sports car being driven by learning disabled child. The good thing for Alan was that he recognized this early. He made up his mind. He was going to be tough.

By fifteen years of age, Alan was already the equivalent of a Jiu Jitsu purple belt and was deadly proficient in Muay Thai. His coach was trying to get him to sign up for a local MMA tournament. The problem for Alan was, inscriptions were only for adults above the age of twenty one. If Alan kept his mouth shut, he could pass for man of twenty five. He weighed 200 pounds with next to no body fat and stood at 6 feet one inch. When his coach suggested he get a fake ID to enter Alan heard his grandfather whisper “…..you gotta be tough…” and agreed.

Alan had to make a drastic weight cut. His coach wanted him to fight at 180 pounds. He would have to lose 20 pounds in a week. “….you gotta be tough….” echoed through his head as he starved himself and went on three mile runs wearing makeshift sweat suits made of trash bags.

On the day of weigh-ins, Alan´s breath reeked of death. That´s because his body was on the brink of crossing over.  He was extremely dehydrated and malnourished. He made weight, drank water and immediately threw it up. His scheduled opponent weighed in 5 pounds overweight. There were no other fighters in the 180 pound class so he was asked if he would still accept the fight. The whisper of “…you gotta be tough…” once again propelled him to agree. His opponent did not have a dead look in his eyes like Alan. Unlike Alan, he did a scientific weight cut under the watchful eye of hired professionals.

On fight day, Alan was only able to put 7 pounds back on, weighing in at 187 sickly looking pounds. His opponent on the other hand hydrated correctly and weighed in at 205 pounds and looked like a muscular Greek statue. Alan still did not feel well. His opponent, on the other hand, felt the universe pulsing through his finely tuned body. He was ready to go, Alan was not. “….you gotta be tough….” Alan lipped these words as he entered the cage.

The first round started with a hard shin right on Alan´s temple. He passed out immediately. The judge did not notice that he passed out and did not stop the fight. His opponent dove on him punching him in the face three times. Instead of finishing the fight as intended, these punches only served to wake Alan up. He went into auto pilot as his training kicked in. He was extremely hurt as he closed his guard around the waist of his opponent. His opponent was shocked that Alan survived this initial attack. Any mere mortal would have only woken up in the locker room. Little did he, or anybody know, Alan wasn´t really awake. He was extremely concussed. Though his eyes were open, his cpu was not really on.

His opponent found a hole between Alan´s guard and rained elbows so hard that Alan´s head bounced off the canvas. After about five of these the referee had enough.  He stopped the fight. As his opponent celebrated his brutal victory, nobody noticed the foam forming around Alan´s mouth or that his eyes were rolled into the back of his head. As his body convulsed, his mind started to float toward the halogen lights in the rafters. The rafters disappeared but the light remained constant if not brighter.

As is over being announced over the P.A. system Alan heard a familiar voice say “You sure were tough, son. But I am afraid I steered you wrong.”

“No pop-pop” Alan answered “I was tough, the way I was supposed to be”