The direct use of force is such a poor solution to any problem, it is generally employed only by small children and large nations." - David Friedman
I sat in wait. The fist that the ... well he has a penis but calling him a man is a stretch. Idiot? Yeah, I like idiot. The fist that the idiot was throwing at me was moving so slow, I was running the risk of losing my vigilance.
Finally, it got within range and I grabbed it with my hand, and twisted his arm around to his back with such force, I am positive I broke it good. He cried out in pain and sunk to the floor, looking at his ineffective right arm.
The second attacker chose this moment try to kick my head off, while shouting an almost theatrical HAH-YAH! I side stepped, and then grabbed his foot, flipping him over onto his back and then stomping his gonads into a pancake. He tried hard to yodel. At least thats what it sounded like.
"I'm going to get you for hurting my friends," said the third attacker, and I spun around and acted like I was scared, backing up against a brick wall.
The man proceeded to try to punch me hard enough to knock my teeth out. I stepped aside and watched as his fist deformed and erupted in blood. Not only from him punching a brick wall with impressive force, but from knowing so little about fighting that he had his thumb tucked in to his fist. Ouch.
As they existed there nursing their various wounds, I helped the woman they had been attempting to rape to her feet, and walked her out of there.
"How did you beat up three of them?" she asked.
"I only beat up two of them," I argued, "One of them beat themselves up."
"Answer the question," she snapped.
"My dear girl," I said, "They knew about as much about fighting as you do."
"I don't know anything about fighting!" she protested.
"That's my point," I said, "One of them hit me with a roundhouse I saw coming from a mile away. The next guy practically told me he was going to kick me, for no apparent reason. The third guy punched out at me so slowly that I simply side stepped him. It was easy."
She shrugged her pretty shoulders. She was a cutie, a little Asian chick about 17 or 18 years old. I'd seen her working with her parents at the market we did. How she got herself blindsided in this alley during pack up time, I can only guess.
I had told the market owner that they needed to put some kind of security here- they didn't seem to care. They wouldn't care even when I told them about this incident. They simply didn't care.
I walked her back to her parents stand. I knew her parents some what. We often stayed at the same motel on Wednesday nights. We did the same wednesday and thursday markets, so I guess that made sense. They were- well, they were Asian vendors.
"Ah so, you like prahduck? Aw, no? Sohwah, honorable rendah gith no wefrun!." I have nothing against Asians in general. Triad-backed Asian flea marketeers are a horse of a different color.
I don't know why they talk to their customers as if they were from central casting for playing Charlie Chan. When not talking to customers, they spoke decent enough English. Scroom. Scroomall.
.... There is more of this story ...