Jason's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 30
Surprisingly, it was Tony Pellegrini, the owner of the Iron Works, who came up with a solution for Jason’s survival classes. His niece ran the Capitol Hill Community Center. They had a big meeting room that was seldom in use. When Jason and Tony visited, he was impressed. It was perfect. It looked like it could seat two hundred kids easily. He paid for the first quarter’s space out of his pocket.
Survival Class was at ten every Saturday morning. The first few classes were sparsely attended, but after the Capitol Hill Times and The Stranger both covered the classes, the classes were a going concern, with kids showing up early and staying late to set up and break down chairs.
Jason had just started the session when there was a disturbance. Two boys—Kevin Martinez from Roosevelt High School and Devon Thompson from Capitol Hill High—had been trading insults for several minutes before the situation escalated to shoving.
“Mr. Stone,” Sarah Bailey cried out, “Kevin and Devon are about to fight.”
Jason moved toward the pair, noting the body language and positioning of both students. Kevin had his fists up, and Devon had assumed a karate stance with one hand in his hoodie pocket.
“Everyone stay seated,” Jason said calmly, his voice carrying across the cafeteria. “Devon, show me your hands.”
Devon hesitated, then slowly pulled his hand from his pocket, revealing a folding knife with a four-inch blade. He flipped it open.
The cafeteria went completely silent. Sixty-five kids and parents watched as Jason approached the armed teenager with calm, unhurried confidence.
“Devon, you don’t want to do this,” Jason said, moving within arm’s reach but positioning himself so that he could react quickly if necessary. “This escalates everything beyond what you intended.”
Then Devon couldn’t resist. “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You dissed my girl; prepare to die!”
He crouched and dramatically waved the knife around like he was one of the three musketeers. Kevin, meanwhile, had grabbed a folding chair and waved it around menacingly.
The kids who had been holding their breath, thinking there was going to be a bloodbath, burst into hysterical laughter.
“Aaaaand ... they ruin my carefully crafted bit of theater. Okay, Devon, give me my knife, and Kevin, set the chair down. You can rest easily knowing your performances were Academy Award-winning level.”
“Everybody settle down,” he said, pocketing the knife and moving back to the front of the room. “What just happened here is what we are going to talk about tonight: how choices in moments of anger can change your entire life.”
He gestured toward Devon and Kevin, who were now sitting together, grinning at each other over the show they’d put on.
“Devon, if you’d used that knife, what would have happened next?”
Devon sobered and answered, “Kevin would have gotten hurt bad. Maybe died.”
“More specifically?”
“Assault charges. Maybe attempted murder if I really hurt him.”
“And Kevin, if you’d hit Devon with that chair while he had a knife, what might have happened?”
“I might have hurt him badly, or he might have stabbed me.”
Jason nodded grimly. “If that had happened in real life, both of you were about thirty seconds away from choices that would have destroyed multiple lives: yours and your families.”
He looked around the cafeteria at students who were hanging on every word.
“This is why we practice thinking about consequences before crises happen. Because in the moment, when you’re angry, when your pride is hurt, when other people are watching—your brain doesn’t work the same way it does ordinarily.”
The discussion that followed was one of the most engaged Jason had ever facilitated. Students who’d witnessed the knife incident were processing not just what had happened, but what it revealed about conflict escalation, peer pressure, and the split-second decisions that could change everything.
Jason moved to the whiteboard and wrote “RULES OF ENGAGEMENT” in large letters.
“In the military, they have very specific rules about when force can be used, how much force is appropriate, and what the consequences are for breaking those rules. These rules exist to guide soldiers to make good decisions in the heat of the moment.”
He turned back to face the kids. “But here’s what I want you to understand—you need rules of engagement for civilian life too, especially when it comes to fighting.”
The energy in the room shifted. Fighting was something these teenagers thought about, worried about, and faced regularly: school fights, bullies, neighborhood conflicts.
“Ernie and Jeff,” Jason called out, gesturing to two students who played on Capitol Hill’s football team. “Come up here. And Annie, you too.”
Ernie Thompson was six-foot-two and built like the linebacker he was. Jeff Martinez was smaller but more aggressive, with the quick energy of someone who’d learned to fight before he’d learned to think. Annie Miller was one of the most outgoing students in the group, confident and flirtatious in a way that made teenage social dynamics complicated.
“Here’s the scenario,” Jason announced to the class. “Ernie and Jeff are both interested in Annie. She’s been flirting with both of them—not maliciously, just enjoying the attention. But now they’re jealous of each other. The tension has been building for weeks.”
Several students immediately started chanting “Shame! Shame! Shame!” at Annie, who responded by flipping them off and grinning.
“Shut up,” she said cheerfully. “A girl’s got to have options.”
The class erupted in laughter, but they could see the underlying seriousness of the scenario. Love triangles and jealousy were common sources of violence among teenagers.
“So tonight,” Jason continued, “Ernie and Jeff run into each other at a party. They’ve both been drinking. Annie’s there with her friends. The tension finally boils over into an actual confrontation.”
He positioned the two young men facing each other, about three feet apart. “Show me what that fight looks like. But do it in slow motion so we can analyze what’s happening.”
Ernie and Jeff looked at each other, suddenly self-conscious about performing violence, even theatrical violence.
“Come on,” Jason encouraged. “Show me how movies taught you to fight.”
Jeff threw the first slow-motion punch, a wide haymaker aimed at Ernie’s face. Ernie ducked and responded with his own punch, equally telegraphed. Jeff then attempted some kind of martial arts kick that looked like it came from a karate movie.
The class dissolved in laughter, but Jason remained serious. He gestured toward the back of the room, where two adults had quietly entered during the demonstration.
“Actions have consequences,” Jason said, his voice cutting through the laughter. “This is Dr. Emery—he plays second base for my softball team when he’s not patching people up in the emergency room at Harborview Medical Center. Doc, tell them what happens when punches like that actually connect.”
Dr. Michael Emery was in his early forties, still wearing scrubs from his shift at the hospital. He looked tired, but his voice was clear and authoritative.
“I treat the results of fights like this about three or four times a month,” he began, moving to stand beside Ernie and Jeff. “And I can tell you that what you just demonstrated, if done at full speed and force, would likely result in serious injuries.”
He pointed to where Jeff’s punch would have landed. “Ernie, that hit would have struck you right here, on the temporal bone. That’s one of the thinnest parts of the skull. If Jeff connects with enough force, you’re looking at a skull fracture, possible brain bleed, unconsciousness that could last hours, days, or soemtimes--forever.”
The mood in the room shifted dramatically. Dr. Emery’s matter-of-fact delivery made the consequences feel immediate and real.
“Jeff, your kick would have hit Ernie in the ribs. Best case scenario, you crack a couple of ribs and he’s in pain for weeks. Worst case, you drive a broken rib into his lung and he dies in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
Annie, who’d been watching with amusement, now looked genuinely disturbed. “That really happens?”
“Last month I had an eighteen-year-old kid come in after a fight outside a club. Single punch to the head, just like what you demonstrated. He was unconscious for four days. His parents spent those days not knowing if he’d ever wake up, and another week not knowing if he’d have permanent brain damage.”
Dr. Emery continued with the clinical precision that made his words even more chilling. “Traumatic brain injury doesn’t heal like a broken bone. People think you get punched, you see stars, you shake it off. In reality, you get punched hard enough, and you might never be the same person again. I’ve seen teenagers turn into children overnight because of brain damage from fights.”
Jason gestured to the other adult who had entered with Dr. Emery. “This is Rebecca Santos from the King County District Attorney’s office. Becky, tell them about the legal consequences.”
Rebecca Santos was younger than Dr. Emery, probably in her early thirties, with the kind of professional composure that suggested someone who spent her days dealing with the worst of human behavior.
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