Chapter 3

OK, do you mind if I ask why you want to know my life’s story? I mean, it’s not like I am somebody famous or anything. Yes, I know some call me The Sensei, but I prefer Clint. OK, fine. If it makes you happy I will continue.

Well, things continued like that for the next few years. The constant practice and training was not really making much real difference in my arm and leg, both were still weak. I still walked with a cane, my right arm was still weak. While I could now hold a hammer in my right hand, swinging it with that hand was impossible. But my writing with my left had at least improved to where others could read it most of the time.

I was now working with a local group that was trying to keep kids out of gangs, and doing it by promoting other activities. Basketball, running, and they approached me to ask if I would be a sponsor. Of course I did, remembering what Master Hung had done for me years ago. I offered classes two nights a week, and all were welcome.

And they were popular. Kids came expecting I would turn them to Bruce Lee, and instead I was mostly having them doing a lot of stretching and calisthenics. But also some simple blocks and punches. I was throwing just enough of the martial part into the art to make it interesting, but mostly working on defensive actions.

And during the second month, I had a visit by three guys. They were big and black, and right away told me I needed to stop. They laughed at me, calling me a “gimp” and “crip”, and told me that I would be sorry if they had to come back and tell me again. But I did not stop, and two weeks later all of the windows were busted out of the front of the dojo.

Then they started hanging around in front, harassing the people that came in and while not making threats, it was intimidating. I had enough, and on a Friday night, I went to the VFW hall.

Now I knew Harris, he was a Sergeant with the CCPD. I found him easily, we were the same era, although he was a tanker with a single tour in Iraq. We started talking, and he offered to have some cars come by more often and try to keep them away. And it shocked him I think when I said what I really wanted. But it also intrigued him, and he made me an offer. I met him the next day, and over the next hour, I showed him that while not as good as I was before the attack with my right hand, my left could still do what I wanted.

So we sat in my living room, and he helped me fill out all of the forms needed, and walked me through the process. We even took a shortcut, and a trip to a Private Investigator made a complete fingerprint card for me, which we included with my DD-214 (military discharge), and the parts of my service record that covered things like awards, weapons qualifications, and schools attended.

Three weeks later, I was called in before a judge, where I stated my honest fears and the intimidation of known gang members at my place of business. And he signed the order, and Harris walked me to the Chief of Police, where after some more questions he handed me what I wanted.

And it was just in time. A week later, the same three bozos came up and told me I was not listening. One of them pulled out a knife and the other a pistol and said if they had to return I would be sorry. I smiled inside as I pretended to cringe and act like I was turning away. Instead, I pulled out the .380 I had inside my jacket, and put one right in the X-Ring in the one with the pistol, then another in the lower abdomen of the guy with the knife. The spokesman was starting to run, and I ordered him to get on the ground or I would shoot him also.

I could hear the screams, and I yelled at somebody to call the cops as I held one at gunpoint, and the other writhed on the ground crying I had killed him. The first one I shot, I knew he was not getting up again until the trumpets rang out judgment day.

I told the one crying to shut the fuck up, he was not dying. I then noticed the puddle under the one I had remain on the ground. I even chuckled at seeing that. Big, bad, tough gangbanger pissed his pants. Made me wish I had a camera to catch that.

Well, I knew what to expect. When the first cop arrived I put the gun on the ground and held both hands at shoulder height as I backed away from it. They had their guns trained on me but were looking at the three on the ground. “The one not moving, I think his pistol fell under him. The one crying, he has a knife on him somewhere. The other one who pissed his pants, he did not show me a weapon but I detained him.”

When one told me to get my hands higher, I moved my left straight above my head, and he yelled for both of them. “Officer, I can’t! My right arm is injured, this is as far as I can raise it!” One came and frisked me, and he was starting to put cuffs on when Sergeant Harris arrived. “Release him, I will take custody. Search the other two before the Paramedics get here.”

Good thing, as the spokesman also had a pistol, but in an ankle holster. They found the gun under the first one I shot, and he was indeed dead. They pulled the knife and some drugs off of the wounded one, and he was taken to the county hospital. Then came over an hour of statements.

And the next day, the protests. People protesting, calling me a murderer, calling me a racist. Saying I had hunted them down and killed them because I was white, and they were black. I even saw multiple reporters reporting on that, and none of them even bothered to get my side of what happened.

And the news reports that night indeed made it seem like I had just gone out and started shooting them. OK, enough was enough! I called up Harris, and he said he would see what he could do. The next day, I had an interview with a reporter who was actually freelance but told me it was an article that the National Rifleman wanted. OK, the magazine of the NRA, that at least was fair.

And at just after noon with the protesters screaming at me, the van from the local independent station arrived. They filmed them chanting, even interviewed several of them. Then they came inside my dojo for an interview with me.

Where I was wearing a sleeveless gi. I showed them my arm, how little function I had in it, and the obvious loss of mass from the shrapnel. I then lifted my pant leg, showing the damage to my leg. “I was in the Army for over 10 years, Special Forces the last 4. I was wounded in a mortar attack outside of Anbar, and started this as a way to heal and help others. I work with two different anti-gang groups, and those three took offense to that. That was actually the third time they confronted me, the first time was verbal. A week later I had all my windows broken, I suspect it was them but I have no proof. Then a second confrontation which was verbal, but they made clear threats.”

The reporter was listening closely, and when he asked for the threats I repeated them. And I could see him grin, knowing they would be censored. Then finally, a few days before, where one of them pulled a gun and the other a knife, telling me this was my final warning to stop teaching the kids.

“At that time, I felt I was in immediate danger, so reacted. I pulled my gun, and seeing as the one was the gun was the most immediate threat, I put one in the center of his chest. The one with the knife was a lesser threat, so I put one in his belly. The last I simply ordered to lay on the ground until the cops arrived.”

“And why have you not been arrested for that?”

I smiled, and opened my desk, and pulled out my wallet. I then laid my Concealed Carry card on my desk. “Because I was legally carrying. I had reported this, but the CCPD said they could not do much more than increase patrols. So I filed for and got a permit.”

“You could not disarm them in another way?”

I laughed and held my arms out. “Look, contrary to what you see in the movies, you can’t karate chop a bullet. Sure, before I was injured I probably could have taken them, maybe. But remember the one that I detained also had a gun. I know I could have taken one of them down. But three? Two armed with guns? I was Special Forces, not Chuck Norris.”

I showed them my Purple Heart award, and even a redacted DD-214, which included that I had been retired at 80% disability. “I know some are pushing that this was some kind of race thing, that I was a white guy hunting these innocent kids. In fact, I am Latino. My mother’s last name was Sanchez, I am half Mexican. Heck, I even ran with a gang when I was in school, and Martial Arts helped get me out of it. I am just trying to do the same thing for the kids here, and those three took offense to it. I am sorry I had to kill one, but he pulled a gun on me, so I am not sorry I shot him.”

We continued for another 20 minutes, then he shook my hand as did the cameraman, and they both left. Well, I saw the clip that night, and that was more like what I was wanting. The next day I was invited to the morning show on all three major networks, and two of the cable news networks. Where I again told my story, this time having planned ahead a bit with some help. Providing photos of me in the Army, in Kandahar after a mission during my first deployment, and in Anbar shortly before I was wounded. Then in the hospital in Germany. Of Dale and I after we started the school, and where I again described what led to the shooting.

And only once did they try to have somebody representing the “other side”. He called me a vigilante, and a trigger happy killer. “Excuse me, first of all, I am a soldier. And a professional one, not some gangbanger title. I followed the law, passed all background checks and requirements, and got a legal permit. All three of those who confronted me had felony records, two of them violent. Why are you not asking why they had guns in the first place? Multiple witnesses all said clearly that they saw the one I killed pull his gun on me over a minute before I pulled my gun, why are you not demanding to know about that?”

“You should not have had a gun! That is the job of the police!”

“What, like it was when I made multiple calls for help in the weeks prior to that? Look lady, I am a disabled veteran, trying to help his community. Nothing more than that. But you are mad at the wrong person, how about getting mad at the gangs that perpetrate that kind of violence and intimidation?” It quickly descended from there, but I smiled inside as through her entire 3 minute “rebuttal” she became more and more offensive, and I continued to respond calmly and politely.

That interview was supposed to last 9 minutes, until the next commercial break. It lasted 7, they cut away early, probably because she got increasingly offensive. She was in a remote location, and I had a monitor in the desk in front of me showing her. The guy who was actually giving the interview cutaway and said who the next guest they were going to have on was, then they went to an early break.

The entire time I could still see the lady ranting at the camera. I doubted she even noticed she had already been taken off the air. Score one for my team.

The next day, I was actually surprised when I got to the dojo, and the parking lot was empty of people. Even the graffiti that had been sprayed around was gone. I shook my head and gave thanks to whoever that was who had done that for me. I had given up the second day when several spit on me when I tried to clean up the pile of trash and graffiti.

And at noon, I heard the bell in the front ring. I left my office and walked to the front, only to see two guys that screamed “Gang Enforcer” by how they stood and watched me. They both nodded, and one turned and left. I was slowly and carefully backing towards my office when a third man came in. If the other two screamed enforcer, this one screamed “Boss”.

“Mister Lee, please relax. You are in no danger, and I hope I am not either. Charles, go outside, Mister Lee and I are going to talk.” I saw the second enforcer leave, and the older man asked if he could come closer. I nodded, and I was impressed when first he removed his jacket and placed it on the ground, then slowly turned around.

“I ain’t packing, so don’t worry. I am just here to talk with you. Is that cool?” I said it was, and we sat in two of the chairs in the small spectator area usually used by parents. “First of all, my name is Rusty. No need for real names here, but let’s just say I speak for the Pitbulls.”

“The ones trying to fuck up my life, you mean. Say what you want, and get the fuck out.”

“Sadly, yes and no. And no, I had nothing to do with any of that. Yes, we are a gang, but we are trying to leave that shit behind us. What those three did too and against you was entirely unsanctioned. You know what that means?”

“I was a soldier, that does not mean I am stupid!” I said, a bit hotly.

“Fair enough, no offense intended. In short, they went rogue. Over 2 years ago we put out an order, no activities against civilians without council approval. In this case, civilian means somebody not affiliated with any gang. If Packy, Ballistic, and Kracker had come to me or any of us higher than them with their complaints, we would have told them to back off and leave you alone.”

He leaned forward and spoke softly. “In fact, I admire what you are trying to do. Gangs are not good, they destroy our youth. And please do not laugh, or think I am blowing smoke up your ass. There will be gangs, it is inevitable. What we try to do is keep our gang controlled. Violence to a minimum, drugs to a minimum, we only target those that hurt us. You do not hurt us, other than you manage to keep some kids out of the gang. But that is not a threat! In fact, I thank you, I wish we could slowly fade away and do not need to exist anymore.”