Bag Lady & the Retired Marine Ch. 03bySusanJillParker©
Three men against one is not a fair fight, only the one being beaten and sexually assaulted is a woman.
As if stepping in a phone booth to emerge as his own version of Super Marine, as if he was Charles Bronson in Death Wish, Sylvester Stallone in First Blood, or Arnold Schwarzenegger in Collateral Damage, a one man deadly fighting force, he couldn't live with himself if he didn't help her. After all he's been through to help people and after all the murderous acts he's done to save people, what kind of man would he be if he walks away from someone needing his help now? Even if she was a sad, street urchin of a bag lady, comparing her to some of those poor, defenseless Taliban women, she still had rights. She doesn't deserve to be beaten by three men just because she's a bag lady. She doesn't deserve to be sexually assaulted just because she's a woman alone in an alley.
As does everyone else in this nation that he helped to keep free, she had the right to live her life without the fear of being beaten and sexually assaulted. She was still a human being and, in this stuck in a recession economy, with his sister being a single mom with three, small children on food stamps, welfare, Section 8 housing, and home heating oil assistance, homeless and helpless, she could have been his sister. She was a helpless and defenseless woman fighting three, fucked up men who, obviously, were trying to rape her. If all his hand-to-hand combat training was to come down to this one interaction with him playing the superhero Marine, he had to help her. He had to save her. There was no one else there to help her and it was up to him to save her.
No longer a ticking time bomb, he no longer charged wildly with machine guns firing in each hand and a grenade in his mouth ready to throw to stop the noise by creating even more noise. He was now more able to control his rage somewhat, most times, but not all times, like now. Yet scratch the surface and his anger was still there pulsating, percolating, and brewing in the way of impatiently waiting for that first cup of coffee to be ready. It was as if there was an alien creature alive, living inside of him, and waiting to be unleashed upon these poor bastards who didn't know any better than to make noise.
"Dave hates noise," he said cracking his knuckles in readiness to use them.
As if a fuse, he could feel his anger flashing, seething, and burning until it erupted and exploded in his head. Only because of all the psychological therapy he's had, the medication he's taking, and meditation he's done, he was a different man that the wild man that had returned home from three wars and nine combat deployments. Now more in control of his emotions, more complete in his mind and body, he had the clarity of thought of a Zen master with all the fighting skills of a Ninja warrior and a Shaolin Monk combined. As if he was playing a video game, he saw everything. Now not only more able to control his anger but also he was able to harness his rage to use against those who caused the noise that angered him.
"Dave really hates noise," he said trying to re-center himself to focus on what he needed to do.
Never a barking dog, he didn't waste his energy with stupid talk and idle threats. Never striking anyone until his hand, his foot, his knee, his elbow, or his head was forced, every blow he threw hit his target with devastating accuracy and damaging aftereffects. With his strikes causing off the charts blunt force trauma, pity the poor bastards on the bad side of him. Pity the poor bastards who made noise that upset him. Pity these poor bastards who were going to pay what they did to this poor bag woman.
Breaking a bone and/or severing a tendon, every kick caused damage. Able to knockdown and/or knockout his opponent with one lightning quick strike, every punch caused a devastating head injury. He knew precisely where to hit someone to stop the noise. He knew precisely how hard to hit someone to silence his opponent. Once all was quiet, the peace quelled his violent temper and troubled mind. Cause verses effect for the expected resultant conclusion, it was more the noise that bothered him than it was the man causing it. Only, pity the man, it was through silencing the man that he could stop the noise.
If he was anything, because of his rage and because he was now more in control of his anger, the best of the best, he was an efficient killing machine paid and trained by the United States Marine Corps. Now, a retired Marine, he was free to walk the city streets as an innocuous civilian. Go figure. How can a trained killer not do what he's been trained to do? Just as he'd never be retired, he'd never be an innocuous civilian. A trained assassin, a killer, and a fighting machine turned into a mild, mannered neighbor. Perhaps not a superhero and a super marine but more of a wolf in sheep's clothing, nonetheless, he was no mild, mannered Clark Kent.
A mindset that needed to be deprogrammed, it's impossible to go from one to the other without drugs and psychological therapy. From a killing machine to a man out for a walk, without having drugs, years of therapy, and without him leaving dead bodies behind of all those who pissed him off by making noise, living his life normally was as impossible as most men and woman who dared tried walking in his shoes. Only, much like serial killer Dexter who needed to kill to stop the quaking in his brain, every so often when the noise in his head grew too unbearably loud, Dave needed to stop the noise by beating the poor bastard to a bloody pulp who was responsible for making all the noise.
"Oh, yeah, that will teach you to make noise. Next time, maybe you'll think twice about opening your big, loud mouth," he imagined saying to his victims, whether at a baseball game, a bar, or out for a walk as he was now, while justifying his brutal, physical attack.
As if distracted by what was running through his mind, he refocused on his mission when he heard her voice again.
"Help me! Someone help me! Please! Rape! Rape! Call 911! Call 911!"
Already having had his fill of those making this raucous uproar, it was time to put an end to the noise. It was time to make everything and everyone quiet.
With old habits hard to break and as if he was a one man SWAT team, he took a peek around the corner to clear it. Then he poked his head around the brick wall again before yelling. Before poking his head down the alley again and leaving it there to look to see what they'd do while looking to see if the path was clear for him to enter, with a one syllable word, he initiated contact with a yell.
He could have verbally assaulted them personally by calling them vulgar names. Yet, a waste of breath and a distraction, even though he was intent on attacking them physically, if they so desired, not that he was a religious man, Dave rarely swore. He could have continued walking. He could have remained quiet. He could have minded his own business and allowed them to rape her and even murder her. He could have entered the alley stealthily and unannounced and slit all their throats before they even knew they were cut and bleeding out to die.
Too busy sexually molesting her, with her shirt torn wide open and nearly pulled off of her, her big breasts so exposed and her pants pulled down around her ankles again to reveal her naked ass and pussy, they never would have seen him coming until he was right up on them. Even from a distance in the dim light, he could see she had a decent body for an old broad, big tits, round ass, and shapely legs with a flat stomach. In the way of flies on food or on a dead body, six hands were touching her, feeling her, fondling her, and caressing her everywhere. Obviously intent on raping her, when one wasn't feeling her big tits and fingering, pulling, turning, and twisting her nipples, another was feeling her ass or trying to finger her pussy while forcing her hands on their exposed, stiff pricks.
What if this was his mother, his sister, his aunt, or his cousin? He hoped that someone would help them in the way that he was about to help her. With his decision already made by making his presence known with a yell, now he had to help her. As a man, Marine or not, it was the right thing to do.
"Stop! Don't! No! Let me Go! Help someone! Help! Help! Rape! Call 911!"
With the therapy, medication, and meditation changing his tactical offense, he could have done what he used to do with a volley of hands and feet. He could have run at them with fists punching and feet flying. Now with his calm mind working as if he's an alien robot programmed to complete a mission, he was focused and ready to engage the enemy as if a sensei ready to train his disciples. Able to read the make, the year, and the model of every vehicle and memorize every license plate of every car parked in that alley with just a quick look, these dudes better run but they didn't.
Moving away from the brick wall and away from a lucky ricochet shot should they fire a gun but still staying in the shadows, as if advancing upon another fighter in the ring, he stepped out while keeping his body a narrow target instead of wide one. As if he was a professional quarterback on a champion football team, he changed his strategies of defense and tactics of offense with every step closer he took and every move they made. As if he was Anderson Silva, one of the greatest mixed martial arts fighters, ready, apprised, and aware, he was a professional and they were amateurs.
"Go fuck yourself old man," said the smallest one.
Discounting him with a stare as not a threat, he looked away from him to leer at and feel the woman's nearly naked body.
"Old man? Dave's not an old man," he said referring to himself in the third person again.
Looking good for his age with all the diet and exercise he does and with strangers mistaking his age for 45-years-old instead of 60-years-old, he couldn't believe he called him an old man. As if he threw water in his face, as if he slapped his face with a glove to challenge him to a duel, and as if he had chosen the one phrase that would anger him, he angered him. Still able to knockoff 250 pushups, a thousand crunches, a hundred pull-ups, still running 10 miles nearly every day, and punching his heavy bag for an hour, he bench presses 300 pounds for reps and sets. Still able to get and maintain an erection as hard and as long as he could in his 30's, he wasn't an old man by any stretch of the imagination yet. In the way that Arnold Schwarzenegger challenged Jack LaLanne to a pushup contest when he was in his thirties and Jack was in his sixties, Arnold stopped at 250 pushes and Jack continued to 1,200.
"Back the fuck off old man," he said again when Dave continued advancing.
"Old man my ass. Dave is not an old man," he said.
Looking a bit like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable, Dave Ryan was the real deal, living version of David Dunn in the movie. Dave wasn't any old man that they've ever seen before. He wasn't ready to yell his battle rattle, 'Hoo-Rah!', just yet. He no longer needed that adrenaline rush to do what he needed to do, especially with these three, dimwitted fools.
What he had now, being calmly in control, was so much better. When he knew that he was going to end the noise to make everything quiet, he had a clarity of mind that couldn't be distracted and a determination of purpose that couldn't be swayed. His decision was already made. Even if they begged him not to, apologized to the woman profusely for beating her and nearly stripping her naked, and paid her for all the damage and indignity they caused her, he'd still beat the shit out of them.
Able to summon up enough adrenaline only when needed, he didn't need any additional adrenaline at all with these three fools. If he had to, only needing his right or left thumb, in the way that Sean Connery did as Lt. Colonel Caldwell in the Presidio, he could fight them all with one arm tied behind his back. Besides, just because he's retired from the Corps doesn't make him old, it made him smart and it made him still living above ground. Between coming in contact with missionary soldiers, he was pushing his luck rubbing elbows with the CIA. Sometimes hard to know who was the enemy, he figured if he was someone else's bitch, served one more master, and one more hitch, it would be his last one and he'd be coming home in a body bag as did so many of his buddies.
"What's wrong with you for hitting a woman?" He stepped closer with each word. "Didn't your mother teach you anything?"
No longer charging headlong into battle, he was smarter now. Instead of peppering his targets with the potty mouth of a drill instructor, which he was for a while, and with a dozen kicks and punches, he only needed one clear shot to make his point and to make his world quiet again.
"Fuck off," said the tallest one.
Rubbing their naked cocks against her nearly naked body, they were all touching her and feeling her while she struggled. Obviously, it was their intent to have a good time with her before they beat her bloody or killed her.
"Let go of me! Stop! Stop touching me! Let me go!"
"Get off of her now," he said putting his hand in his pocket to act as if I had a gun and, of course, he did.
Registered to carry, he had a beauty of handgun on him just in case things got out of hand in this not so safe neighborhood where no one dared walk the streets after dark but for the criminals looking for oblivious victims and no one dared stopped to help anyone for fear that they'd be a victim too. Only, Dave was nobody's bitch. Between a .22 and a .45, he was carrying a .32 caliber, antique Beretta, small enough to conceal in the palm of his big hand yet powerful enough to kill. Only, a scared rule he didn't break, he never pulled a gun unless he's going to fire his weapon and if he discharged his gun, he wouldn't miss.
"What's it to you? Mind your own fucking business," said the smallest one, a Hispanic man of about 20-years-old. "Beat it old man."
The second man cold cocked her when she turned to look at him entering the alley and coming to her rescue. Then, as if dropping a hundred pound sack of potatoes in a warehouse, he pushed the woman to the ground, no doubt, in readiness to mount her and fuck her. Yet before he focused his attention to the woman, he gave Dave a deadeye look while the tallest one, a black man of about 25-years-old, kicked her in the ribs when she was unconsciously and defensively down on the ground.
Assessing his enemy with the glance of a trained assassin, either him or them, he's killed more men, women, and children than he could count or even remember. He pegged the tall, black man as the most dangerous one of the three and he figured him for having a gun. He'd be going down first. The smallest man, no doubt angry that he was so small and always looking to prove how tough he is in front of his friends, was the most predictably unpredictable. He'd take him down at the same time that he'd disable the first man. The third guy, the one who just sucker punched the woman, along for the ride, was just a tag along and it wouldn't take much to disable him.
"Assholes," he said under his breath to blow off some steam while entering the alley and looking up and all around.
He wished he could carry a special card that identified him as a dangerous man and a killing machine, so that he wouldn't have to bother with creeps like this. Worn in the way of a police badge or a tattoo on his forehead, or even a 7th degree black belt sown into all of his clothes and worn around his waist, he imagined them running away like the rats that they are whenever they saw him coming. Yet outnumbered, even if he was a cop in uniform, too stupid or too high on drugs to know any better, he didn't think these dopes would run, especially if they thought that they had the upper hand with him being an old man. Besides, as if a pride of lions with their kill, being that the woman was nearly naked and on the ground, they'd never abandon her and their chance of having gangbang sex because of one, crazy, perceived as easy to handle, old man.
Already committed after pissing him off by calling him an old man and needing to show them that he wasn't an old man, they were going down now. Mindful of an ambush, he's always leery of closed environments especially alleys where someone could be protecting their friends from above. As he walked closer, he eyed the woman. She was just an old, defenseless, dirty, bag lady of a pitiful woman dressed in rags, albeit with a smokin' hot body. Damn she had big, natural tits. Doing just fine defending herself, he felt bad for her because it wasn't until he opened his big mouth that they got the upper hand and demolished her.
A tough, old broad and a real back alley brawler, she used the alley to her benefit by pushing off the wall while punching, kicking, ducking, bobbing, and weaving to make them miss and hit the wall behind her instead of hitting her. Someone taught her how to box and if the fight had been one-on-one instead of a three-on-one, she would have cleaned the street with their unconscious body. She was holding her own until, the one with all those prison tattoos surprised her and cold cocked her from the side, when she stopped punching and blocking to look at him entering the alley instead of looking at them. One punch to her soft, sweet spot and she dropped like his duffle bag when he finally made it home in one piece from the Middle East.
"Cocksucker," he said under his breath again. "Now why did you do that? Dave doesn't like that. That makes Dave angry," he said referring to himself in the third person again and swearing again.
"Dave?" The black man laughed. "Who the fuck is Dave?"
"You better back the fuck off old man and mind your own fucking business before you get hurt," said the man in the middle with all the prison tats, a another Hispanic man, about 22-years-old, and the one who cold cocked the bag lady.
"It's okay with me if he wants to take her place," said the biggest man with a laugh. "I don't care who I beat to a bloody pulp. I just need to hit someone," he said slamming his fist in his hand.
They were all so young but old enough to know better and not too young to die for being so stupid. What Dave deemed as volunteers for dangerous duty, he wished he had these three in his squad. Either he'd straighten out in a real hurry or they'd be dead. No doubt, if they were in combat and thinking they were going to die and these three would die, they'd be peeing themselves.
"You're a bunch of tough guys beating up an old, bag lady. Let's see how you do against a real man and against a United States Marine, Master, Gunnery Sergeant Ryan retired," he said looking down at his chest as if his nametag and/or medals were still there. "Something that I never give anyone, this is your one and only warning," he said. "Last chance, best you leave now before I hurt you three real bad."
"When we're done with you, your mother, if she's still alive old man, won't recognize you," said the little man with the big mouth.
As if he was Billy Jack in the movie of the same name, a half-bred, American, Cherokee Indian, ex-Green Beret, Viet Nam veteran, and a master of Korean martial art, Hapkido, in the way he did in the movie declaring what he'd do to them before he even did it, Dave boasted his actions.
"First I'm going to hit your right temple with my right knuckle to render you unconscious," he said, "before kicking the gun from your friend's hand by hitting a pressure point on his forearm with my left, steel toe. Then, with a karate chop to his throat, he'll wish he was dead. Lastly, I'm going to hit your tattooed friend with an open handed slap to his solar plexus that will cause internal bleeding and horrible pain and/or death. And," he said pointing an index finger in the air as if an afterthought, "there's nothing that you can do to stop me."