Thoughts on Being Jumped by Thugs
Mar. 25th, 2009 10:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolToday I cleaned out my wallet. A stub for a movie ticket fell out. It was the IMAX showing of Watchmen that Bonnie and I attended on 3/6. An event from the aftermath of that movie came back to me.
After the movie is over, it is about 1 in the morning. Bonnie and I have taken separate cars to the theater, so I start walking Bonnie over to hers. The theater is located in a well-attended mall type setting with an active nightlife, so the parking lot has various people milling around, and it is quite well lit. We have no reason to be afraid.
A Jaguar pulls up alongside us as we walk down one of the rows, talking about the movie. It paces us for a few steps, then pulls ahead ten yards and stops. The rear driver side door opens, as does the front passenger side door. Two guys get out. I instantly know something is wrong.
It's only a minor spoiler, but: there's a scene in Watchmen where two of the characters are walking down a dark alley and are jumped by thugs. This is just like that, and the eerie synchronicity sends chills up my spine. The guy on the passenger side doesn't move from his spot, but the other guy swaggers up out of the car and moves to block my path. I size him up. He is about 6' tall and 220 lbs, which makes me substantially larger than him. But, he is no older than 25, and he is broad and cut, and he has an insane gleam in his eye. I've seen that gleam before, and it has a message for you, and that message is: I'm mean-drunk, and I want to fight, and nothing you can say or do will keep me from it.
I'll tell you a bit about me. I'm a peaceful guy, but I'm actually fairly strong and quick, and I know a few things about fighting. I used to be good at it. The key words here are 'used to be'. I'm probably sixty pounds over my fighting weight, and I don't want to talk about my conditioning. I'm also pushing forty, and I need my glasses to see. I have no business getting into a fight with a guy with arms bigger around than his legs, regardless of whatever reach advantage I might have. Especially if he is out of his mind on drink, and probably something else thrown in, if my judgement serves.
His speech is quiet and a little slurred as he says something to me. I draw up about six feet from him. "What did you say?" I ask. He steps forward, and I realize that his quiet voice was his attempt to sound menacing.
"I said," he repeats, "were you just fucking with my friend?" He gestures towards the car. The driver's door hasn't opened and the window isn't down. I'm not sure how I could have fucked with his friend even if I had wanted to. Or maybe he meant the guy who had gotten out, but he doesn't seem pissed. He actually seems like he doesn't want to be there.
Bonnie has read the situation the same way as I have. "Leave us alone," she growls, moving to step around the guy and giving him a wide berth.
Drunk guy is having none of it. He lunges forward and shoves Bonnie in one shoulder. It isn't, to my eye, a particularly hard shove, but it almost pushes my wife into the line of cars. She keeps her feet and keeps going, getting around the guy. Whether because of disinterest, or because his reactions are too dulled to help him out, the guy declines to pursue her further.
His head is turned and his back is partially turned towards me. I note that his white teeshirt has black stains down the back -- possibly dark blood, or maybe just ink or something else. At this moment, were I a little more macho or twenty years younger, I'd be slugging the guy. That's what my gut tells me to do; this asshole just shoved my wife. However, this night my brain is not taking orders from my gut.
I take advantage of the guy's inattention to slip around him on the other side, getting between him and Bonnie. Bonnie is now heading away from the confrontation and the guy's car. Still the other guy doesn't move and says nothing. Like a slow grinding of gears into motion, drunk guy begins a lazy, slow pursuit of us, ambling down the parking lot aisle after Bonnie.
At this point I conclusively prove 4th Edition D&D's principle that having a high intelligence score contributes positively to your armor class. Basically, I just keep moving backwards. I pace the guy, retreating only as fast as he advances, keeping my left arm extended with the tips of my fingers grazing the guy's chest. I know with my reach and with his slowed reflexed, he won't be able to pop a shot at me without my having some warning. "Hey, dude, we don't want any trouble," I say.
"Get your fucking hand off me," he growls, trying to bat my hand away. I put it back.
"Dude, don't do this," I say.
"Gonna fucking kill you."
"We don't want any trouble." Out of the corner of my eye I note the licence number of the Jaguar as we retreat.
"Gonna fuck you up, bitch."
It isn't communication. Nothing I say to the guy matters. Nothing the guy says varies at all from a generalized expression of violence and hostility.
"C'mon, dude. C'mon. We just want to go home."
At this point, finally, the guy's friend moves. "HEY!" he shouts from the car.
The shout registers. Drunk guy draws up and slowly turns around to look back at his friend. I keep moving backwards. I can hear Bonnie behind me; she has her phone out and has already reached the 911 operator. Drunk guy has realized that he has moved perhaps 80 feet from his car, and some invisible tether exists between him and his ride. My ride, he thinks. That's how I get around. My ride.
He starts moving back towards the car. He engages his friend in some kind of conversation. I don't stick around to hear it. I pass Bonnie up, only to realize that Bonnie is moving the wrong way. She's headed back towards the car.
You have to understand my wife. The urge to fight is strong in that one. If I hadn't been around, Bonnie definitely would have fought the guy. I wouldn't have given the guy good odds against Bonnie, either. That girl is strong and mean and she knows where the balls are located. Once Bonnie's blood gets up, it doesn't go back down particularly easily. Being shoved had scared her, and being scared had made her angry, and Bonnie wanted to make sure that bad things happened to drunk guy and his friends. That meant getting close enough to get details of the car, including the license number, not knowing I already had it.
Shit, I say to myself, and tail after Bonnie. No, I wouldn't give good odds to drunk guy, but he is still a big strong man, and he could put the hurt on somebody. Bonnie's shouting facts at the 911 operator -- the make and color of the car, description of the attacker, anything she can get. In so doing she gets dangerously close to the car, perhaps ten yards away.
Drunk guy's friend is trying to have two conversations at once. On the one hand, he's trying to have some kind of a calming exchange with drunk guy. On the other, he's trying to call out to me, saying: he's drunk, he doesn't mean to be such a dick, it's no big deal.
"Dude," I say, exasperatedly. "It's too late for that."
Drunk guy realizes that we're close by again. He also sees Bonnie with the phone out. "Shut the fuck up, bitch," he snarls. He starts to rush at her. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH!" Bonnie quick-step retreats.
It doesn't matter, this party is over. "We're going," the drunk guy's friend announces, and gets back in the car. Drunk guy apparently realizes that trouble is on the way, and he gets in too. The car speeds off, slinking around the corner of a building and out of sight.
Bonnie is shaking. I've got butterflies in my stomach but I'm okay. "We need to stick around and file a report with the cops. We're going to get that motherfucker on assault," Bonnie tells me. "Okay," I say.
A couple approaches us. They've seen it all. They were sitting in their car waiting; in the morning there will apparently be tryouts for the TV show "America's Biggest Loser", and they're camping the parking lot so they can get a place in line. They tell us that they've already talked to mall security, because this particular car full of losers has been making trouble all night. Drunk guy has apparently been instructing his friends to stop the car at regular intervals so he can get out, attempt to hit on girls, and attempt to fight with guys. According to this couple, drunk guy's relationship with his friends hasn't been too cordial this night; they witnessed fistfights break out when his own friends attempted to convince him to leave. Nice.
Eventually the roving mall security guard shows up, perhaps ten minutes after the event. He beats the cops there by about five minutes -- enough time to take down our basic statements, and verify the green Jaguar has left the premises. We did have enough information on the car to make a positive ID, and the cop who shows up does a quick run on the number and confirms to us that the license number we got matches a car of that description. We give our contact information and walk back to our cars, and then we drive home.
Bonnie can't sleep for two nights. I sleep like a baby. It's not because I'm some kind of tough guy, I'm just very mellow. I'm kind of the opposite of Bonnie in some respects. Perhaps that's part of why we work as a couple.
The friends who invited us to come see the movie with them felt guilty that we were at that place and time at their behest. That's crazy talk. Weird events like this are like lightning striking; nobody can predict when or where they'll happen, and the responsibility for it falls to no one at all. I'm just glad that nobody got hurt. I also liked the movie, even though I didn't kick nearly as much ass as Dan Dreiberg.
After the movie is over, it is about 1 in the morning. Bonnie and I have taken separate cars to the theater, so I start walking Bonnie over to hers. The theater is located in a well-attended mall type setting with an active nightlife, so the parking lot has various people milling around, and it is quite well lit. We have no reason to be afraid.
A Jaguar pulls up alongside us as we walk down one of the rows, talking about the movie. It paces us for a few steps, then pulls ahead ten yards and stops. The rear driver side door opens, as does the front passenger side door. Two guys get out. I instantly know something is wrong.
It's only a minor spoiler, but: there's a scene in Watchmen where two of the characters are walking down a dark alley and are jumped by thugs. This is just like that, and the eerie synchronicity sends chills up my spine. The guy on the passenger side doesn't move from his spot, but the other guy swaggers up out of the car and moves to block my path. I size him up. He is about 6' tall and 220 lbs, which makes me substantially larger than him. But, he is no older than 25, and he is broad and cut, and he has an insane gleam in his eye. I've seen that gleam before, and it has a message for you, and that message is: I'm mean-drunk, and I want to fight, and nothing you can say or do will keep me from it.
I'll tell you a bit about me. I'm a peaceful guy, but I'm actually fairly strong and quick, and I know a few things about fighting. I used to be good at it. The key words here are 'used to be'. I'm probably sixty pounds over my fighting weight, and I don't want to talk about my conditioning. I'm also pushing forty, and I need my glasses to see. I have no business getting into a fight with a guy with arms bigger around than his legs, regardless of whatever reach advantage I might have. Especially if he is out of his mind on drink, and probably something else thrown in, if my judgement serves.
His speech is quiet and a little slurred as he says something to me. I draw up about six feet from him. "What did you say?" I ask. He steps forward, and I realize that his quiet voice was his attempt to sound menacing.
"I said," he repeats, "were you just fucking with my friend?" He gestures towards the car. The driver's door hasn't opened and the window isn't down. I'm not sure how I could have fucked with his friend even if I had wanted to. Or maybe he meant the guy who had gotten out, but he doesn't seem pissed. He actually seems like he doesn't want to be there.
Bonnie has read the situation the same way as I have. "Leave us alone," she growls, moving to step around the guy and giving him a wide berth.
Drunk guy is having none of it. He lunges forward and shoves Bonnie in one shoulder. It isn't, to my eye, a particularly hard shove, but it almost pushes my wife into the line of cars. She keeps her feet and keeps going, getting around the guy. Whether because of disinterest, or because his reactions are too dulled to help him out, the guy declines to pursue her further.
His head is turned and his back is partially turned towards me. I note that his white teeshirt has black stains down the back -- possibly dark blood, or maybe just ink or something else. At this moment, were I a little more macho or twenty years younger, I'd be slugging the guy. That's what my gut tells me to do; this asshole just shoved my wife. However, this night my brain is not taking orders from my gut.
I take advantage of the guy's inattention to slip around him on the other side, getting between him and Bonnie. Bonnie is now heading away from the confrontation and the guy's car. Still the other guy doesn't move and says nothing. Like a slow grinding of gears into motion, drunk guy begins a lazy, slow pursuit of us, ambling down the parking lot aisle after Bonnie.
At this point I conclusively prove 4th Edition D&D's principle that having a high intelligence score contributes positively to your armor class. Basically, I just keep moving backwards. I pace the guy, retreating only as fast as he advances, keeping my left arm extended with the tips of my fingers grazing the guy's chest. I know with my reach and with his slowed reflexed, he won't be able to pop a shot at me without my having some warning. "Hey, dude, we don't want any trouble," I say.
"Get your fucking hand off me," he growls, trying to bat my hand away. I put it back.
"Dude, don't do this," I say.
"Gonna fucking kill you."
"We don't want any trouble." Out of the corner of my eye I note the licence number of the Jaguar as we retreat.
"Gonna fuck you up, bitch."
It isn't communication. Nothing I say to the guy matters. Nothing the guy says varies at all from a generalized expression of violence and hostility.
"C'mon, dude. C'mon. We just want to go home."
At this point, finally, the guy's friend moves. "HEY!" he shouts from the car.
The shout registers. Drunk guy draws up and slowly turns around to look back at his friend. I keep moving backwards. I can hear Bonnie behind me; she has her phone out and has already reached the 911 operator. Drunk guy has realized that he has moved perhaps 80 feet from his car, and some invisible tether exists between him and his ride. My ride, he thinks. That's how I get around. My ride.
He starts moving back towards the car. He engages his friend in some kind of conversation. I don't stick around to hear it. I pass Bonnie up, only to realize that Bonnie is moving the wrong way. She's headed back towards the car.
You have to understand my wife. The urge to fight is strong in that one. If I hadn't been around, Bonnie definitely would have fought the guy. I wouldn't have given the guy good odds against Bonnie, either. That girl is strong and mean and she knows where the balls are located. Once Bonnie's blood gets up, it doesn't go back down particularly easily. Being shoved had scared her, and being scared had made her angry, and Bonnie wanted to make sure that bad things happened to drunk guy and his friends. That meant getting close enough to get details of the car, including the license number, not knowing I already had it.
Shit, I say to myself, and tail after Bonnie. No, I wouldn't give good odds to drunk guy, but he is still a big strong man, and he could put the hurt on somebody. Bonnie's shouting facts at the 911 operator -- the make and color of the car, description of the attacker, anything she can get. In so doing she gets dangerously close to the car, perhaps ten yards away.
Drunk guy's friend is trying to have two conversations at once. On the one hand, he's trying to have some kind of a calming exchange with drunk guy. On the other, he's trying to call out to me, saying: he's drunk, he doesn't mean to be such a dick, it's no big deal.
"Dude," I say, exasperatedly. "It's too late for that."
Drunk guy realizes that we're close by again. He also sees Bonnie with the phone out. "Shut the fuck up, bitch," he snarls. He starts to rush at her. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH!" Bonnie quick-step retreats.
It doesn't matter, this party is over. "We're going," the drunk guy's friend announces, and gets back in the car. Drunk guy apparently realizes that trouble is on the way, and he gets in too. The car speeds off, slinking around the corner of a building and out of sight.
Bonnie is shaking. I've got butterflies in my stomach but I'm okay. "We need to stick around and file a report with the cops. We're going to get that motherfucker on assault," Bonnie tells me. "Okay," I say.
A couple approaches us. They've seen it all. They were sitting in their car waiting; in the morning there will apparently be tryouts for the TV show "America's Biggest Loser", and they're camping the parking lot so they can get a place in line. They tell us that they've already talked to mall security, because this particular car full of losers has been making trouble all night. Drunk guy has apparently been instructing his friends to stop the car at regular intervals so he can get out, attempt to hit on girls, and attempt to fight with guys. According to this couple, drunk guy's relationship with his friends hasn't been too cordial this night; they witnessed fistfights break out when his own friends attempted to convince him to leave. Nice.
Eventually the roving mall security guard shows up, perhaps ten minutes after the event. He beats the cops there by about five minutes -- enough time to take down our basic statements, and verify the green Jaguar has left the premises. We did have enough information on the car to make a positive ID, and the cop who shows up does a quick run on the number and confirms to us that the license number we got matches a car of that description. We give our contact information and walk back to our cars, and then we drive home.
Bonnie can't sleep for two nights. I sleep like a baby. It's not because I'm some kind of tough guy, I'm just very mellow. I'm kind of the opposite of Bonnie in some respects. Perhaps that's part of why we work as a couple.
The friends who invited us to come see the movie with them felt guilty that we were at that place and time at their behest. That's crazy talk. Weird events like this are like lightning striking; nobody can predict when or where they'll happen, and the responsibility for it falls to no one at all. I'm just glad that nobody got hurt. I also liked the movie, even though I didn't kick nearly as much ass as Dan Dreiberg.
