There are bullies out there. They harass, annoy, and insult people. But something, in glorious fashion, these bullies pick on the wrong person. These people share the best stories of bullies picking on the wrong person. Some stories have been edited for clarity.
He Got What He Deserved
“I saw security camera footage that was at first, horrifying, and then, very entertaining.
I have a friend, female type… and she once dated a guy who ‘was’ a cop at the time she dated him, but he was tossed off the force for violent criminal behavior…
Now, she’d broken off with him before he got into that trouble… and hadn’t seen him in a few years, but knew of his judicial misfortunes, and had already decided even before that, that she really didn’t want anything to do with him.
Well… as it happens… that knucklehead got out of the slammer, and decided to call on her, to try to convince her, that she should start seeing him again. He stood a good 6 foot 3, probably, and easily tipped the scales at 220… She stands 5 foot 6 inches, and MAYBE tips the scales at 130 pounds if she’s soaking wet.
When she declined his generous offer, he took umbrage, and communicated his displeasure, by slugging her in the jaw so hard it spun her around and she fell to the ground, face down.
She planted her hands on the deck, looked up at her horrified daughter (I later learned that her daughter witnessed the entire exchange… and she told me that the look on her mother’s face, when she looked up, was one of pure, unadulterated FURY)… and pushed herself up to her feet, and turned on the man.
What ensued, would’ve made Joe Frazier blush… because she commenced to punching… and by punching, I mean punching like ole Joe… HARD punches to the body and head of that despicable man, and it was very clear… he wasn’t at ALL prepared for the onslaught. She backed him up against the wall and continued teeing off on him, and I can honestly say, she staggered him and had him going out on his feet.
His efforts to return fire, were pathetic and missed BADLY, which only annoyed her more as she continued the beating.
When the cops pulled up, lights and sirens going, the man somehow scrambled out of the corner she’d backed him into and ran for his LIFE to the cruiser. A neighbor told me that he heard the guy clearly say, ‘Get me out of here before she kills me!!!’
His face looked like he’d tried to kiss a speeding truck, and was found guilty of several charges related to the incident, and the judge threw the book at him.
Yeah… I’d say he picked the wrong woman to mess with.
Probably doesn’t hurt, that despite being a very feminine and lady-like type woman, my friend holds a 6th degree black belt in Taekwondo, and was a rather talented kickboxer in her younger years. Sweet as can be… would give the shirt off her back to anyone…
As a footnote… after that idiot got out on probation, he decided that knocking off a local store in armed robbery fashion was a good idea. The owner of the store disagreed, and communicated that disagreement with several 9 millimeter slugs. Thus ended that idiot’s criminal career and life.
I guess you can’t fix stupid… but you can knock the snot out of it, or shoot it.”
“I have two, and the victor in one became the target in the next.
First, my daughter went to a dual-immersion school in Santa Ana for first and second grade. She didn’t fit in for multiple reasons, mostly because she was a bit of a fireball, very athletic, and always willing to stand her ground (the kind of daughter I always wanted).
Most of the students were from Latino families, and some were from high-risk homes, having the dad in prison or just released. I heard first graders telling how their dad had been shot in the face and lived, followed by another kid saying his dad had also been shot. But the program was incredible, and to this day, my daughter amazes native speakers of Spanish with her lack of an accent. But the cultural conflict was a struggle.
Apparently, every day when the boys played soccer (futbol), the girls did other things—definitely not sports. I was unaware of this difference, but my sisters-in-law told me that was the standard, they didn’t do sports. So nobody expected a little white girl to want to play soccer. And nobody certainly expected her to fight for her right to play.
One day, the boys were playing and my little fireball wanted to join. One of the boys, a big boy, a very, very big kid, told her that she could be the cheerleader. If that wasn’t bad enough, he tried to direct her by holding her arms behind her back. Big, big mistake.
By the time I got to the school for pick-up, the teacher was prepared to inform me of the ‘fight.’ Ms. Mendoza gave me the standard instructions about no tolerance for violence, blah, blah, blah. I could tell her mouth was saying what she had to say, but her mind was thinking something quite different.
Apparently, after my daughter was grabbed, she turned on the giant kid and repeatedly kicked him. I guess, even at such a young age, she knew nobody had the right to restrain her like that boy did. She kicked the snot out of him. And I could tell by the teacher’s affect that she knew the kid deserved it.
The funny thing was, after Ms. Mendoza explained the rules, she said the boy cried and carried on like a big baby for so long that she had to tell him to stop. This kid was easily twice the weight of my daughter, and thought he could restrain her and put her in her place. Even Ms. Mendoza knew, and said, his ego was hurt more than anything.
She didn’t even get in trouble, other than the teacher telling me to tell her not to kick other kids’ butts at school. She also got to play soccer with the boys after that. And, even better, one of the other girls played too. I like to think that my daughter was the catalyst to that.
But, even little warriors get called out eventually.
Obviously, my daughter is a little hellcat. Her brother is nearly 4 years younger, and she had always bossed him and bullied him. I stopped it when I saw it. But my son is a total softy, always has been. If his sister wanted the toy or crayon, he didn’t see the need to cause a conflict. She got her way almost all the time.
I warned my daughter over and over not to test her brother. One day he will be bigger than you, and then you’ll pay the piper. Did she listen? Nope. Hellcats don’t listen. So, she kept at it. She had the psychological advantage way after he was big enough to stop her. He’s very sweet.
But one day, for some reason, maybe his teenaged hormones, or maybe just sick of her attitude, he stuck up for his spot. I can’t even remember what the conflict was about, and neither of them probably do either. Nevertheless, my girl tears into him over something.
There was very little dialogue, and some aggressive posturing. I watched the whole thing. She went after her brother with her southy mouth. They danced back and forth for a few seconds, my son mostly retreating while my daughter pretty much chased him across the living room. I expected it to subside as it always had with a few bitter giggles before they would retreat to somewhere and decide to become allies against me!
Not this day. My girl took off towards my boy (she was probably 17 and he 13, maybe a year older), and he stood his ground. He was sick of taking her grief, just like I knew he would be. I was the younger child in the family too. I know how it goes.
In one split-second she rushed, and he punched her square in the nose like Mike Tyson. The boy couldn’t have landed a punch better if he had been trained, right on the nose.
Like the bully boy that she had taken out years before, she was crumpled. Her nose bled big clots that even worried me, and I don’t get weird about injuries. She came over to the couch and lied down with her big tears rolling down her pretty cheeks. Clots were spewing out of her nose the size of my little fingertip. Waaaa! She cried and sobbed. I think her feelings hurt worse than her nose. She couldn’t believe her baby brother hit her.
I didn’t tell her until after the bleeding that I had warned her. I had seen her go after him. She provoked the fight. I watched it.
In some cases you pick on the wrong one, and in other cases you are the wrong one. I’ve watched both.
And you know what? After that, my daughter showed a lot more respect for her baby brother. He showed his teeth. And she didn’t even know he had them.
It might be old school. I know the ‘no tolerance’ police will think I am a bad parent. But, I don’t care. Sometimes the only way people will learn to stop messing with the bull is to get a good taste of the horns.”
“He was Native American, six-foot-two, and scruffy – with a glossy-black retro anime haircut he did himself in the bathroom mirror. He had high-cheekbones, deep set eyes, a wide, mobile mouth, and a scar across his nose and cheek.
He was deceptively thin, with broad shoulders and that kind of strength that is referred to as ‘wiry’. He’d been something of an athlete, or at least paid to ride a bicycle, at one point. His legs were more shapely than most girls, but he had no butt. Nada. Nothing.
Despite his utter lack of butt, he was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I know I’m biased. I loved him.
I never learned how he got the scar. He told a different story every time I asked. It looked menacing, but I was sure the true story was prosaic. He had an easy humor and a broad grin…but he loved being a bit jangly. He’d speak the most outrageous lies to mess with me…then smile.
He worked hard to be jarring. In truth, he read up on metallurgy and physics before bed, liked to cook, and fix things. He was an easygoing, sweetheart. I’d never seen him genuinely lose his cool. He didn’t need to. He looked feline and sinister. You’d have to be nuts to pick a fight with him.
We walked to the corner store late one night. It was after two, so we had to go to the one down the hill. I think we needed milk. We were almost there when two guys bumped into us – knocking us against the brick wall. I saw one pull out a little, dinky knife.
I don’t know what they were going to say, because my boyfriend pushed me down the sidewalk, grabbed the nearest thing he could find and charged.
The nearest thing he could find was a plastic bucket filled with water and construction debris. He let out a roar and swung the bucket in a big, messy, wet arc at the heads of the muggers…then chased them into the intersection, swinging the bucket and screaming profanities in this otherworldly voice that reverberated in my ears like a jackhammer.
When our assailants reached the other side of the street, he walked back, calmly set down the bucket in front of the market, put his hand on the small of my back, and led me into the store.
We bought our milk and walked home. I think I waited until we unlocked the door to ask:
‘Are we going to talk about what just happened?’
He shrugged…then smiled.”
Never Touch The Little Man
“I was in London back in 1998 taking classes at the LSE, and had made friends with a couple of expats.
A couple of us were having lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe on Piccadilly just across from Green Park. One of my friends, was a man I’ll call ‘Ted.’ Ted was just a little on the smaller side, and in his late thirties or early forties at the time. Because of an injury he sustained during his previous employment, one of the lenses in his glasses was very thick, and it gave him a bit of an odd look.
While we were eating our lunch, a gentleman, who seemed to be a bit inebriated, proceeded to look at Ted appraisingly, and then asked something to the effect of, ‘Why do you have to wear such ungodly, ugly glasses?’
Ted smiled, and nodded back at the man but didn’t answer. He tried to fob it off as the response to a joke. To be fair, those of us who knew Ted, always referred to them as his ‘birth control glasses,’ and it was a bit of a running joke. His face wasn’t disfigured or anything, but the lens in his eye had sustained damage that wasn’t surgically repairable at that time. Mind you, this familiarity was limited to close friends.
The man who asked decided he didn’t appreciate not being answered, so he continued. ‘Yo, Wanker, I was asking you a question. Don’t I get the respect of an answer?’, etc., etc.
The smile dropped from Ted’s face and he quietly answered ‘If it were any of your business, I’d tell you.’
The other guy stood up and slowly walked toward our table. Out of reflex, I picked up my knife by the handle and was ready to respond, but Ted looked at me and shook his head minutely. He whispered, ‘I’ve got this,’ and didn’t even stop eating his nachos.
His aggressor moved into easy range, and then Ted put down his fork and looked up at the other man. There was no emotion in his voice, and his face had lost all expression as he quietly asked the man, ‘Do you really want to do this?’
There is no accounting for common sense, and the gentleman clearly possessed none. At this point, all conversation at the surrounding tables had stilled and the room got that quiet you see in the old westerns just as the street duel begins. The aggressor reached for Ted’s shoulder, and with snakelike speed, Ted put out one hand, gripped somewhere on the other guy’s wrist, and in under a second the aggressor was on the floor. Ted didn’t release his grip, and in another second, the guy on the floor was writhing in pain. This all happened very quickly.
Ted leaned down and spoke to his attacker again. His voice never rose above a quiet conversational level. ‘You’re going to get up, clean up your mess (A water glass had been disturbed when he fell to the floor), leave your payment and a nice tip for the server on your table, and get out of here.’ He paused a moment to let it soak in, and then asked ‘Do you understand me?’
He waited a few moments too long, and Ted increased his grip pressure, causing an involuntary yelp from the attacker. It was all over at that point, and the man on the floor suddenly began to nod his head enthusiastically.
Ted released his grip, nodded and smiled at the aggressor, and returned to his meal as if nothing had transpired. The man got up and left, doing exactly as Ted had instructed. Conversation picked back up and a cute girl two tables over actually applauded. I chuckled and said ‘Well, shucks, Ted, remind me never to annoy you!’ He laughed back, and we continued our lunch, just as a manager belatedly appeared to assess what had happened.
A little back story on Ted. He had served for twenty years in the USMC and had suffered an eye injury in Kuwait during Desert Storm. Ted was a decorated Gunnery Sergeant, and he ended his career a year before this as a hand-to-hand combat instructor at USMCOCS Quantico. The inebriated guy at Hard Rock picked on the wrong little guy.”
The Wrong Jock To Mess With
“1979 Two incidents with the same person. I was at a well-known night spot called ‘Tumble Downs.’
I had just left the Junior Leaders (in the UK you can join the Army at 16) and I was going through what they call man service training. In those days it was still wooden huts and I’d seen this guy walking around camp who wasn’t what you would think most people in the army should be, fit athletic; most people would call him a bit of a porker and as I found out later, he was Scottish so he was called ‘Jock.’
Back to the night in question. So I’m 17 (how the bouncers ever let me in I don’t know as I looked like I was 12), I’m behind these guys trying to buy a drink and I spot the fat lad ‘Jock.’ He’s just got a drink and there are these guys standing next to him.
In those days the Paras (paratroopers) were a tad out of control at times, a bit more than your usual rivalry you would see between units.
Anyway I’m watching them because they’re clearly together being stupid and clearly Paras.
One of the Paras pushes ‘Jock’ and then shouts at Jock that he’d spilled his (the Para’s) drink. It was the sort of typical drama you used to get in those days. They clearly fancied a fight, spotted a fat lad that they thought would be a suitable target.
So this is where I get interested because Jock doesn’t do what most people do and say sorry they don’t want any trouble etc etc. He just looks at these guys and says, ‘No I didn’t.’ These guys look stunned — a bit of a confused moment (this isn’t going to plan) so this guy carries on.
‘You calling me a liar?’ because he’s escalating the situation now, working himself up.
Jock says, ‘YES I AM.’ I’m starting to laugh now, mainly nervous energy, but I’m thinking there’s a ton of Paras here; they want a fight and this guy is NOT worried at all, so there must be a reason.
So the Para then steps back and does a KungFu kid stance and Jock laughs at him and says, ‘What is that supposed to be? Tell you what. Why don’t we sort this out outside, me and all of you.’
So these guys, their eyes light up (they’re clearly not the brightest around, because they haven’t worked out why one guy is happy to take on five people — and I can only describe it as Jock was happy to do this). They rush out. He follows and I follow him, I have to watch this.
So they’re waiting. He just meanders out and goes, ‘OK, who’s first?’ and they all go for it.
I then have my very own ‘what is happening’ moment. Really it was bang bang bang, three guys on the floor, two others with blood coming out of their noses. The bouncers are looking worried and I’m still thinking did I just see?
Jock looks down at one of the guys and says something along the lines of, ‘If you want to play the big man, you’d best be a big man’ If you say that with a Scottish Glaswegian accent, you’ll get it.
He then says to the bouncers, ‘Sorry, guys, I don’t want any trouble,’ and goes back to the bar.
Four weeks later, I’m out for a run. I’m on my way back to camp and in the distance I can see Jock walking along the road and then stop, and look at this pub.
I’m catching up and there are some guys chucking stuff at him and then one of them throws a punch and yeah you get it more bish bosh and there are guys on the ground.
I’ve caught up now. The pub was a well known bikers pub and it’s full of bikers, they’ve clearly been drinking and there’s a load of guys trying to get out of the pub to ‘have at him’.
I’m crossing the road thinking I’ve no idea what I can do, but he’s in my Regiment I’m joining in even if I am going to get a beating.
He looks at me and shouts, ‘I’ve got this stay there,’ he’s smacked a couple of other guys and then reaches into an old Adidas bag he had and brings some nunchucks out of the bag. Now this is 1979 Bruce Lee was still alive and not many people really knew how to use them.
Man he knew, the bikers turn round and lock themselves into the pub, and he starts smashing their bikes up and these guys are just watching from the pub.
He smashed a couple more bikes and then just wanders off and I’m thinking I’d best get going, the police will be here soon.
The next day the local paper ran a headline ‘Kung Fu kid smashed up bike gang’s bikes.’
Fast-forward, four months, I’ve been posted to Germany, and we have a new guy posted to us, I’m thinking, ‘Great. I won’t be the new guy anymore,’ He’s been allocated a bed in our room (In those days if you were single, you lived in four-man rooms).
Guess what? In walks ‘Jock.’ I’m thinking I need to get to know this person, because the last thing you want to do is share a room with a nutter who knows what he is doing.
All I can say is, he was a top lad but you didn’t want to mess with him.
When I later asked him about the incident at the pub, and why he had nunchucks, he said, ‘Oh, they just saw some fat lad and started having a go at me.’ But he’d just come back from giving a nunchuck demonstration at a local dojo, and he’s a 5th Dan in taekwondo. Remember this is 1979; martial arts just wasn’t that big then.
Those were the days.”
A Sleeping Threat
“6 years ago I was sitting on the bus on my way to work. Across from me was a small guy maybe 5 feet 8 inches tall and 130 pounds. He was the only other person at the back of the bus. The story starts at the downtown stop where a heavy set guy maybe my height 6 feet tall and 190 pounds, gets on the bus and sits right next to the little fellow.
Now there were plenty of seats like I said it was just me and the little guy at the back and at this point and with them sitting directly in front of me maybe 3 feet away I had a front row seat to the following exchange. ‘Dude, there’s plenty of seats. Why did you sit right next to me?’ When big guy spoke I realized he was actually quite inebriated at 7:30am and he basically told the smaller guy to get lost and closed his eyes.
My attention goes back to my phone as neither one said anything and about 2 minutes later, unprompted inebriated at 7:30am guy gets up and says ‘lets fight’ I look up and it’s too late, he’s throwing huge haymakers at this little guy and I kid you not, the smaller man blocked and countered every single blow! He wasn’t mighty or big, but he was fast and obviously trained.
After about 5 counter shots to the head the bigger guy went down, all his crack change and junk in his sweater pockets went flying, one of his shoes came off if I remember correctly. He picked himself up with a bloody nose and crossed the street scowling back at the bus.
Turns out little guy worked across the street from me. The bus was stopped while the police responded, so we walked together the rest of the way. I told him he did the right thing and it was pretty awesome. He told me about the martial arts he took and I told him if any legal ramifications came up I would gladly talk to the police and attest to him simply defending himself, but I never heard anything.”
Man Vs A Gang
So ‘Frank’ was a substances dealer and in general a hoodlum and a criminal. He was also an epic baller. I’m not speculating about Frank, I put him in prison for a few years, and he later told me he was guilty of way more than the weapons charges I locked him up for. The epic bad assery will become self-evident.
Frank operated and lived in a baaaaad neighborhood totally run by a gang. Frank started doing crimes and selling substances in the neighborhood. So the gang approached him and asked him to join. Didn’t make threats, just wanted to recruit him. Frank didn’t make any threats either, but declined. Said he wasn’t much of a joiner and just wanted to do his own thing. ‘Leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone,’ he said.
The gang members sent to recruit Frank reported this back to the leadership of the gang. It was decided this could not be allowed. They owned the neighborhood, no independent dealing allowed. So the gang sent a couple enforcers to throw Frank around. Frank knocked one out right off and stopped beating on the second guy, so he could drag his unconscious buddy out of there. The second guy was more than pleased to do so, rather than receive a further butt kicking.
Frank considered this a declaration of war. He proceeded to visit any dealing location the gang ran that he could find. Turns out he could find them all, even when they moved. The gang usually ‘posted up’ one or two guys to sell or supervise selling at any given location. Frank would march in, beat up any gang members there, take their substances and money, and leave. Some gang members had weapons. Frank would take those too. God forbid one pulled something on him, that guy would end up in an ambulance!
Predictably the gang saw this as a major problem requiring a major solution. They decided that since Frank never used a weapon on them, they would be seen as weak needing to use a weapon on Frank. So eight gang members were sent to lie in wait for Frank in an abandoned lot they knew Frank crossed to get to his house. Sure enough late in the evening here comes Frank. They surround him and set upon him. Fists flew like a karate movie. End result: Frank had a fat lip, six gang members were unconscious, and two ran away.
The police were called by a resident observing this free-for-all. I ended up responding. I found one guy kind of crawling around moaning and five unconscious dudes. I called an ambulance but they all refused treatment. They also refused to tell me what happened. Typical gang members, it gave me no heartburn to just drive away. Having a lump on your head or a broken nose in public is no crime, and nobody would say a thing about what happened. Of course Frank was long gone.
Some weeks later before anyone was killed in this ‘war,’ I ended up paying Frank a visit. He was on felony probation and his probation officer had heard Frank was dealing (true). He asked my partner and me to come along for his safety (wise, our probation officers are unarmed). I helped the probation officer inside while my partner watched Frank on the front stoop as Frank had a smoke. Lo and behold a sawed-off and an AK were under Frank’s mattress! I turned and headed for the door to arrest Frank. As soon as he heard me coming he bolted. My partner and I give chase. I was young and fast but holy moley, Frank was just as fast and had better wind. This guy was in phenomenal shape! We lost him in the neighborhood and he got away. Looking back I’m kind of glad I didn’t catch up to him!
To shorten things, we ended up catching Frank days later. He was charged with the weapons and did 4 1/2 years or so in the pen. He later told me we missed a big bunch of crack rocks hidden outside in a hollow tree stump. I guess we inadvertently did the gang a big favor. This is not the end of the story, not nearly. Bear with this long answer; the ending is a doozy.
So fast forward five years. I’m now a big shot working for the state and on a federal task force. Frank comes out of prison in even better shape than he went in. But he has a daughter born while he was in prison. She’s 5, cute as a button, and the apple of her father’s eye.
Frank has had years to reflect on his choices and life in general. He wants to go straight so he can help to raise his little girl and live to see her graduate high school. Frank actually gets a job as an events planner, one of those rare post-sentence jobs programs helps. He wears a ‘stupid uniform,’ his words, and does a great job at work. He’s not a dumb guy, nor lazy. He also, thanks to an understanding baby momma, sees his daughter all the time. He takes to walking her home from Head Start since he works a later shift. He still lives in the same baaaaad neighborhood.
One fine spring day a member of the same gang ‘talks smack’ to Frank. Frank, being a different guy, doesn’t immediately punch the guy out. He does, however, say, ‘step to me or take yourself home.’ Gang member literally does as commanded and goes home, with a ‘thought so!’ thrown at his back by Frank for good measure. The gang member tries to just keep this quiet, it’s rather embarrassing. But bystanders quickly relate the story to the gang’s leaders.
The gang has, as the years have gone by, become both bigger and more violent. No longer do they even think about avoiding weapons. The leaders recruit a hit man and a driver from within their ranks. This cannot be allowed to stain the gang’s reputation. A weapon is provided. The entire gang is told to report back if they see Frank out in public where he can be taken down.
Not long goes by and Frank is seen walking his daughter home from school. The hit man is sent on his mission. A car comes to an abrupt halt five yards or so behind Frank and his daughter on a public street. The assassin leaps out. Frank sees the weapon and knows exactly what time it is. Frank immediately picks up his daughter shielding her with his body and running away as the assassin opens up. The shooter empties the weapon at Frank. Since a gang member is attempting to operate the weapon, Frank is only hit three times in the back and falls to the pavement, his daughter under him. A hole has been shot in her ‘Hello Kitty’ backpack, but thank God she is not hit. If Frank had pushed her away rather than picked her up she probably would have been hit as many rounds go wild. I respond to the crime scene. The shooter is apprehended about 1/2 mile away still running. The weapon, rubber gloves, and a hoodie are found discarded along his path of flight.
Frank is hospitalized, the top of one lung shot off and two other lesser wounds. I help interview him in the hospital. Frank, surprisingly, agrees to forgo direct vengeance to let us, the cops, have a chance at prosecuting his assailants. We offer to move him, he declines. We offer him protection, he declines. He says, ‘I told you I won’t go after them, and I won’t. But they come after me… man can defend himself, right?’ Frank being Frank he eventually makes a full recovery. He walks the streets head up, defiant. He publicly announces he will testify, try to stop me.
The heinous crime against Frank and his daughter becomes the straw that breaks the camel’s back for the gang. The United States Attorney’s Office agrees to open a RICO case against the entire gang. I’m to be one of the case agents.
Fast-forward several years again. 25+ gang members go to state prison and 28 are indicted federally for RICO violations. All but three plead guilty, including the assassin in a murder (unrelated to Frank) that occurs during the investigation. The three who go to trial are the overall leader of the gang, and the driver and shooter from Frank’s assault.
Frank testifies at the trial. His testimony is riveting, unflinching, and pivotal. Also brave. Not for facing down the gang members, clearly he has done that for years. He faces down his past. He tells the jury he’s a bad guy. He’s a convicted felon and justly convicted. He’s dealt substances. He’s hurt people. He’s robbed people. He’s been to prison and deserved more years than he got. His testimony is so riveting and downright honest, even about himself, that the defense attorneys eventually just want this man off the stand and stop asking him questions.
The gang leader gets 43 years, the shooter 35, and the driver 24 years. The other 25 federal defendants all get prison sentences between 2.5 and 43 years. They are dispersed throughout the federal prison system and not allowed to contact each other. Another 25 or so have gone to state prison through the course of the investigation. All the leadership, all the enforcers and everyone in the gang we can show ever touched a weapon go to prison. The gang is formally found to be a criminal racketeering organization.
The gang is decimated. It never recovers. Other gangs eventually operate in the area but the gang in question is a mere shadow of itself never regaining anything like its former membership or power. It basically never has good leadership or ‘rep’ again and disintegrates.
Frank has not yet seen his daughter graduate high school, but she’s close. He stayed out of prison and jail and continues to work. He reports that no one has ever threatened him again. He says, ‘only reason they were in a gang is they scared. Wimps. They used to run home to momma when they saw me comin’, now they gotta look at her through glass.’
The entire gang totally picked a fight with the wrong guy.”
Lucky He Went Easy
“I can think of one time, a really long time ago, that I will NEVER forget. I personally picked a fight with someone I shouldn’t have. My dad was an Air Force officer and we lived on an airbase. I was a 16-year-old high school kid, and at 6’3 and 180 lbs was pretty well convinced I didn’t have to take a lot off of anyone.
One afternoon after a heavy rain, I was walking on the sidewalk with a couple of friends and a government car passed us at pretty high speed and hit a huge puddle splashing a lot of muddy water on us. We were soaked, muddy, and angry! I started yelling, holding up a middle finger, and generally acting like a serious punk. The car slowed, made a u-turn and came back toward us, made another u-turn and pulled up beside us rolling down the window. The driver leaned over and apologized saying he was in a hurry and would be glad to pay for cleaning our clothes, but he had to go right then.
An otherwise calm, reasonable, mature person would have said thanks for coming back and apologizing, but we’re okay.
But… I said, ‘How about I just kick your butt?’
He said, ‘I understand you’re angry. I do have to go now, but if you want to meet me at the base gym Friday evening around 5:30, we can go at it, if still you want to.’
I said, ‘Yeah, you’re on, I’ll be there!’
Word about the big butt-kicking spread around the base like lightning. Friday evening the gym was almost full, kids from school, airmen, moms, dads, siblings, civilian workers, dogs and cats… (you get the picture).
As we waited, I was getting really worried because this didn’t seem like a good idea – even when I was yelling at the guy the afternoon of the great soaking. But, I didn’t see the guy or his car and was starting to think, ‘Whew, that was close…’
Then, I looked outside just as his car pulled up, stopped, and he started getting out of it… and kept getting out of it… and kept getting out of it. He was one of the biggest humans that I’d ever seen, but I was already in and there was no getting out of it. He walked up and said Hi, that it was good to see me again, but he was still in uniform and needed to go change, would I wait just a minute? All I could say was sure, I’d wait…
My friends were panicking, starting to leave and telling me I should go now also, now, just go now. The guy came out of the changing room wearing a white judo gi with a black belt. He walked up, calmly, with no hostility and asked if I was ready. I said yeah, I was, and asked him if he needed to warm up or anything. He just grinned and said No, he was OK. I started bouncing around trying to shake out my tension, hoping at least not to get immediately pounded into unrecognizable paste, when he looked around and loudly said, ‘You know, we could just duke it out. I can see you’re ready, but I think there might be a better way of handling this.’
I was stunned, just looked at him, and finally asked what he had in mind. He said his weekly judo class was about to start and that I and my friends were welcome to attend. And if we liked it, we could join it regularly – and then he winked at me and said not to worry, there was usually plenty of opportunity in the sparring to do a little butt-kicking now and then.
The class sounded like a great idea for a lot of obvious reasons! As I glanced at all the disappointed people leaving, I saw my dad standing over by the wall, he just shook his head and mouthed ‘Dumb!’ to me. Turned out my new judo teacher was the Air Force judo champion – it also turned out that I was one of the very few people on the base who didn’t know that…”
Grandpa Wasn’t Taking That
“I haven’t been in a whole lot of fights in my life. In fact, I haven’t really been in any fights, although I’ve been very close to several. I’m definitely not the fighting type of person. Although the same can’t be said for some other members of my family.
My grandpa is a tough, old fisherman that has been in a few tussles in his life. Exactly how many is open to debate because of his predilection for embellishment, but even as a kid I knew he was one tough son of a kraken.
I only saw him get into one fight, but it was a good one. Most of the time just his mere presence was enough to calm even the most belligerent of inebriated adversaries. And he certainly wasn’t a bully or someone that looked for fights.
But, he was very, very, protective of his grand daughters, and didn’t tolerate anyone being unpleasant to us.
Because that made our grandpa very, very, mad, and grandpa is one guy you definitely didn’t want to make very, very, mad.
The one real altercation that we saw grandpa partake was in a sleazy bar on Cape Ann. The place reeked of fish, which we didn’t really mind, but everyone looked scruffy, seedy, in desperate need of washing, and quite inebriated.
Our grandpa isn’t in the habit of taking us to dive bars, but we needed a place to meet our father, and this place was recommended by a fishmonger that our grandpa found passed out in some alley. Not exactly the type of person that we would seek advice from, but to our grandpa the man was a local, so he had to know the best places.
Although I’m sure grandpa felt right at home in the bar, we couldn’t help noticing that we were the only women in the place. We tried to blend in, but the fact that we were sober Icelandic twins that happened to look like elves, made us stand out from the locals a bit.
So our gregarious grandpa went over to a table where the guys still looked coherent enough to exchange some fishermen lies, while Anna and I sat at a table by ourselves, looking down at some foul tasting drink that we hoped would magically disappear.
It wasn’t too bad, because at least grandpa was having fun, and our father would be arriving soon.
Two particularly stinky, hammered, and toothless individuals decided that we might enjoy the pleasure of their company. Not exactly guys that offered stimulating intellectual conversation, but we tried to be friendly.
It soon became apparent that the two inebriated dipsomaniacs had other things besides conversation on their minds. As enticing as the offer of bacchanalian delights from the two smelly and inebriated gentlemen was, we politely declined, and got up to talk to our grandpa on the other side of the room.
But as we got up and starting to walk away, one of the scruffy fellows suddenly reached out and grabbed my sister’s braid. He pulled her toward him and wrapped his foul arms around her.
I could see Anna reaching into her purse, and I knew that it wasn’t going to end well for the two gentlemen if Anna got to whatever it was she was reaching for, so I just put two of my fingers together and jabbed them into the assailant’s eye.
He let out quite a yell, but let Anna go. But the other scruffy guy came over and was about to try to assist the first cretin, but all of a sudden I saw our grandpa grab the two guys by their shirts, and throw them into the bar.
Of course this didn’t exactly improve the mood of the drunkards, and one picked up a bottle and staggered to his feet. Our grandpa didn’t wait for the scruffy fellow to attack, but picked up a chair, and snapped a rather large leg off with his bare hands.
Grandpa then took the leg and threw it right at the guys head. His aim was true, and it got him right in the forehead. The guy just stood there for a second before a torrent of blood suddenly exploded where the leg hit him. He just went down to one knee while trying to stop the tsunami of blood pouring out of his forehead.
The other dolt ran up and threw a punch at grandpa, but was so hammered that he missed and almost fell down. I thought grandpa was going to choke the fool into another time zone, but instead just stood still while the guy straightened up and stepped back.
And then our grandpa casually stepped forward and kicked the veck right in the yarbles with enough force to make every guy in the bar grimace, and let out a loud, collected moan of empathy.
Anna and I never really saw a guy get a proper kick to the groin, so we were kind of curious to see what would happen. Surprisingly the guy just stood there staring at the floor for a couple of seconds without making a sound.
Perhaps the copious amounts of drink that he consumed dulled the inevitable for a moment or two. But reality overtook the effects of the grog, and the man slowly opened his mouth, gave a pitiful groan, and vomited vast amounts of something on the floor. And then he slowly fell forward. Right into the something.
Then grandpa dragged the two outside, and deposited them on top of a large heap of bagged trash that was outside the bar.
By that time, all three of us figured it was definitely time to leave. Grandpa went back in and put some money on the bar and apologized to the barman. But the bar guy just laughed and said don’t worry about it. In fact, he invited all three of us back the next time we were in the area. Although I doubt if we’ll be returning to the fine establishment anytime soon.
As we were walking away our father drove up. and once we were in the car, he asked what we did while we were waiting for him. I told him we spent some time in a quaint little bar, learning more about the local customs of the indigenous people. Then my sister gave her mischievous laugh, and added that grandpa even helped take out the trash.”
Messed With The Wrong Woman
“Last September (2018) I was visiting Atlanta. It was Fall, the leaves had turned and with the days shortening it was a cool evening. I was sitting in the parking lot of The Varsity getting ready to eat my ‘to go’ bag meal and sort of looked out around in front of the car watching the bustling city go by. About 75 feet in front of me, across the street, is a BP gas station with a MARTA bus stop. The benches of the bus stop were parallel to the street and I could see a little old lady perched quietly at the end of the bench seat. She was a TINY little Asian woman, almost like a child. Some ethnic groups are timeless in appearance, so I don’t know if she was 60 or 100 years old. Wearing an enormous vest with the puffy eiderdown-like stuffing, on her tiny frame, it looked like an airbag had exploded, and she climbed in. I mean if the poor old girl didn’t look so stoic and genteel it would have almost looked comical. Her purse/bag was clutched in her lap like precious cargo. I wondered why she was alone in this part of town. I went back to my chicken sandwich, side of nuggets, fries and of course in Atlanta it better be Coke.
Maybe five minutes later I saw some movement at the bus stop. Two teens had wandered up to the bench where the woman was sitting. You could see they were talking to her and one stood at the end of the bench while the other sat beside her, trapping her in between them. Their unkempt appearance and the way they kept glancing around told me they were up to no good. The wizened little old lady just sat silent, staring straight ahead. The teen sitting beside her began to scoot his butt towards her trying to push her off the end of the bench. You could see her tense up to resist; but, his weight was probably twice hers and she began to shift right. The boy standing next to her leaned into her from the other direction reaching for her bag. It happened so fast my jaw dropped.
Looking left, the woman’s right hand came across her body with fingers extended like three prongs and touched/prodded/poked/jabbed (I’m not sure what she did) somewhere behind the ear/back of the neck area of the fella sitting next to her. I don’t know if it was a pressure point or nerve or what; but, the right arm/right side of the kid went instantly limp. He stooped over and his right arm just fell to the bench useless. Needless to say, he stopped pushing her. As her right arm retracted from the blow she drove her elbow into the groin of the teen standing to her right. You could see him wince in pain; but, it was all a silent pantomime and bending from the waist he was also met with a touch/prod/poke/jab from her left hand to his neck area. Down he went like a sack of potatoes. There was no dramatic expression from the woman. It was like bip, bap, boop. Matter resolved. It was over in two seconds. Downright phenomenal to see and if I had blinked, I would have missed it.
The little lady straightened on her perch and regained her regal bearing. The two boys lay on the ground writhing for about five minutes and then slowly stumbled off as they were able and feeling returned to their extremities. It was a made for the movies moment complete with tiny little woman Kung Fu master, obliterating the evil attackers with taps and prods. A priceless moment I will not soon forget.”
Never Mess With His Parents
“Once upon a time, my parents hired a company to redo their kitchen. They were basically supposed to change the marble countertops.
The company was formed by a husband, wife and three employees.
They set up the countertops and soon realized a minor part of the marble did not fit exactly. They had to take the small bit that didn’t fit back to their headquarters to redo the work.
At that point, my parents had already paid 90% of the price.
One week later they came back without prior notice and gained access to their apartment through the maid, who opened the door to let them finish the job.
My parents were out on an errand.
After the contractors finished their job, the owner called my father on his mobile and told him the job was completed.
Since there had been problems with the execution before, my father told the man that he would come back home in about an hour, check the quality of the final touches and promptly pay the remaining 10% of the price.
The man went ape and told my father that payment was due on the spot.
My parents interrupted what they were doing and hurried back home.
But at this point the contractor was already mad at them and took out every single bit of marble he had put in place and put it all in his van. Never mind the fact that, as I said, 90% was already paid for.
Upon arriving home, my father noticed that all the stuff he paid for was in the van and being taken away.
He is a man of action, and promptly put himself in front of the van to impede its exit.
The contractor did not back down and just ran over my father, who was 65 at the time.
His bruises were not grave, but he filed criminal suit against the man.
The problem is that he hired a company, so he didn’t know the contractor’s name. And to file suit against someone, you must indicate his name, of course.
The police weren’t very eager to determine the identity of the perpetrator. And that’s when my parents called me.
I dived into the matter and found out not only his name and address, but several lawsuits against this guy and his wife. They took several loans and had not repaid them, they sold real estate and did not deliver, they crossed many people in business deals. In short, they owed a lot of people and banks in consequence of morally doubtful behavior.
And they had empty apartments in Copacabana, a very prized area of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
I gave the Police the name of the guy and, on the side, purchased some credits against them owned by financial institutions.
I represented my parents in the criminal lawsuit against these people and got them sentenced to jail (the husband) and reparation (the wife).
But I also pursued the exaction of the debts I bought and, six years later, I got one of their apartments as repayment of one of the debts.
Now I am still waiting for judicial decision on the second apartment. It seems I will also take this one.
The best part is that I paid only 25 thousand reais to buy the credit and the apartments are worth, together, a little under 1 million reais.
This guy should not have run over my dear father… I bet this is one decision he regrets every day.”