Folks, I have spent nine years of my life in the US Army, 27 months of that in Iraq. I've been shot at, blown up, firebombed, hit with VBIED's, the works. Next week, I'm going to be jumping from aircraft going 135 knots at 1,250 feet. But today, something happened that may be the most dangerous... and the most unintentionally hilarious.
Upon finishing said noms, I pay, get up and leave, but stop briefly at the restroom. Once done with my business, I walk out back to return to my truck.
Oh, and Bubba, Skeeter, and Cooter standing between me and my truck probably didn't help too much, either.
Now, I have been in situations similar to this before. Remember, before I was a soldier, I was the nerdy kid in the back of the class, the guy that even the hardcore D&D nerds would pick on. So I was initially okay. I smiled, and made to go around them.
They stepped back in my path.
Again, I'm a little on edge, but nothing major, no fear, only a heightened sense of things. I kept my smile, and said, "Uh, can I help you gentlemen?"
"Yeah, you can not bring your ****-licking fa**ot a** around here."
I then notice that he is staring not at my face, but at my shirt, which bears a certain orange farm-mare bouncing a mug of cider on her head, and reads, "Drink Cider, Learn Nothing."
Now, I would love to say that when the lunged for me, I used my uber-ninja Army training to lock them up in an arm bar and delight in the sharp snapping of their bones, revel in their cries of agony, lick up their tears, etc. But the truth is I never saw it coming, or maybe just never thought ANYONE could be so stupid as to assault a guy for wearing a fu**ing pony shirt. Sadly, I was wrong, and Cooter and Skeeter shoved me back hard, and I got knocked straight on my a**.
Bubba had pulled out a knife. I don't know what kind, only that it was a big fu**ing knife held by a guy whose IQ was outclassed by his shoe size, currently glaring hatred at me for my perceived homosexuality. "Maybe I oughta cut that c**k-sucking tongue right outta yer head, boy!"
Now, it was apparent to me that, upon seeing my shirt adorned with a pastel-colored talking pony, they immediately assumed me to be helpless and weak. Most likely they figured I would cry, beg for mercy. They would then laugh at me, maybe kick me a few times, then go home, drink a beer, laugh at what they'd done. Obviously, they did not, however, expect me to do what I did: reach into my waistband and produce this:
Yes, I carry concealed. Yes, it's a .45 ACP loaded with hollow points. Yes, I'm awesome... or maybe not. See, I wish I could tell you that I said some incredibly badass action movie one-liner. "Make a move, sunshine!" "Wanna say that again, Bobby Ray?" "Drop the knife before I love and tolerate the sh** outta you!" But all I actually said was:
"Get the f**k away from me!" And no, it was not in some Bruce Willis badass gravelly tone. It was more akin to a squirrel who got his nuts trapped in a chainsaw after a weekend at Charlie Sheen's house.
Upon seeing my piece, All three Special Ed-ers had an instant demeanor change. All their hands went up, a couple of shouts of apologies or mumbled "nevermind's", and they ran off, hopped in their truck(yes, it was a rebel flag in the rear window) and screeched off. I just sat their for a few minutes, then drove home, and smoked the first cigarette I've smoked in four months.
Anyway, I got home, smoked, then I went on Skype and tole my buddies about it. Then, I called the cops, a uni came by and took the statement, told me they'd be calling me. Honestly, I didn't have a lot to tell him. I was kinda a bit to concentrated on almost having to kill a man.
Now yes, I hear you. I have been in much more dnagerous situations than that. I've had 7.62mm AK-47 rounds bounce not three inches from my foot, hit a pressure plate IED that was connected to two 155mm artillery rounds, had a molotov cocktail thrown on top of my tank. All of those would rank much higher on the "Pants-Sh**-o-Meter" normally. But this wasn't combat. This wasn't me in a uniform in a war zone, armed with my M4, ready to kill. This was me walking back from dinner. I wasn't thinking what were the best infil and exfil routes from the restaurant, or where the nearest cover and concealment was; I was planning the next story of my f**king fan fiction! Just walking along, thinking of poni poni poni, then BAM! Some inbred hick makes to shank my a**, and I have to pull a ******* gun to defend myself. Good times.
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Damon Howe, on 12 April 2013 - 04:13 AM, said:
