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Yesterday, I missed my daily update.  I’m sure you were all worried about me.  (I knew there was a reason I love you guys!)  For that, I thank you, and I present the explanation as to why I was absent.

Note:  I am not proud of this story, but it is what it is.  If you are bothered by violence, or human suffering in general, I warn you, don’t read this.

I have returned to civilization from the frozen expanse that is northern Canada.  I spent yesterday traveling (hence my first failure to make a daily post), hours by car and by plane, trapped in close confines with people I would rather not be near, and assaulted by conflicting aromas of dried meat, sweat, and old lady perfume, three scents that, their powers combined, become a force of nature.  Having tolerated it with all the grace I could muster after weeks of isolation in pristine boreal forest, I felt like having a beer, so I walked around the little town I’m working in for this last week and hit the first bar I found.

The place was a dive.  Swayze himself couldn’t have broken up a fight there.  Dim lights, dirty walls, and a human stink so palpable I could, quite literally, taste it in the back of my mouth.  Salty, and slightly acrid.  It was truly foul.  But I wanted that beer.  So I sat at a table and waited for the waitress, who was about as rude as imaginable.  She wouldn’t accept a debit card, so I had to get money from the ATM.  (Earning the bar another $3.00 in the process.  Bastards.)  I tipped her extra for the trouble I had caused.  She just smirked and walked away.

I quickly realized that the bar wasn’t outsider friendly.  People kept looking at me and talking.  I kept hearing the word “fag” bandied about, which led me to consider my attire.  I was in my standard Don’t-Die-In-The-Frozen-North attire.  Black merino wool shirt.  Black fleece pants.  Black wool beanie.  Black North Face boots and coat.  Lots of black, granted, but it keeps you warmer if it happens to be sunny, and the athletic cut of it all shows off my physique nicely.  (It’s not vanity, it’s poor self esteem and an overwhelming need to be found attractive.  Shut up, you’re missing the story.)  Couple it all to a four-week-old Canadian beard, and I thought I looked pretty damned good, like I should have been on one of those posters you see at outdoor equipment stores, scaling a sheer rock face or wrestling a moose by the antlers or something.

The regulars, however, thought I looked like “a fuckin’ liberal”.  I am, but that is, apparently, to be frowned upon.  (I also fail to see how they ascertained my political inclinations based on my rugged yet rather dashing appearance.  But I digress.)  But I wanted that beer.  No, at this point, I fucking deserved that beer.  So I smiled cheerfully at them, raised my bottle in a friendly toast, and watched the Super Bowl.  They were rooting for the Patriots.  So was I.  But I cheered the Giants, because the regulars cheered the Patriots.  Because I am petty, and fuck them.


However, despite my best anti-Patriots sentiments and my liberal-hippie-fag appearance, one of the women found me attractive, and proceeded to tell me so.  I have frequently said that I love women regardless of their appearance, and it’s true.  But couple a generally sleazy, trashy exterior to a vapid interior, and wrap it all in a Jim Beam label, and I am pointedly repulsed.  Yet I am a rather polite lad, so I did my best to hold a conversation with the young old lady.

Her boyfriend didn’t like her talking to me, and expressed his distaste by yanked her away from the table so hard she yelped in pain.  He then leaned down into my face and accused me of… fuck if I know, actually.  There was something about “his” woman and my intentions, but I was too distracted by “his” woman.  She had tears in her eyes and was rubbing her arms where he had grabbed her.  I could see red handprints.

I got to my feet and ignored the guy.  I walked around him and approached her.  I asked her if she was okay.  She looked confused by my concern, and frightened.

I want to preface the following by saying that I despise violence.  Fighting is dangerous, and anyone who enjoys it, or goes looking for it, is seriously fucked up.  But I got my ass kicked enough in high school that I know what it feels like to be hurt, and to be afraid, and I would never wish those feelings on anyone.  So I spent a very long time learning how to defend myself and others.  When I felt confident, I taught free practical self defense courses at a local women’s shelter near my hometown.  Some of those women had stories that still give me nightmares.  And that experience made me very, very volatile when it comes to abuse.

People say time seems to slow down when you fight, but that’s not accurate.  The flood of adrenaline makes you hyperaware.  It makes me remember every detail of every fight I’ve ever been in.  So I remember exactly how the guy’s face looked when I wheeled on him and struck him square in the throat with my left elbow.  When he staggered backward, he looked surprised.  Then the pain hit, he looked ill.  When he fell back against the table and fell on the ground, clutching his throat, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, he looked terrified.  When he could breathe again after a few seconds, he gagged, and looked sick again.  When his abused girl ran to him, screaming, he looked humiliated.  When he pushed her away, making her fall over a chair, he looked angry again.

I don’t know what I looked like as I jumped on him, sat on his chest, and beat him.

It makes me sick thinking about it.  It really does.  I’m not proud, at all.  I’m ashamed of myself for not having more control.  But fuck, she was just checking on him.  She wanted to make sure he was okay.  Stockholme Syndrome maybe, or true love that knows no boundaries.  I don’t know.  But I just fucking lost it.  And I beat him until the skin over my knuckles and elbow tore.  Until I heard what I suspect was his jaw cracking.  Until a heavy boot kicked me in the ribs and sent me flying across the bar.

No amount of training can stop you from getting your ass beat and thrown out into the street by five-plus guys.

I spent last night at an emergency room, getting stitched and x-rayed to the point of developing superpowers.  Fortunately, nothing is broken, except my sense of self-worth.  I am, however, incredibly sore, bruised, and stiff, and there was a bit of blood in my urine.

But the pain pills are delicious.



  1. Omg you wonderful heroic man. Sorry it ended up so badly for you but good for you anyway. He deserved an ass kicking. You, however, did not. Take care of yourself.

    • Thank you!! I don’t know if I’m blushing because I can’t feel my face. Drugs are nice like that.

  2. You’re awesome, Bimodal. I don’t know if there is anything else I can say to that. But, regardless of the pain… You Rock!

    • Thank you kindly. But I don’t know if I would agree. I’m really quite ashamed of myself. I should have handled it differently. Talked him down, or hit him once and left it at that. I dunno. Not sure there is any other way it could have gone down.

      • Don’t be too hard on yourself (easy for me to say when I’m not the one with all the bruises). You can’t talk guys like him down. And you would have only hit him once, if he had learned his lesson the first time and not pushed his girl again. It is what it is. Don’t fret too much. And enjoy those narcotics!

        ps-It crackes me up, the comments on this post… All us girls fawning over you.

  3. Thank God for fucking hippie liberals who happen to dress well and behave chivalrously…

    • I love this. Though I wouldn’t call my attire that night well-dressed. Just practical and comfortable. And form fitting. I like form fitting.

      Thanks Michaela!!

  4. I love how you write. I could almost see it all going down. There aren’t enough people that stand up for people that are in trouble. It’s a commendable thing you did for her.

    I feel silly saying it makes you sound ridiculously hot and sexy, but if I didn’t say it it’d be like I was lying.

    • Thanks TT!

      No worries. I’ll take ridiculously hot and sexy over volatile and bruised any day. 😉

  5. Rule of thumb – get in there quick before anyone expects it… Good for you to defend her… Sounds like there would have been a fight anyway the way things were going…
    Hope you’re mending well…

    • Yeah, I’m not the most subtle person around. Being a wiseass doesn’t help much, either.

  6. Not a nice story but – such a great piece of writing!

  7. … and I hope you feel better!

  8. Terrific – what’s beyond a full-blown crush? Because, yeah. There ya go.

    I’m incredibly sorry about your night. More sorry about how you feel about it than what you did, though. If I were bigger and stronger, trained in something, I’d have done just what you did. We need men like you in the world.

    Her defense of him is about the abusive relationship, not anything else. Can you imagine what he’d do to her if she hadn’t rushed to his side? She was fucked either way.


  9. were they filming “what would you do?” at the bar?

    kudos to you for being such a man.

    and enjoy the vicodin. yum. and couple it with a beer. it goes down better.


  10. Ooops! Sorry about that. Broken self worth? Don’t be. What you did was just the perfect combination of a humane spirit and animalistic instinct. 🙂

  11. I was commenting the other day on another blog with a martial arts fella on here, how people don’t like to get involved nor do they take a stand on this type of thing. I’m glad to see, despite totally being outnumbered, that you stood up for what you believe in. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I was a guy so I could slap the snot (and I do not condone violence either, mind you) out of some abusive ass who acted in this way.

    Good for you. How are you feeling today? (I read your last post first and then this one) … the woman in that story over there, yah… she’s an idiot. I agree with you.

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