In my younger years we would have looked at the greasy haired guy and called him a hesher. Tall and skinny with long dirty blonde hair and a shirt that said Detroit Rock City he looked like he hadn’t bathed in months and he drove that old Camaro like an angry New York City cab driver.
It was his driving that garnered my attention. He was weaving in and out of the lanes fighting to get ahead. A big man in desperate need to get somewhere quickly he only managed to force me to slam on by brakes three times in three minutes. By the third time I was ready to forcibly remove his head from his shoulders and turn it into a hood ornament.
I told him so at a stop light and forgot about him, but he didn’t forget about me. He followed me down the street to my the parking lot of my office and confronted me in the lot.
When he unleashed a string of profanities in my direction I turned to face him. He as a few inches taller than me but not nearly as broad. Callused hands on small wrists were connected to a wiry body and a mouth that was as dirty as his hair.
I responded to his tirade by smiling at him and encouraging him to try an impossible anatomical feat. He returned the favor by launching a swift kick at my midsection. I tried to dodge but was a hair slow and took his foot into right side. The force of the blow and the momentum from my attempt to dodge it threw me back into the car.
And with that he was on top of me, raining punches down upon my body. I wasn’t willing to be used as a punching bag so I did what I could to defend myself. I was forced to suffer the indignity of being struck in the head twice, but I managed to wrap my arms around his body and slam him to the ground.
I made sure that my knee landed in his gut and followed that with a short headbut. For a moment we rolled around the parking lot as we strove to get the upper hand. The asphalt was hot. I could feel my leg burning, but since it was wrapped around his I couldn’t afford to release him.
Eventually I managed to get him in a headlock from which I was able to give him a personal introduction to the bumper of Jimmy Jack’s shiny Lexus. He was a slow learner and I was afraid to let him go on his own so I made sure to reintroduce him to the car.
I was about to help him meet some others when I was grabbed from behind by two people. It took a moment to realize that the object across my throat was a shiny police nightstick and that the man trying to restrain me was a cop.
A few hours later I sat in a cell at the station wondering how a sunny day had turned out to be so bad. When I made bail my lawyer explained to me that the charges had been dropped because the man I had been fighting was Kevin Beardsley, the ultimate fighting champion of the lightweight division.
I had gotten lucky that day because by all rights he should have left me lying on the ground, but somehow I had done more than prevent that. I had managed to not only take him out but send him to the hospital. I wondered if I could ask for his belt. I deserved some kind of prize.
(This was a work of fiction that I wrote in 23 minutes. If you want to know why I wrote it, all I can tell you is because, well just because.)