Yabbut, did he did it in a Catholic School Girl Uniform?
Evidently the Catholic school girl is the North American equivalent of the anime-famous Japanese school girl, as far as superpowers go.
But that’s the best part! The little twerp really had it coming.
I remember watching something about this on TV. When the Rangers found him, he politely asked for a ride to the hospital. It’s an amazing story…
My family apparently has something about leg injuries.
When I was about 10 and my brother about 12, we were visiting my grandmother’s farm in Minnesota. She had a little motorbike in the barn from somewhere, and my brother liked riding it around.
One day, he came back walking the bike with blood streaming down his leg. Apparently, he’d laid it down going over a bridge somewhere; when the bike went down, the side mirror shattered, and a few huge pieces of glass had gone deep into his leg. He hadn’t been able to restart the bike, so he walked it home, about two miles, on his injured leg. I watched them rinse out the wound and take out several pieces of glass; seriously gross. Even with all the stitches, it never healed really well, and he still has a huge scar. For years, small pieces of glass would work their way to the surface.
The second one, I only witnessed the aftermath: my dad was cutting wood for the winter, by himself, and hit a knot with his chainsaw. The saw bucked and went into his upper leg. Since he was alone, he had to get back to the truck, drive himself to the hospital, and get stitches. With a chainsaw wound to his freakin’ leg. And as with every other wound he ever got, he took the stitches out himself.
After my parents divorced when I was about 10, in the late 70’s, my mom started dating a Vietnam vet (he was commander of a long range reconnaissance patrol there, with a couple bullet wounds to boot, and drove a convertible classic Mustang with a fancy 8-track. So pretty bad-ass already to a 10-year old.)
Anyway, one day when the three of us were out horseback riding in the Santa Monica mountains, my horse just bolted. One of the scariest things I’ve ever been part of, a half-ton beast running full out and me w/ no control over it. I remember it seeming to head directly to dropoff, I was probably screaming like a baby, and my Mom’s boyfriend suddenly appears on my right pushing his horse as fast as it can go, leans over and grabs the reins of my horse, and gets it to stop.
Like a scene from a movie, that was.
Saturday I put milk that was past its expiration date on my cereal.
Come on…harpsichord recital? Calling someone a “swindler”, “ruffian” and “scoundrel”? In 1994?
(looks at calendar, noticed it’s Thursday)
You may just yet pull through.
I dunno, consider him to be something of a fool. He went out into the wilderness a.) alone and b.) without telling anyone where he was going. That’s just asking for trouble.
As for me…
Why I never got into any fights in High School:
One morning, in my sophomore year, I was sitting in study hall (in the Cafeteria) doing some homework. This one kid, big kid, a few inches taller than me, kept giving me shit. I told him “Shut up”, but he kept going. I told him, “You’ll wanna shut up now.” He said, “Yeah, what if I don’t?” Actions speak louder than words, so I leaned over and punched him in the jaw. He got up off the ground and never gave me any shit again.
How did you get that burn scar on your arm?
It was my first summer home after a year in college, and my parent were out of town. Naturally, my brother and I had a party, with much cheap beer and liquor. I saw a guy I didn’t know involved in a heated conversation with a guy I did know. The guy I knew was a little guy, and kind of a joker, the sort who might get on your nerves a bit, but it was good-natured and he’d never start anything serious. The guy I didn’t know was mean looking and about my size (six feet even, about two hundred pounds). I walked up behind the stranger, put my left hand on his left shoulder and turned him around, so my left arm was right in front of his face. “What the fuck do you want?” he said. My mouth was set into straight line, and I looked him right in the eyes as I knocked the ash off the end of my cigar and, without changing my expression, stuck lit end right into my left forearm. Do you know what burning skin smells like? It’s disconcerting. Even more so, I’d imagine, when looking into the eyes of a man who seemingly does not feel pain. The stranger left shortly after, and I didn’t even have to show him my knife.
Argent Towers, a word;
The OP asked for stories of things we’d seen. Not read.
It was presented entirely without attribution. Isn’t that plagiarism?
Lengthy description of an appalling beating. Who doesn’t get yucks out of that?
If you want to play, ‘guess this book’, isn’t Cafe Society a better choice? And maybe tell people that’s what’s afoot.
This has been an interesting thread to read. Did you really have to come along and muck it up with your nonsense?
If you can’t grow up, haven’t you got flies you could be pulling the wings off of instead of pulling this trite crap.
I think you owe the OP an apology. Oh, and did I mention - Grow Up!
You really have no idea how you come across on the 'Dope, do you?
Max Torque’s story reminds me of something my dad did. I didn’t see this, but my mom did. As backstory, you should know that my father’s a doctor, a family practitioner in my home town.
Dad was out buzzing some wood up with his chainsaw when something didn’t go right, and he ended up cutting a largish gash in his leg, a few inches below his groin. Immediately, he started for the house.
Mom took him to the hospital, but none of the doctors there were free to see him just that minute. (Not certain what’s more important than a guy gushing blood from his groin, but hey - it’s a small town.) So Dad took himself to one of the operating rooms, gave hisself an anesthetic shot, then sewed hisself up.
Go Dad.
(That’s not counting the time he broke his ankle elk hunting in the Colorado Rockies and walked on it for a week instead of having one of his buddies take him to my aunt’s in Boulder and get fixed up. That’s just dumb, not badass.)
A few years ago I was working as head bouncer in a lingerie bar as a side gig. Buddy, who had become one of my best friends, was the secondary.
This bar was in a seedy neighborhood, and we got a lot of illegals who liked to get too drunk and start trouble. We also got a fair amount of white trash who had the same mindset, and sometimes the two demographics took it up with each other.
Yeah, we earned our pay. We made a pretty good team. Buddy was of the, “Can’t we all just get along?” mindset and was great at talking angry drunks down. I was of the, “We WILL all get along,” mindset and was handy at making people realize they were borrowing more trouble than they wanted if they started anything in the bar.
Anyhow, one night it’s obvious that this little Hispanic guy and big white guy are going to go at it, but the manager had a rule that we couldn’t preemptively ask someone to leave. I’d told both of the guys, separately and politely, that we didn’t want and wouldn’t abide any trouble, and they both had assured me there wouldn’t be any.
Sure enough, about an hour later, the Hispanic guy starts in and sucker punches the white guy, who in turn hit him hard enough to drop to the ground. To the little guy’s credit, he bounced right back up.
By that point, Buddy and I were racing toward them. Since I was bigger than Buddy, I went for the bigger guy. As soon as we got within distance, the big guy backed up and put his hands up, palms out. Fair enough, he’d gotten sucker punched and reacted. I couldn’t really blame him. I told him he had to leave for the night but that he was welcome to come back the next day, then I ran out to back Buddy up. I cleared the front door just as Buddy was standing up. The little guy had run around the corner and waited, popping him one as he came around the bend, then taking off again.
Then we saw the guy a couple doors down getting onto a bicycle. Buddy pushed me aside, ran to the front pool table and grabbed a cue. Then he ran back outside, past me, halfway across the parking lot about 10 feet from where the little guy was now peddling in front of him. He reared back, chucked the cue like a javelin, and it planted in the guy’s spokes, immediately stopping the bike and sending him flying over the handlebars.
We dragged the guy back to the front door of the bar, called the cops and waited for them to come down and book the guy on assault charges.
That cue stick toss was one of the most deliberate and graceful acts of badassery I’ve ever witnessed in person.
“What’s the going rate for a gig like that?”
“Seven bucks an hour.”
“Seven an hour? That’s not very much.”
“It’s all I could afford to pay.”
I met Houston McCoy once.
He was the officer who shot and killed Charles Whitman, the U. T. tower sniper, on August 1, 1966. He always downplayed the incident as just being part of his job, but IMNSHO, going out on that tower deck after Whitman had killed took big brass balls. McCoy laid it on the line and put himself between innocent people and a killer, and it ruined his life. He is a real, honest-to-Og hero.
These stories are so awesome.
I can easily see this kinda thing being something in bookform.
When I was a Civil War reenactor, my company (about two dozen guys in blue) was once crossing a pasture when a bull came at us from out of nowhere. Our lieutenant drew his sword with that classic, Hollywood-style sharp metallic screech, and the bull stopped dead in its tracks, then trotted away. Oh, how we cheered!
Man, I would have run up there and asked the guy to sign my face or something. That is the kind of stuff you only see in the movies. It’s even better than knocking the bad guy down with the door of your moving car.
I was at a keg party in college once, and the kegs ran dry. I saw a couple guys drinking Molson Ice in bottles, which was my favorite beer at the time. I asked if there were any more left and they gave me one. Back then, Molson Ice bottles were not twist offs, so I asked where the bottle opener was. I looked for almost 5 minutes and couldn’t find one. This was years before I had ever seen anyone open a bottle with a lighter before too. So, I put the top in between my teeth, pried the cap off in a biting motion, and spat the cap out. It looked pretty impressive, but ended up doing minor damage to a couple of my teeth.
When I was in third grade, there was a kid everyone used to pick on. He was probably two years older than me, but I made fun of him too, because that’s what all the older kids did and he was a jerk anyways. He couldn’t or wouldn’t fight back against the kids his age, but I was an easier target. One day he was sitting behind me on the bus and I was in the emergency exit seat. I must have said something to him that day, because he opened the emergency exit door and I fell out of the moving bus and rolled under it. My thick coat kept me from splitting my head, and I was more shocked than hurt or scared. The bus driver however, practically shit a chicken. She thought I had gotten run over or otherwise maimed or killed, and then she sees me standing there like nothing happened. I got to ride in the front seat all that week.
The first “fight” I ever got into was really pathetic. It started because of something having to do with a ball or something dumb like that. This really dorky kid decided to lunge at me and we began to “fight”. He was biting, pulling hair, using his fingernails, and I was basically just trying to wrestle him into submission. After a few minutes our friends broke it up. Upon rising to his feet he extended his hand and said “Nice fight.” I took umbrage to this due to the fact that he was “fighting” like a little girl, and I wasn’t interested in fighting in the first place. So, I decked him in the nose. He fell down, my friend and I left. The next school day I noticed that people were talking about me in hushed tones, pointing, and generally acting weird. A kid came up and asked what the dork had done to deserve such a savage beating. I told him that I only hit the kid once, and he said something like “yeah, right”. I saw the dork later in the day. It seems I made that one punch count, because it blackened both of his eyes. He looked like he had been worked over good. People thought I had some sort of super punching ability, which suited me just fine, no more fights for me.