The most crucial thing out of all of this? I am apparently sufficiently healed up from the ankle I broke this past fall/summer. Sufficient for what, I hear you pondering? Well, I was driving again (though I should not have been) the very night I got my first cast. I was back at work (again, though I should not have been) not long after that. I've learned to walk first with a cast then without, with a cane and without, with limp, without. At some point in there having a broken bone stopped being a big enough deal to forgo sex. (Not that this one would presently be any problem for me.) So what possible last plateau of healing could I have reached, to drive me to claim that I am, effectively, healed enough?

Well. Basically I'm healed enough to kick the living shit out of some little snot-nosed teenage punks. As it happens, it's not even something I'd even considered doing for quite some time.

Mind you, I've never been a violent person. I've a pretty even temper, I'm far too empathetic to really enjoy hurting anyone, and generally I've just had a wide enough perspective to see past whatever hurt pride or anger would normally drive one to stupid conflicts. When I was a kid, those who did not know me well would often enough conclude that I was afraid, because where I'm from anyone who's unwilling to get into pointless fights must be afraid to. On the other hand, anyone who'd ever actually seen me put in a position where I had no choice knew that it wasn't a matter of fear. I just considered violence as my last possible recourse.

Well, that's all when I was younger. Now, it isn't true that the military turns fresh-faced young boys into hard-hearted killers. But it is true that they'll do their best to either find whatever rage you'd rather leave repressed, or create some if none was already there. Can't claim this works on everyone, but it worked on me.

Why? Because in some sense, the military was just a much more strict version of the neighborhood I grew up in. A society definitely centered around violence, the military only drills in that there are appropriate times and degrees of violence, and that to be most effective one should never lose sight of this.

Now, I was a technician. So for all the people in uniform that I wanted to strangle? Really not much my job ever did to vent any of that. So I left the military much quicker to anger and much more eager for a fight than I'd ever been in my life beforehand. So eager, to be honest, that I'd almost purposefully seek out shady, isolated areas in the dark of night, in hope that someone would try something. To be quite honest, there were even several times when I tried to pick fights. Luckily, the generally non-confrontational nature of the people around me, and my own unwillingness to just start hitting someone who has no idea why, pretty much kept me out of trouble.

Yep, but then, kids and kiddettes... THEN I broke my ankle. Okay, first of all, ouch. I know, you could have guessed that part. But still, trust me, if it happened to you (as recently) you'd probably not leave that bit out, either. But after the pain, there comes the re-evaluation of my social status. Loyal readers will recall how I was disturbed to suddenly realize I was no longer one of those to be feared should a dark-alley confrontation take place, but one who should be afraid. I mean, realistically I think a couple of eight year olds could've kicked my ass, when I was on crutches. Really not too hard to knock over, ya know?

But right -- that was a while ago, now. And just yesterday -- well, I'm getting late for something, so I'll be brief. Short version: Me reading in a bookstore, some little hip-hop punk (probably generous to give him 17-18) with the crotch of his pants at his knees asks me if I "have a problem."

Now, I'm a peaceable man. Realistically, I live and let people live. But ya know, if you'd really like my honest answer?

Yeah, I have a problem. You look like a fucking moron. Sit up straight, for God's sake. And comb your goddamn hair. Jesus Christ, do you have any concept of clothing that fits? And what the fuck, are you taking a nap? You haven't fucking moved in fifteen minutes. Maybe I missed a fucking meeting or something, but last I knew cool was not synonymous with catatonic. And while I'm at it, take that fucking hat off or wear it straight. Once again, you look like a fucking moron. Pull your pants up. Frankly, I don't even have to know your parents to be embarrassed for them. Hell, I don't even know you and I'm embarrassed. And just in case you're wondering? Nobody thinks you bought any of this ill-fitting crap yourself. Sorry killer, but I've actually been around people who'd as soon kill you as look at you, and those type of people your eat your little candy ass for breakfast.

But. In my momentary pause walking by, when he said that ... nah, I didn't say all that. I just stopped at looked at him quizzically for a moment. He asked again if I had a problem. Still shocked and amazed he was addressing me, I replied, "Do you?" Which of course got me no answer. Hell, I still wasn't sure if the little jerk's eyes were even open. As we were inside, and I'd taken my jacket off before, I put it back on, giving him ample time to -- what, hop up and kick my ass? Yeah. I was looking forward to it.

Didn't happen, tho. Nah, instead he gestures with his little finger, for me to come closer. And you see children, this is the part that really steamed me. Not actually at the time mind you, but a couple of moments later when I had to restrain myself from turning around and going back.

Are you fucking kidding me? Look, if I come any closer I'm yanking your little too-much-BET ass out of that chair and teaching you to respect your elders. I mean really, WTF? This kid wasn't just disrespectful, but stupid. We are not in your "hood" little wanna-be gangta. Not by a fucking longshot.

So I actually kinda smiled at the little finger thing ... again, at the time I was just kinda not getting it. I mean really, it's been a long time since some teenage thugs tried to test me. I was more confused at the time than anything else.

But ultimately, that's the whole point of my little tale here. And I'd said I'd make it short, and didn't. Okay, if you're surprised by that your homework is to read at least 20-30 other pages that you never have, just to see how many times I say I'll make it short and do not. I can never make it fucking short. Anyhow, the point is that, pre-broken-bone, I would have lept at the opportunity to pound on him and his little friend. Cause realistically, this could only go one of three ways. First and most likely, I give them such an unholy beating they seriously reconsider whether playing the badass is worth the risk. (Hint: REAL badasses? Don't pick fights with unknowns for no reason. It's not a matter of being afraid, it's just knowing even the biggest and toughest can end up dead for nothing, if it's in the cards.) Other two options? Well, they could have some sort of weapon. So two, I'm wounded and they go to jail. Three, I'm killed, and they go to jail for longer.

So realistically -- how exactly can I lose, under the circumstances?

Worth dying over? No, but realistically for 6-7 years previous to last summer, I didn't really need something worthwhile to die for. Not so much bragging about it, it's just true. To finally, once and for all, be granted a target who's actually asking for it, who arguably deserves it, for whom I need not even consider restraint or mercy at all. To have someone to hit and hit and hit until I got tired of hitting them. To create a physical break in someone else for every mental break the military created in me.

So, all of this came up ... after I smirked at his little invitation. I smirked, and the best he could do was repeat his little pseudo-threat, "You got a problem?"

Y'see, at that point I shrugged, actually audibly "tsk'd" and went on my merry way, as I did in fact have things to do. But ooh. Not even five minutes later, the busy-I've-got-stuff-to-do me was replaced with pre-injury, wow-do-i-really-get-the-chance-to-hurt-someone me.

So that, children, we have to call healed. Because nowhere in my bemused dismissall nor in my subsequent bloodlust did I ever consider that I could not have taken those two kids in an unarmed fight. I would have murderlized 'em. What these kids were to stupid to consider is that I was being unimpressed with kids like them before they were fucking born -- on those kid's actual turf, no less. And I'm supposed be impressed by a half asleep teenager who can't dress himself properly. Shya right...

Can ya tell I'm still annoyed by this disrepect? I mean, honestly -- I haven't had anyone that age try and stare me down since I was about that age. And while no, age isn't everything -- last I checked, even pretty buff teenage boys are nowhere near as strong as they're gonna be as adults.

Plus, what's really the most valuable trait, in one who would like to kick ass in no-rules streetfighting? Nah, it's not strength, skill goes in the same boat there, really -- with both, if you've a real significant edge on the competition, it'll make a difference -- but we're talking such an edge as to make it kinda silly. Nope, in my experience those who chalk up scores of victory a most consistently in street fights? The ones who are completely indifferent to their own pain. This is to say, you have in fact broken their arm and a couple of ribs, one eye is closed and several teeth are missing ... it may be true this guy can barely stand, but if he can reach you, your ass is still his.

And trust me. For better or worse, that mentality is something that was drilled into me far more than I ever would have requested.