I was walking through a quiet part of downtown on my way to a grocery store (45 minutes ago), it was around 10:15 pm so dark but this happened near a street light. There was nobody else around besides me and the people mentioned below, and nobody was within eyesight or hearing distance. If this fight had broken out, nobody would have broken it up.
A 6' Chad, well built and muscular (in his mid-20s), is walking with his Stacy and I notice something is wrong. He's fucking grabbing at her and she's trying to get away. She is saying, 'no, no.' He forcefully pulls her in and - what the fuck? HE STARTS CHOKING HER! Now we all know this shit happens, but this did not look sexy at all.
I plant my feet firmly and say in a very dangerous voice, 'Don't choke her too hard now.'
She teehees uncomfortably and he says, 'Hey man, if she likes it...' and they both walk off as fast as humanly possible while I death stare. They got away too quickly for me to say things like, 'she was saying no faggot,' or, 'do you wanna die bitch?' I'm still in an absolute rage over this shit. I had death on my face the entire way to the store and going home afterwards.
But remember guys, WOMEN CAN SMELL YOUR MISOGYNY. And that's why they don't go for you. You're not misogynistic enough.
Fascinating story; perhaps I'm finding myself a bit sympathetic because I can relate to it. During my college years, an admittedly very long time ago, I saved a woman's life. The results were interesting.
Between the spring and fall semesters I worked as a counselor at a summer camp for the disabled. Had I been just a little more prudent, a modicum wiser, I would have had the sense to earn money for schoolbooks by working a temp job in some office or serving reheated food in some fast food restaurant. But, what can I say? Being exceptionally ugly, I felt a kind of kinship with my disabled charges. Many were perfectly intelligent people whose spirits Nature, with all of Her characteristic cruelty, decided to bind to deformed bodies. Though I couldn't relate to my fellow counselors, who lived as actually people do, I felt just a little less alone caring for my fellow abominations.
Sadly, not all of the campers were good-natured men and women who couldn't walk or speak. There were the severely autistic fellows who indulged in public masturbation, the worst of whom fucked inflatable pool toys on our shuffleboard court to orgasm. Others would howl like the sirens of ambulances or fire-engines as they masturbated for hours on end while they sat on the toilet, waving their hands in front of their faces and throwing chairs at people if you dared to interrupt their constant forays into onanism.
But of all of the campers, not a single one was worse than Jim Byrd. Jimmy appeared to be innocuous: an obese, balding middle-aged man who spent most of his time wearing a simple smile. Jimmy himself was not a problem; the issue was the voices constantly whispering in his ears. He had a strange little pantheon all his own; sadly it was populated solely by demons. At the very bottom of his private pantheon were the Rubbers, talking milk-hoses that latched onto his penis and forced milk up his urethra into his bladder. When they weren't busy with this very unique brand of violation, they would tell Mr. Byrd dirty jokes. By seducing our latter-day demoniac with a little bit of joy, tricking him into lowering whatever flimsy psychological barriers he had managed to erect after decades of therapy, they allowed the Devils to enter in.
There was nothing humorous about the Devils. They cried for blood, and blood of a very specific type. When lust seized poor Jimmy, they demanded he act upon the object of desire. But they didn't demand he grope or even rape. They shrieked that he batter, beat, and brutalize the woman who caught his eye.
If the woman was in his grasp, the Devils would relinquish their place and the Certs would rush in for the final stage of Jimmy's seduction. While the Devils only thirsted for spilled blood and broken bones, the Certs hungered for death.
Now, Jimmy's psychosis was managed by a strict regimen of heavy drugs. Unfortunately when his group home entrusted him to our care, they neglected to advise us he wasn't allowed caffeine. We were only told to give him whatever trivial treats he asked for so, when he wanted coffee, we let him drink it. And he drank it constantly, which meant he spent a better part of week imbibing a diuretic that leached the psychotropic medication from his system.
Toward the end of his stay with us, I took Jim to the bathhouse to take a piss. While was alone in the stall, he began to giggle. The Rubbers had taken hold and were obviously regaling them with their unique comedy routine. He burst through the door and began to punch himself in the crotch, laughing more wildly with each blow to his own genitals. Then his eye caught a female counselor who was showering one of her assignments: middle-aged man with cerebral palsy who had a taste for skydiving.
Jimmy obviously found her pretty, because after landing a punch on the back of my head he rushed over to her and did the same to the side of her face. He grabbed her head, preparing to smash it against the concrete walls of the bath-house, and I performed my one and only take-down while working with the disabled.
It must have been an absurd sight: an ugly, rail-thin ghoul grappling with an obese, gibbering psychotic. What ensued was a half-an-hour long ersatz exorcism during which I tried to out-scream the voices of the Certs ringing in his skull. Much to my surprise, I won. To this day, I think it's been the only time I've ever been victorious in anything. Jimmy calmed down and my bosses sent us to the very edges of the camp ground to await the ambulance. Mr. Byrd had a standing order, you see and, after having been administered his third dose of Ativan that day, had to be taken to the hospital.
I rode with him to the hospital because he was terrified. Bereft of the satanic majesty imparted by his familiars, he was rendered nothing more than a scared, confused little boy, profusely apologizing while he trembled. He sent holiday cards to me for years after that in envelopes stuffed with dime-store candy, thanking me for helping him out "that day".
My return to the campground was curious. The woman I had saved was furious that I had allowed Jimmy to strike her before restraining him. If I can recall correctly, I think he broke her nose or, at the very least, bloodied it. As a footnote, of no great significance one way or the other, she lost her virginity that summer to a handsome British counselor who made jokes about how ugly he considered her but, well, any port in a storm. In his defense, he never allowed a lunatic to punch her.
After she expressed her resentment of my incompetence, another female coworker rushed up to me with tears in her eyes. I considered her something of a friend and, shameful as it is for an ugly man to admit, I was a tiny bit infatuated with her. Was she concerned for me?
Well, no. She opened her palm to display a cheap ring her boyfriend had given her that had cracked into pieces during my excursion to the hospital, her heart broken by the loss of the beloved trinket. I had seen people who lost loved ones less devastated. Believe it or not, I was actually at a loss for words. The boyfriend in question later lived with her until she grew tired of his beatings. I suppose even true love has its limits. No matter; she found another man almost immediately thereafter. And if that paramour gave her a ring I hope, for her sake, it was more durable than the one given to her by her previous lover.
Over the next five years or so, I was alarmed to find myself growing angry whenever I saw a woman I considered attractive. My head would become dizzy, my vision would blur into a crimson haze. During my sillier, more melodramatic moments, down in the dead of night when the rum in my glass has taken hold and drowned whatever bit of rationality I have left remaining to me, I sometimes wonder whether Jimmy's wicked angels abandoned him in favor of me.
Not ideal company by any stretch of the imagination, but it sure beats drinking alone.
bros.
