an exercise in futility

A drunk, tweaked-out bum spits at me through gapped teeth pissed off I'm lying in his spot. No sound except cursing, hissing, mumbling and the shrill whistling wind and a flapping issue of Time propped between two rocks. How I wound up in the middle of the park at 3 am on a bench is an utter mystery to me. All I know is I have a very hostile meth-head all over me like stink on shit. My mind races. What to do? What to do? What I always do when faced with a sticky situation: a hostile, quick burst of serrated violence and testosterone fueled posturing. If I get lucky he'll back down as in nature when animals settle quarrels through unspoken macho pose-downs and chest thumping. If he doesn't back the fuck up I have to take him out quick before he pulls out a blade and cuts me. These territorial wino fucks always carry knives. They'll protect their precious pissing grounds tooth and nail without fail.

Lightning fast I jump up full height, stare this jag-off in the eye, and ask him what the problem is. He continues to approach quickly closing the distance between us with every passing second. The wind continues to blow and the flip-flapping of that annoying magazine serves as a tympanic accompaniment to the incoherent, rhythmic shouting and guffawing of this grizzled, foul smelling hobo. My eyes shift from his face to his shoulders. I watch his arms, his hands, and to my dismay I find them straying to the pockets of his tattered trench-coat. I gotta make this quick. This fucker's mind is injected with PCP, no reason or common sense, and nothing's gonna stop him unless I knock his ass out cold.

I dash forward and close the distance between us in the blink of an eye. He expects me to swing at his face so I shoot out my right foot and slam my old school sneak into his knee. Between the wind and the rustling mag and the chattering trees there's a hollow pop. For a microsecond I think about New Years, champagne bottles, and loneliness. His situation complicates exponentially. An agonizing 180 degree inversion. His knee cap is now hiding behind his leg just where his hamstring meets his calf. Drugs and adrenaline do wondrous things. He doesn't feel it, holy shit. I follow this career-ending highlight-reel kung-fu quick kick with a fist between the eyes on the topmost bridge of his nose. I need to blind this mother fucker so I can get behind him and lock him up and lay him down. Works like a charm. I wrap an arm around his throat and using his body the same way a stripper uses a pole I swing around behind him. Like in those old episodes of “Dukes of Hazard” where those red-neck good ol' boys slide across the hood of the General Lee. All in one motion I bring up my other arm, press down on his head with my hand, and apply pressure. Both sides of his windpipe are constricted by my forearm and bicep. His hands shoot up to his face trying to jab out my eyes or grab my hair. I bury my face into the back of his head and drop to the ground onto my back. I wrap my legs around his waist as I continue to clamp off his air supply. This is what's knows as a “spider lock.” I'm surprisingly relaxed, rational, and a little bit sad. As his flailing and grunting begin to subside I think to myself this... all of this... could have been so easily avoided.