Just so you don't think that I, Brian Kepler, am some kind of a super hero when you read my story remember that in real life time and chance happen to all men and sometimes (although probably not often) the "chance" is good.
I'm not quite an average guy because I make a lot of money as a business consultant, and I'm in better shape than the average guy due to an exercise routine that I established in college and continue to this day. Otherwise,, however, I'm pretty normal.
At the start of this story I was 30 years old, married, no kids yet but in my mind that would be changing shortly. One thing that I have consistently been focused on my entire life is being a father, and I was hoping that my wife was now ready to be a mother.
My dating history, favorite color, favorite basketball team, etc., aren't really important for proper telling of my story; what is important is that my wife Melany was also 30 as this story starts, and what she's like.
Melany is a very beautiful sexy woman; that statement, rather than being about her personality, warmth, or charity, exposes one of my past faults since my dick was in control of my brain when I married her. I did love her, but her mercurial personality (especially her jealous streak) sometimes had me question the wisdom of my decision to propose to her -- at least until the next time that she fucked my brains out, causing me to not remember how crazy she sometimes is.
Melany comes from a large family of mostly men, including four younger brothers. I get along very well with one of the brothers, Tom. Tom is gay but hadn't come out of the closet at the start of this story since his old man is a homophobe but he trusts me and has revealed his proclivity to me; I'm not sure if Melany knows but we certainly have never discussed it.
The other three brothers (two are fraternal twins) are between jerks and assholes. Melany's dad Jerry is of the same ilk as the three brothers that I don't get along with.
I do get along well with Melany's mother Samantha who despite having five kids and was 51 years old at the start of this story (she had Melany when she was 21) is very easy on the eyes and clearly the source of the genes that make Melany hot. Samantha may be the best looking 50+ woman this side of Elizabeth Hurley. Why Samantha married Jerry I don't know; she must have a high pain threshold.
One thing that Jerry insisted on before Melany and I married -- which I was more than happy to agree to as long as it was mutual -- was a prenup with a cheating clause.
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I had just finished a business consultation about 6:00 p. m. in a city about an hour's drive from my house but in the same State when I got a text from a number that I didn't recognize.
The text read: "Beware; several people are out to get you -- soon -- take protective measures immediately."
I tried to call the number that the text was sent from but there was no answer or voicemail. I'm not one to panic or scare easily but there was just something about this particular text that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My Spidey-senses were also tingling because there had been a few unusual things happening in my household recently that involved strange behavior on Melany's part. She was more mercurial than normal the previous month or so, sometimes being unnecessarily nasty, other times trying to fuck me to death. It was only because of the latter that I forgave the former; I probably was still thinking with my dick more than I should have. However, I wasn't thinking with my dick so much that I didn't hire a PI to do some investigative work, the results of which I expected to see in a couple of days.
The business that I was consulting with happened to be close to a row of retail stores including a sporting equipment store. In the store I bought some protective equipment that soccer players wear, an over-sized football jersey, a pair of cross-training shoes, and a gym bag which I put my suit coat, tie, leather soled shoes, and dress shirt in. I also purchased a hunting knife and a small hammer designed to be used to pound in tent stakes. To be honest I felt a little ridiculous as I left the store but except for the protective equipment (I never played soccer) I could use everything else that I bought.
Since Melany wasn't expecting me until about 9 p. m. (I was expecting to have dinner with my clients but they had an emergency come up and begged off) I went to a local Johnny Rocket's and had a decent, if plebian, meal. It was about 7:30 p. m. as I started walking to my car; and it was now dark out.
As I approached my vehicle I heard a sound behind me and when I quickly turned I saw a masked guy with some sort of blunt instrument in his left hand swinging toward me. I put up my left arm to block the blow. The first thought that flashed through my mind in a zeptosecond was "the text was right" and the second zeptosecond's thought was "sure am glad that I bought those kids' soccer shin guards and put them on my forearms."
Here is where "chance" came in. More quickly than I ever remember reacting before I pulled the tent-spike hammer from my belt and in a fluid motion hit my attacker on the left side of his head at his temple causing him to instantly collapse. Since I never was good at tennis, splitting logs, or even hammering nails, the perfect placement of my swing was truly lucky.
While my left forearm hurt, it really wasn't bad at all -- which is lucky because I saw two more shapes coming toward me, one from my right, one from my left. My good luck continued as I parried a blow from the guy on my left with my left forearm and hit him on the top of his head with my small hammer. While that sent him down it also broke the wooden handle of my small hammer.
I turned in time to see the guy on my right approaching quickly and recognized his blunt instrument as a tire iron (fortunately the size of one for compact car, and not a truck). He took a different tactic than the other two and swung at my left lower leg. The blow would have crippled me if I didn't have adult soccer shin guards on my lower legs -- as it was it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. The fact that I didn't collapse startled him and I was able to jump him and knock him down.
When I had the third assailant on the ground I pulled the hunting knife from the sheath on my belt, initially covered by my football jersey, and put the blade to his neck. He immediately started groaning "I give, I give, don't cut me."
I got to my knees, shifted the knife to my left hand and held it on his throat while I got my cellphone out and with one hand dialed 911.
"This is 911 -- what is your emergency?"
"I was just attacked by three masked guys on the street; two are disabled and I'm holding the third at knife point. I need two ambulances and the police as soon as possible."
"Where are you?"
"I'm not from this city so I'm not positive but I'm a couple hundred yards from the Dick's Sporting Goods store on Chestnut and there's a Target almost across the street from me. Can you hone in on my cellphone signal?"
"We'll give it a try; stay on the phone and when you see a police vehicle let them know where you are by standing up."
"OK -- I'm the guy in the red football jersey; my three attackers have ski masks on, all three prone, two hurt the third with my knife on this throat."
There was some more give-and-take and fortunately there must have been a cop car nearby because it came right nearby me within two minutes flat. I told the attacker who was conscious that if he moved before the cops got there I'd stab him, and then stood up and waved my hands. I had already kicked the tire iron out of his reach.
Two cops came running toward me guns drawn and one with a flashlight. I yelled "I'm the 911 caller; I'm throwing my knife down and my cellphone connected to 911 is in my right hand over my head."
As they approached I told them that the conscious masked guy was one of the attackers so the male cop rolled him over and cuffed him. Then something I had never seen on TV before (I've never been in a real life situation like this before so I don't know if it's standard procedure) the female cop took my cellphone and talked to the 911 operator. After a short exchange she terminated the 911 call and handed my cellphone back to me and said "Remain standing six feet away with your hands up while we check the other two masked guys," so I did as she said.
By the time that the cops had checked the other two guys out three other cop cars and an ambulance were there. After checking me for weapons and having me remove my protective gear the female cop put me in the back seat of her squad car. I noticed that both my forearm and shin guards were cracked -- but they had done their jobs.
I sat in the back of the squad car for only about five minutes before a pair of detectives, a male and a female, opened up the back door. They introduced themselves as Cagney and Lucy. "I'll bet that you take a lot of shit with a last name that sounds like 'Lacey' and being paired with a female detective with the last name of 'Cagney'" I said to the male detective, trying to be funny despite the seriousness of the situation.
How did I know about the old TV female detective show "Cagney & Lacey" since it ran from 1982 to 1986? Because one summer when I was a teenager I got a significant injury playing pickup basketball and was laid up for almost two weeks. To alleviate boredom I became well acquainted with lots of old TV shows on a local nostalgia TV station, including the aforesaid Cagney and Lacey.
Lucy was big and kind of disheveled; to me he looked like a human version of a St. Bernard.
Cagney looked like a modern TV female cop -- too cute to be real. She also looked tough despite the fact that she probably was no taller than 5 feet four inches (163 centimeters) and weighed less than 125 pounds (57 kg). Her pants suit seemed to bulge significantly at her chest (not that I noticed).
Cagney laughed at my comment; Lucy simply snarled "Don't be a wise ass; come with us to the station."
"I need my gym bag and the protective gear the uniformed officer took from me," I replied.
"We'll put the gym bag in the trunk of our car but the protective gear is evidence so it stays; and before we leave we need you to identify the weapons on the ground," Cagney said.
As Lucy threw my gym bag in the trunk of his unmarked Ford Victoria I told Cagney that the hunting knife and the broken small hammer were mine, the tire iron was the weapon of the conscious masked dude, and the other two weapons -- I didn't know exactly what they were in the darkness -- were used by the other two guys but I didn't know which guy had which weapon. As I was doing this I noticed that the first guy that I hit was still lying there -- the other had been taken away in the ambulance.
"Why is my first attacker still here?" I asked Cagney.
"He's dead," was Cagney's deadpan reply.
That shook me to my core.
