Three men against one is not a fair fight, only the one being beaten and sexually assaulted is a woman.
As if stepping in a phone booth to emerge as his own version of Super Marine, as if he was Charles Bronson in Death Wish, Sylvester Stallone in First Blood, or Arnold Schwarzenegger in Collateral Damage, a one man deadly fighting force, he couldn't live with himself if he didn't help her. After all he's been through to help people and after all the murderous acts he's done to save people, what kind of man would he be if he walks away from someone needing his help now? Even if she was a sad, street urchin of a bag lady, comparing her to some of those poor, defenseless Taliban women, she still had rights. She doesn't deserve to be beaten by three men just because she's a bag lady. She doesn't deserve to be sexually assaulted just because she's a woman alone in an alley.
As does everyone else in this nation that he helped to keep free, she had the right to live her life without the fear of being beaten and sexually assaulted. She was still a human being and, in this stuck in a recession economy, with his sister being a single mom with three, small children on food stamps, welfare, Section 8 housing, and home heating oil assistance, homeless and helpless, she could have been his sister. She was a helpless and defenseless woman fighting three, fucked up men who, obviously, were trying to rape her. If all his hand-to-hand combat training was to come down to this one interaction with him playing the superhero Marine, he had to help her. He had to save her. There was no one else there to help her and it was up to him to save her.
No longer a ticking time bomb, he no longer charged wildly with machine guns firing in each hand and a grenade in his mouth ready to throw to stop the noise by creating even more noise. He was now more able to control his rage somewhat, most times, but not all times, like now. Yet scratch the surface and his anger was still there pulsating, percolating, and brewing in the way of impatiently waiting for that first cup of coffee to be ready. It was as if there was an alien creature alive, living inside of him, and waiting to be unleashed upon these poor bastards who didn't know any better than to make noise.
"Dave hates noise," he said cracking his knuckles in readiness to use them.
As if a fuse, he could feel his anger flashing, seething, and burning until it erupted and exploded in his head. Only because of all the psychological therapy he's had, the medication he's taking, and meditation he's done, he was a different man that the wild man that had returned home from three wars and nine combat deployments. Now more in control of his emotions, more complete in his mind and body, he had the clarity of thought of a Zen master with all the fighting skills of a Ninja warrior and a Shaolin Monk combined. As if he was playing a video game, he saw everything. Now not only more able to control his anger but also he was able to harness his rage to use against those who caused the noise that angered him.
"Dave really hates noise," he said trying to re-center himself to focus on what he needed to do.
Never a barking dog, he didn't waste his energy with stupid talk and idle threats. Never striking anyone until his hand, his foot, his knee, his elbow, or his head was forced, every blow he threw hit his target with devastating accuracy and damaging aftereffects. With his strikes causing off the charts blunt force trauma, pity the poor bastards on the bad side of him. Pity the poor bastards who made noise that upset him. Pity these poor bastards who were going to pay what they did to this poor bag woman.
Breaking a bone and/or severing a tendon, every kick caused damage. Able to knockdown and/or knockout his opponent with one lightning quick strike, every punch caused a devastating head injury. He knew precisely where to hit someone to stop the noise. He knew precisely how hard to hit someone to silence his opponent. Once all was quiet, the peace quelled his violent temper and troubled mind. Cause verses effect for the expected resultant conclusion, it was more the noise that bothered him than it was the man causing it. Only, pity the man, it was through silencing the man that he could stop the noise.
If he was anything, because of his rage and because he was now more in control of his anger, the best of the best, he was an efficient killing machine paid and trained by the United States Marine Corps. Now, a retired Marine, he was free to walk the city streets as an innocuous civilian. Go figure. How can a trained killer not do what he's been trained to do? Just as he'd never be retired, he'd never be an innocuous civilian. A trained assassin, a killer, and a fighting machine turned into a mild, mannered neighbor. Perhaps not a superhero and a super marine but more of a wolf in sheep's clothing, nonetheless, he was no mild, mannered Clark Kent.
A mindset that needed to be deprogrammed, it's impossible to go from one to the other without drugs and psychological therapy. From a killing machine to a man out for a walk, without having drugs, years of therapy, and without him leaving dead bodies behind of all those who pissed him off by making noise, living his life normally was as impossible as most men and woman who dared tried walking in his shoes. Only, much like serial killer Dexter who needed to kill to stop the quaking in his brain, every so often when the noise in his head grew too unbearably loud, Dave needed to stop the noise by beating the poor bastard to a bloody pulp who was responsible for making all the noise.
"Oh, yeah, that will teach you to make noise. Next time, maybe you'll think twice about opening your big, loud mouth," he imagined saying to his victims, whether at a baseball game, a bar, or out for a walk as he was now, while justifying his brutal, physical attack.
As if distracted by what was running through his mind, he refocused on his mission when he heard her voice again.
"Help me! Someone help me! Please! Rape! Rape! Call 911! Call 911!"
Already having had his fill of those making this raucous uproar, it was time to put an end to the noise. It was time to make everything and everyone quiet.
With old habits hard to break and as if he was a one man SWAT team, he took a peek around the corner to clear it. Then he poked his head around the brick wall again before yelling. Before poking his head down the alley again and leaving it there to look to see what they'd do while looking to see if the path was clear for him to enter, with a one syllable word, he initiated contact with a yell.
"Hey!"
He could have verbally assaulted them personally by calling them vulgar names. Yet, a waste of breath and a distraction, even though he was intent on attacking them physically, if they so desired, not that he was a religious man, Dave rarely swore. He could have continued walking. He could have remained quiet. He could have minded his own business and allowed them to rape her and even murder her. He could have entered the alley stealthily and unannounced and slit all their throats before they even knew they were cut and bleeding out to die.
Too busy sexually molesting her, with her shirt torn wide open and nearly pulled off of her, her big breasts so exposed and her pants pulled down around her ankles again to reveal her naked ass and pussy, they never would have seen him coming until he was right up on them. Even from a distance in the dim light, he could see she had a decent body for an old broad, big tits, round ass, and shapely legs with a flat stomach. In the way of flies on food or on a dead body, six hands were touching her, feeling her, fondling her, and caressing her everywhere. Obviously intent on raping her, when one wasn't feeling her big tits and fingering, pulling, turning, and twisting her nipples, another was feeling her ass or trying to finger her pussy while forcing her hands on their exposed, stiff pricks.
What if this was his mother, his sister, his aunt, or his cousin? He hoped that someone would help them in the way that he was about to help her. With his decision already made by making his presence known with a yell, now he had to help her. As a man, Marine or not, it was the right thing to do.
"Stop! Don't! No! Let me Go! Help someone! Help! Help! Rape! Call 911!"
With the therapy, medication, and meditation changing his tactical offense, he could have done what he used to do with a volley of hands and feet. He could have run at them with fists punching and feet flying. Now with his calm mind working as if he's an alien robot programmed to complete a mission, he was focused and ready to engage the enemy as if a sensei ready to train his disciples. Able to read the make, the year, and the model of every vehicle and memorize every license plate of every car parked in that alley with just a quick look, these dudes better run but they didn't.
Moving away from the brick wall and away from a lucky ricochet shot should they fire a gun but still staying in the shadows, as if advancing upon another fighter in the ring, he stepped out while keeping his body a narrow target instead of wide one. As if he was a professional quarterback on a champion football team, he changed his strategies of defense and tactics of offense with every step closer he took and every move they made. As if he was Anderson Silva, one of the greatest mixed martial arts fighters, ready, apprised, and aware, he was a professional and they were amateurs.
"Go fuck yourself old man," said the smallest one.
Discounting him with a stare as not a threat, he looked away from him to leer at and feel the woman's nearly naked body.
"Old man? Dave's not an old man," he said referring to himself in the third person again.
Looking good for his age with all the diet and exercise he does and with strangers mistaking his age for 45-years-old instead of 60-years-old, he couldn't believe he called him an old man. As if he threw water in his face, as if he slapped his face with a glove to challenge him to a duel, and as if he had chosen the one phrase that would anger him, he angered him. Still able to knockoff 250 pushups, a thousand crunches, a hundred pull-ups, still running 10 miles nearly every day, and punching his heavy bag for an hour, he bench presses 300 pounds for reps and sets. Still able to get and maintain an erection as hard and as long as he could in his 30's, he wasn't an old man by any stretch of the imagination yet. In the way that Arnold Schwarzenegger challenged Jack LaLanne to a pushup contest when he was in his thirties and Jack was in his sixties, Arnold stopped at 250 pushes and Jack continued to 1,200.
