The author wishes to thank his editor, Ladylustful, who is an outstanding editor, story advisor, and muse.
Mugging is one of those things that happen to other people. Or so I thought. I got mugged around seven months ago. In all my life in New Orleans, this is the first serious incident I've had. I got my car broken into, but nothing of this magnitude. I always felt safe here. Now, not so much.
Part of living in a dangerous city is knowing where to go, and where not to go. When I got mugged, it was late afternoon, and in a relatively safe neighborhood near the Quarter. I was ambushed when I was walking to my car by two guys. They shoved their guns in my face, when the dominant of the two spoke to me. "Give me your jewelry and wallet, and you get to go home tonight." During the whole debacle, I lost sixty bucks, and a cheap watch.
At first, I wasn't really bothered by it. I mean, I wasn't hurt, and the only inconvenience I had was to cancel my credit cards and get a new driver's license.
However, it really hit home when I started talking to the police, as well as my friends and relatives. Apparently, the guys that ambushed me were part of a gang that mostly robbed homes and small businesses. However, they were suspected of murdering a few people in their other heists. If I hadn't cooperated so readily, who knows what would've happened.
I became frightened to go out in public, especially in the late afternoon and during the evening. I became such a recluse, that my friends called me a hermit.
One day, my good friend Frank suggested, "You need to arm yourself. I always carry a pistol in my car. Getting a concealed gun permit is easy. I can hook you up with my friend who works at Orleans Gun Outlet and Range."
It seemed like a good idea. I grew up in an area that would remind people of Swamp People, and with a family that loved to hunt, so I was pretty comfortable around guns. Rifles and shotguns were my kind of weapon; pistols, on the other hand, not so much. They're notoriously hard to shoot accurately. But, what was the harm in looking into it?
I met Dave, Frank's buddy at the gun shop, the next day. "Where you at, James? What kind of gun you interested in? We can have you test a few out to see what feels right to you. Getting a concealed permit is easy, but it'll take a while. No criminal record, right?"
"No," I laughed. "But, I need to see if I can shoot one of these babies first. I've never shot pistols much. The only time I've carried one is for protection around cottonmouths in the swamp."
"Shit. If you can hit a snake with a pistol, then you're a dead shot."
"Never said I hit one. Just said I carried one." I said truthfully, laughing at myself.
I ended up testing a number of revolvers and semi-automatic pistols, from cheap Taurus knock-offs to top of the line Sig Sauer models.
I finally settled on a Glock for around five hundred bucks. It fit my hand like a glove, and I was actually able to hit the target once in a while. I took the tests, and I turned in my application. Six weeks later, I was the somewhat reluctant owner of a concealed gun permit.
However, once I got the gun and the permit to carry concealed, I completely lost interest in both. I just felt so stupid carrying a gun, and I figured that I'd end up accidentally shooting my dick off some day. So it went into the top of the closet, right next to my Irma Thomas albums.
When Frank found out what I did with my gun, he came up with a suggestion after a few rounds of teasing me about how big a pussy I was. "Since you're too big a pussy to carry a gun," (see what I mean?), "maybe you need to work on self-defense. I know a few guys who've taken martial arts. Maybe that's what you need."
"Nah, Frank. I don't think that's for me. I can't see me dressing up in those silly outfits and kicking boards."
"Are you kidding me, Jim? That would be a blast. You've got to do it. Tell you what; I'll do the research for you. I'll find out what is the best class in town, and I'll sign you up. I just wish I didn't have all the ballgames with little Frankie I have to go to, or else I'd join too."
A week later, there I was; in front of a non-descript building between a bar and a coffee shop, and signing up with a Korean guy, Master Kim, for Hapkido classes. "You've chosen well, Mr. Travis. Hapkido is the best of the fighting arts. Hapkido blends Karate and Judo moves into one art, an art that is both beautiful and functional, and is especially well suited for self-defense. You are a little old to just be starting, but if you work at it, you could become very good. I don't have beginner adult classes, and I don't wish to mix you with the children, as they will laugh at you and not pay attention. Besides, their mothers would be angry with you there."
I signed up for a six months' worth of sessions. The rest of the class has been taking from Master Kim for years, and are at different levels of attainment: many of the men were at various degrees of black belt called Dan, some were brown belts, and some were green, and blue.
Surprisingly, there was only one woman in class. Her name was Beth, and she had a black and white belt. Beth has a chip on her shoulder bigger than she is. She wants a black belt, and wants it badly. According to Master Kim, Beth "was too weak for even a 1st Dan. You're not black belt worthy."
To me, he said, "You are just a baby. You don't even have a Dobok to wear. Get your mama to help you get dressed," while he pointed to Beth.
'What an asshole!' I thought.
"What an asshole!" Beth said out loud, smiling at Master Kim. Master Kim smiled back, he was obviously proud of the title.
I looked at Beth, a lady half my age, and said "Well, Mom, can you hook me up with a Dobok?"
She gave me a feral look. One where she shoots daggers with her eyes and steam is coming out of her ears. "You assholes must run in packs. They'll probably give you a black belt in a week just because you've got a nut sack, and you're a jerk!"
Wow. Was she ever pissed! I thought she might have been joking around, but she was really hot.
