Saturday, September 21, 2013

It's not the weapon.

A few (*cough* more than ten *cough*) years ago, I was a freshman in college.  About nineteen years old, and pretty much alone except during class times, lunch times, and weekends.  Which really sucked, when I was in Theater Appreciation (useless class).

See, one of the requirements of the class was that I had to see two of the three plays.  All playing at night, during the week.  And did I mention that I'm under five foot tall, and have always had a rack that wouldn't look out of place on a woman a foot taller than me?

And that, at that time, I was suffering from the aftermath of a PE injury to my knee in high school, and gimping around on a cane whenever it was cold?

The play was in mid-February.  I was heading back to my dorm at about ten, and I noticed I was being followed.  By a grungy-looking man in his late thirties or forties.  Who hurried up to catch up to me when I turned the corner and got out of sight of the small crowd leaving the theater.

I will fully acknowledge that that scared the holy living shit out of me.  I was nineteen, a small woman under five feet tall, and under a hundred pounds at the time, and crippled.  I looked like the perfect target: helpless prey.

I got off the sidewalk to ground I walked across every day, and knew where the uneven footing was and what it was like, snapped my cane up off the ground and slapped across my other palm, feet spread and braced, staring Mr. Creepy down.  He muttered something, and then yells to me that he got turned around, and could I tell him where the library was (across the quad, brightly lit--the only building that was at that time of night).

I'm pretty sure that he thought that, at the very least, he'd be coming out of any possible encounter injured, and perhaps badly (and he'd have been right--my cane?  An inch diameter hickory stick with a knob handle on one end, and a rubber crutch foot on the other).  Made me not worth it.

I'll be honest--I'd have probably gotten hurt pretty bad.  But my plan was to try to take out a knee, then jab the knob end into his face as hard as I could, then slam it down into his throat if I could.

It isn't the weapon that's the dangerous part of any equation.  It's the person holding it.

I am not dangerous because I carry a gun.  Not to the standard, every-day, law-abiding schmuck.

I am dangerous to those who think that I am prey.  Because I am not, and have never been.


  1. Yes.

    Predators stalk their prey and avoid those that might cause injury.

    A little off subject, but I had a friend with a Capuchin monkey that weighed about 10 pounds. After a few years of compliance, the now grown monkey decided the routine sucked and showed its anger.

    Her wounds looked like she was attacked with a machete. The monkey used its canines like a knife and opened up huge gashes that required multiple stitches.

    Humans weigh much more and are more dangerous.

    1. I am now 34.5 years old, and have much more effective tools. I am still not prey, and neither are my children.

      Yeah, there are reasons Tam's always talking about the dangers of face eating monkeys: the main one is that they may be rare, but they do exist.

      And there is no way I'd have a monkey for a pet. Or a pig. Anything with approaching-human intelligence is NOT a house pet. There's no telling when they'll decide they don't want to be a pet anymore, or what they'll do to you when they make that decision.

  2. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. The only weapon that matters is the one between your ears.

    1. Yep. I look at the things around me that aren't fastened down, and I plan ways to use them to defend myself, if needed.

  3. Confidence and a certain "I am not afraid to hurt you, if that becomes necessary" attitude are also valuable weapons (And you had both of those at that time).

    I've had a couple occasions where a loud angry shout of "WHO ARE YOU? GET AWAY FROM ME, I DON'T WANT YOU NEAR ME" has been sufficiently effective to drive off creeps.

    And yeah, monkeys are hella creepy, I wouldn't go to a home where someone had one as a pet.

    1. It drives off creeps if there are people in hearing range (or might be). There weren't, or I would have tried it. At that time of the evening, I hurt, and badly, and didn't want to put the weight on my sore knee.

  4. I've always maintained that while 'they' may kill me, they're damned sure gonna talk about me for a long time afterwards.

    And on another note, when my niece was a very young girl, she asked me why I had so many tattoos and a long beard and hair.
    I told her that the more I looked like I was ready to beat the fuck out of somebody, the less often I actually had to do it.
    She understood perfectly and went back to playing with her dolls.

    1. I'm small, have been called cute, and there is nothing I can do, short of open carry of my 1911, to change that.

      That aside, anyone who decides that I'm a good target is going to end up crippled at best, and more likely dead.

  5. Being alert to the danger is half the battle isn't it. No gun carrying here in the UK but my OH has made sure that I know how to hurt someone who is intent on hurting me. I may not get away but I wouldn't be an easy conquest.

    1. Not being an easy conquest makes you unattractive prey.


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