Why Come to Me for Help?

Many of my friends locally are younger than I am, and seem to have adopted me as a teacher figure. I do not understand quite why. Today this was demonstrated to me quite well when someone asked me to help teach their friend how to fight, since they had suffered several attacks recently. I have accepted, but I am curious about how exactly they have come to the conclusion that I can fight well.

Now admittedly I can do and have demonstrated it, but I am not highly muscly, I do not have a fighter's build, and I have scars. Let us review for a moment on that. I have scars. Now yes, that means I have survived being hurt, but looking at the other side of it, I have been hit several times with sharp implements that leave nasty scars on my arms, and smaller ones on my chest, back, legs and face. This is not the sign of someone who will teach you how to stop being hurt.

Either way, I have now taken on a student, so I am going to have to think about how to teach someone to cause lots of pain and anguish when you are a lot smaller, weaker and less vicious than the person you are trying to hurt.

There is a psychological mechanism called the doomsday switch, at least that is its name in popular psychology. The doomsday switch is that little trigger in the brain which turns you from being interested in your own survival into being interested simply in causing as much damage as you can. This is not a survival mechanism for individuals, it is a pack mechanism, whereby one herd member will sacrifice itself for the good of the pack. This is the same sort of switch which allows grandmothers to lift cars off their grandchildren, meanwhile ripping every single muscle and joint in their body and bringing themselves to the edge of death.

I do not particularly want to teach someone how to use self-hypnosis to put themselves into this state. I think I will stick with the more basic things, like poking people in the eyes.

A Minor Scuffle

It has been a long whil since I have been required to use my more martial skills, but I found myself with such opportunity tonight. I decided that this night I would partake in an evening stroll for the purpose of delivering certain letters, by way of the post box. On this same stroll I decided to enjoy a drug in a form commonly referred to as a 'cancer stick', and had already slightly over-indulged in wine of a reddish hue.

It so happens that my journey to the delivery box belonging to the royal mail was to take me past a habitat much enamoured of certain less reputable aspects of young society. It was, at the time that I passed it, being utilised by a small number of such youths, in the style of dress adopted to replicate certain supposed artists of a musical style known as 'hip-hop', or approximating said style. As may be known to you, individuals adopting this style are often of a violent persuasion and greeted me in a civilized manner with shouts of 'Oi, long-hair, go'a spare cig?'

After a moment spent translating their strange dialect, I replied to the leader of the trio. 'Not for you.'

They seemed to take some offense at this, and the leader dared to lay hands upon my noble person, seizing my wrist and demanding that I provide them with these mysterious 'cigs'. I did not appreciate this, and am rather proud of myself for coming up with the witty retort of 'Unhand me thou cur.'

Such language seemed to cause some degree of consternation among the youths, and the one laying hands upon my arm did look rather suprised. Through my martial training I knew that the best way to avoid further confrontation was to free myself, and back away, and that this could easily be accomplished with no injury to any involved. However, I had not appreciated the insults that this uncivilized young lad had hurled in my direction, and decided for a more complex approach.

After the rapid application of my foot to the groinal area of his body, and the following application of a knee to his face, and an elbow to the spine, his compatriots decided that discretion was the better part of valour and beat a hasty retreat. Meanwhile my attacker was still breathing, and conscious, though seemed in no state to talk or object, and after scrambling to his feet followed his colleagues.

Meanwhile I continued on my jaunt, enjoying my cancer stick, and delivering my missives for dispersal to those who had requested them.