Violence Solves Everything

I like to think that I’m strong and capable. I mean, I kind of am. A lot of people wouldn’t think so because of my height (or lack thereof [gee, I sure use that expression a lot, don’t I?]). I’m 5’3, so I’m short but not “little person” short. Most people tend to tower over me, and I’m okay with that…kind of. I wish I was 5’5 or 5’6 (if not, you know, normal height) but what can you do? My dad and I are the same height, my sister is 5′ and my mom is under 5′ so we’re all really short people. The weird thing is that my shoe size is at least 2 sizes bigger than my dad’s, so doesn’t that mean I should be taller than him? I don’t know. The point is, I’m short but don’t mistake that for weakness.

This past summer I worked in the seasonal/garden centre area of Wal-Mart and, as a result, ended up doing a lot of carry-outs with really heavy lawnmowers and barbeques. Thanks to that, I feel that my muscles have gotten stronger and I can now lift heavier things without hurting my back (go me). Keep in mind that I have had a double inguinal hernia operation, so I still have to be careful when I lift heavy things. If that mesh that they put inside me breaks, well, it’s going to require an emergency procedure, that’s for sure.

This post isn’t about anything that occurred after feeling that I’ve grown stronger though. No, no, this post is about my childhood and teenage years. Let’s do this in chronological order, shall we?

Okay, not really chronological order as I don’t remember the specific order that these things happened in, but my childhood first and then the big story that happened back in 2012. Oh that was a grand year, wasn’t it? Seems most of my stories takes place in that bizarre end-of-the-world year we had.

So, grade five or six, music class (that was a requirement for pre-junior high students). There was this kid named Stephane (no, not Stephanie, this was a guy, and his name was French…I’m making this worse than it sounds. His name was not French. He was not the guy from Third Rock From The Sun [French Stewart]. He had a French name which was Stephane.) Anyway, so it was at the end of music class and for whatever reason he thought I had stolen his pen. So he started reaching around in my pockets (yes…this happened) and, because of this, I hit him on the head with my recorder. And no, it was not a digital recorder or tape recorder, it was a “flute” recorder or, better yet, a “whistle” recorder (because that’s more what it sounds like). The teacher saw but didn’t give a shit.

By the way, we were a terrible music class. There was one time we made our music teacher cry. She was trying to get us (the class) to actually listen to her but we all just kept talking to each other and wouldn’t pay attention to her. So she ended up going into the back room and she started to cry. We all felt bad. But remember, this is the same music teacher that I had mentioned in my first love life adventure post when I said that we all hated her. The one that Connor had drawn the comic about. I also ended up drawing a comic about her, it was a Star Wars parody. It was awesome.

So the next thing that happened. There was this really annoying kid named Dylan (I want to say his last name because I know so many Dylan’s it’s ridiculous).  Anyway, this was a Dylan I had known from elementary school. So if there are other Dylan’s that I know that are reading this, if you’re not the one that was in my classes in elementary school, it’s not about you. Back when I was a kid I was a HUGE fan of Spongebob Squarepants. Everyone at school knew about this. So when The Spongebob Squarepants Movie came out, I guess everyone expected me to be the first in line to see it. I actually didn’t see it until it came out on DVD. But anyway, this Dylan kept asking me every – fucking – day if I had seen it.

There was this one time, I was getting ready to go outside for lunch recess and I was at my locker. My locker door was open as I was getting my jacket out when Dylan approached me. He yelled in my ear “HAVE YOU SEEN THE SPONGEBOB MOVIE YET?!” I was so pissed off that I slammed my locker door. But here’s the funny thing, his face was in the way. He had placed his face so close to my locker that when I slammed the door, it smacked him across the face. He didn’t bother me again after that.

Now onto Cameron, and no, this still isn’t the big story. This is still from my childhood. It’s a quick story, so let’s go. It was before the first bell rang. Like most students, I was standing outside the doors waiting. Suddenly a wild Cameron approached me (Pokémon reference). It was quite funny though because, like most people, he towered over me. I was even shorter then than I am now and he was already almost 6′ tall. So he towered over me and started flexing, acting all tough. As some kind of reflex I punched him in the gut. One solid swoop to his stomach and he was down. Like, actually, he fell to the ground. I hit him in just the right place that it knocked the wind out of him, catching him off-guard and making him clutch his abdomen while lying on the ground. Take that, Cameron.

Now for the 2012 story.

Actually, I can tell you the exact date: February 22nd, 2012 (I have a picture on Facebook of the aftermath so I was able to pinpoint the exact date based upon when I uploaded that picture). So I was in my first year of university and my then-girlfriend (you guys know who I mean, Erica) was in grade 12. So I had the afternoon off and so, like normal, I went to the high school to be with Erica for her lunch break.

Everything was going fine until we were heading back to the school from the mall. Wal-Mart is connected to the mall, so I was technically outside of Wal-Mart when this happened. I’m not going to hold anything back, and I’m not trying to sound racist, this is just what happened. There was a Native guy (and his Native friend) sitting outside of Wal-Mart and for a brief second I glanced at him as Erica and I were walking by. I guess he didn’t like that. He and his companion started following us. And, better yet, he started shouting things at us.

Such poetry as, “Have you ever seen a real Native before?” and “You wanna fucking go?” I love society.

Like a good, normal, cautious person would, I ignored him. Erica stayed close to me and clutched her purse in case he tried to steal it. Erica wanted us to get into one of the taxis that was sitting in the parking lot. I figured that was a good idea, but the taxi drivers locked the doors on us. Thanks, taxi drivers.

Well anyway, this guy had continually been following us and was so close now that he was stepping on the back of my heels. His lacky was close behind him, but was behind him as he didn’t really want to be doing this, but felt like he had to. So anyway, Mr. Shouty had noticed that Erica and I were heading for the cabs. Figuring this was his only opportunity he punched me in the side of the head. It was a nice, hard punch too. But that was when I just lost it.

I turned around (keep in mind, I didn’t fall over, lose my balance, feel the slightest bit of dizziness or anything, I took that punch like a MAN) and screamed at him, “WHAT THE HELL’S THE MATTER WITH YOU, ASSHOLE?!”

This came as a surprise to them. They were about 5’7 or so, so they were taller than me and I guess felt like they could overpower me. But suddenly I was so enraged that they didn’t know what to do. They saw the look of anger on my face and his cowardly friend said, “May…maybe we should just go…”

They ran away back to the mall. Erica was in hysterics over the whole situation. We went back to the school and, luckily my dad had the day off so I called him to come pick me up. Erica went to class, but couldn’t do anything. She started crying in the middle of her class and she told the teacher what happened. Meanwhile, my dad had called Wal-Mart to tell them but as it turned out, someone who worked at the customer service department had recognised me and saw the whole thing. Though she thought that they were trying to steal money from us.

Anyway, I ended up talking to her on the phone and she gave me the number for mall security and said that I should call them. So I did and apparently there were four of them all together, the two outside of Wal-Mart and two more hanging around inside the mall. They caught all four of them and said I should come in to file a report. So I did. They took a picture of the fist-shaped bruise for evidence.


Later on that night the police came to my house to ask me if I wanted to press charges. I decided against it as that would involve picking them out in a line, going to court and having them know who I am. I didn’t want to risk that if they were part of a gang or something.

It turned out they were high or something and they weren’t from this part of the city. So I don’t know if they were arrested or not, but they had to spend the entire day in mall security custody and they were banned from coming back to this part of the city.

Luckily I’m a strong and capable guy, so I didn’t get agoraphobia or anything from this traumatising experience. In fact, I’m telling you guys (the world, the public) about the experience. So I guess that means I’m okay. You needn’t worry about this guy.

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