Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman Ch. 02

Navy SEAL comes to the rescue of a homeless woman.

Author's Note:

This is a Non-Consent/Reluctance story. There is no rape in this story.

All characters portrayed in this story are over 21-years-old. There are no minors under the age of 18-years-old in this story. There are no sexual references to anyone under the age of 21-years-old.

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Continued from Chapter 1: Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman.

Then, when the second man pulled her up by her hair to stick his cock in her mouth, with a devastating punch to his balls, she bent him over in pain. She quickly pulled up her pants as she stood while quickly buttoning her blouse. Trying their best to overpower her, the other two were at her kicking her and punching her.

Stuck in the corner in the way of Mohammad Ali doing his rope-a-dope, she protected her face while blocking their punches with her forearms and kicking back with her legs. With them punching and kicking the dumpster or the wall instead of her, she used the protection of the dumpster and the brick wall behind her to her advantage. Even though she held her own, weak, and tired from not eating and with them much younger opponents, doomed to submit, there was just no way that she could continue to defend herself against the three of them much longer.

Sadly, and tragically, it was only a matter of time before she'd be overwhelmed, overpowered, and dragged inside of a doorway to be raped, beaten, and maybe even murdered. Another senseless crime and a brutal murder, it was only a matter of time before she'd be just another homeless person found dead in an alley. She'd be nothing more than another unidentified victim, and a statistic on a police blotter.

"Get out of here! Leave me alone," she screamed. "Help! Help! Someone help me," she screamed louder! "Please! Call the police! Call 911! 911! Help! Help! Rape! Rape," she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Please, someone help me."

Exhausted from fighting them, she could no longer lift her arms to defend herself.

"Help! Help! Someone help me! Rape! Rape," she continued screaming as her last resort!

The three men mocked her while laughing at her.

"Help. Help. Rape. Rape. There ain't no one comin' to your rescue lady," said the first man.

He laughed, yet, again.

"There ain't no one gonna risk a bullet to help a bag lady," said the second man grabbing at his pocket as if he had a gun.

He wagged a finger at her precarious predicament.

"You're on your own baby. Ain't no on comin' to your rescue," said the third man. "It's the three of us against you."

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Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman, Chapter 2:

No longer able to sleep through the night, Christopher was out walking again in the dead of night. He enjoyed walking at this hour because there weren't any people around to annoy him. One thing to know about Christopher, he hated noise, and he wasn't crazy about people. Except for his Navy SEAL, Army Ranger, Marine, Green Beret, and Delta Force buddies, he didn't care much for people.

Still suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he just wanted the noise in his head to stop. Suffering from the worst case of Tinnitus, he wanted all noise to go away. He wanted everything and everyone to be quiet. With him not asking much, Christopher just wanted some peace and quiet. He just wanted to be left alone to aimlessly walk while thinking.

As if the screams were meant for only him to hear, as if the distant screams of people were amplified and played through a speaker in his ear, the screams that he heard in the distance were deafening. Assaulting his senses, with him prepared to do whatever it took to stop the screaming, as if on a secret Navy SEAL mission, Christopher immediately came to action to stop the noise. With the vision of a marching band and a parade, with him in his dress Navy blues, and with screams playing his Navy song, Anchors Aweigh, in the background, he was ready to do battle.

"Stand Navy out to sea, fight our battle cry!

We'll never change our course so vicious foes steer shy-y-y-y!

Roll out the TNT, anchors aweigh!

Sail on to victory, and sink their bones to Davy Jones, hooray!

Anchors Aweigh, my boys, Anchors Aweigh!

Farewell to Foreign Shores, we sail at break of day-ay-ay-ay;

Through our last night ashore, drink to the foam,

Until we meet once more, here's wishing you a happy voyage home!"

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Not even trying to be quiet, there were four of them in an alley yelling, fighting, and making a lot of noise. Whenever he approached anyone asking them to be quiet, with him 6'4" and 230 pounds, he usually didn't have to repeat himself to get his message across, especially whenever referring to himself in the third person. Christopher hated noise, especially at this hour. It was after hours and they were in the bad part of town where even the police didn't dare respond unless they had plenty of backup, dogs, and were dressed in riot gear.

Unable to sleep through the night, walking was his nightly routine since retiring from the Navy. As if he was deemed the security guard for the entire city, Christopher was out for his early morning walk again. The night and the early morning hours were filled with all kinds of nocturnal wildlife. He couldn't count the number of skunks, bats, rats, opossums, owls, stray cats, dirty dogs, and unfaithful husbands and wives that he's seen when walking around this neighborhood at these, odd hours.

When people should be home sleeping they were out at all hours doing whatever. Once in a while, no doubt, homeless, he'd even see single mothers walking with their young, dirty children. A world in motion there was always someone doing something, and at this hour not much of it was legal. Yet, as if he was a professional Boy Scout, always prepared, if being a SEAL taught him anything, he was ready to confront anyone at any time for anything, especially for making noise.

Instead of walking with a purpose at his fast pace, he wished he could run. He loved running. Unfortunately, running attracted too much attention, especially when running at this hour through a residential neighborhood. With all the break-ins and home invasions, after surviving three wars and nine deployments, with his luck he'd be shot in the back while innocently running by someone's house.

With him as light footed as an American Indian, in the way of Jean Reno in The Professional, his enemy never heard or saw him coming. For someone as big as he was, he knew how to make himself invisible. Best he kept a low profile by lurking in the shadows in the way of a Ninja warrior hiding in plain sight before surprising its enemy. Always seeing someone before they saw him, if he didn't want someone to see him, they wouldn't. Using the element of surprise to his full advantage, the element of surprise kept him alive.

Usually, as long as he stayed off the main street, it was quiet at this hour of the early morning. This is the time that he enjoyed the most when being alone with his thoughts. He seldom had a problem or an altercation and if he did, an understatement, he could handle himself in any given situation. Yet, since he was unable to sleep, all that he wanted to do was walk while thinking and without anyone bothering him.

If he encountered a situation that he couldn't defend and defeat with his bare hands, he was armed and dangerous. Never without, and with him licensed to carry, he carried his trusty Glock 19 with an extra clip in his shoulder holster, and his Smith & Wesson in his ankle holster. In addition to his handguns, he carried a small but bright flashlight, and a sharp, 6", pocket knife.

Unfortunately, because of a main water leak, so as not to wade through flooded streets, he had to alter his direction. He turned and twisted his way without ever knowing the reasons why. As if his life was fated destiny to be at the right place at the right time, he had to take a detour. He walked down the main road for a couple of blocks before cutting back to the relative safety of a quiet, residential neighborhood.

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Sometimes but not always referring to himself in the third person, understandably not always wrapped too tight after all he's been through, he experienced one if not all of the side effects of being in a war night and day. As if a resident in the One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest mental ward with Jack Nicholson as McMurphy and Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched, in the way that noise unnerved him and made him anxious, worth repeating, Christopher hated noise. Not having to be a loud noise but a steady and unrelenting noise went right through him as if he's being electrocuted.

No longer able to attend live concerts, he can't stand loud music. He hated crowds. As if it's static noise, even people rudely, loudly, and obnoxiously talking on their cellphones at the bank in line ahead of him unnerved him and assaulted his senses enough to make him leave the line. Noise made him nervous, restless, and jittery. Noise crumpled him in the way that men's fists couldn't.

Always ready to go on the attack, noise made him want to beat the crap out of the person creating the noise. Those talking obnoxiously too loudly on their cellphone made him want to grab their cellphone, throw it to the ground, and stomp on it with his regulation Navy tactical boots. Only, even though he thought of doing that, he would never do that. Psychological therapy for his PTSD has taught him to close his eyes, take a breath, and count to ten before killing anyone.

'Shut the fuck up,' he thought! 'Just shut the fuck up! Stop making noise,' he imagined shouting as he walked.

"Close your hole before I close it for you," he said talking to himself while zeroing in on the noise and walking closer to it.

Those were the thoughts that ran through Christopher's mind in the way of a runaway freight train. Even though he'd never talk to someone like that, threaten them, and show them his hand, he'd just hit them to stop the noise. He had to stop the noise. No longer able to think, the noise cluttered his mind and made him anxious.

Running out of the house screaming with his hands over his ears, he'd never be good around a crying baby. That happened to him when he visited his sister after seeing combat action that he'd rather not remember. Never talking about all that he experienced, something that he'd never forget, the memories were attached to him as if they were red, raw, bleeding, and painful to the touch of his skin. Then, there were the nightmares with him waking up screaming in his sleep. With him awakening the whole house, he was better off walking.

Reliving memories in his nightly nightmares were bad enough. No matter how much psychological therapy he had, he'd have those horrible visions for the rest of his life. Back then, just before he retired, he was on leave for some much-needed R & R to get his head back on straight after being wounded again in a battle that killed all of his men but him. Questioning why he was the only one to make it home, wishing that he was dead too, surviving was not all that it's cracked up to be, especially when he was the last man standing.

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Charging the enemy with an 85-pound,.50 caliber, machine gun in his hands, he did what he needed to do to save his men. No doubt, had there been a witness left to testify what he did to fight the enemy and to save his men, he'd be awarded the United States Congressional Medal of Honor. Only there were no witnesses left alive to tell his of heroism. All the witnesses to his actions were dead. Still, his commanding officer put in papers to give him another medal to pin on his chest and that's when he retired.

No more medals. He didn't want any more medals. He didn't need any more medals to show everyone the man that he was. He just wanted to be left alone. He just wanted the noise and the nightmares to stop. He just wanted some peace and quiet.

He didn't want a medal pinned on his chest to remind him that his men were all dead, that he was alive, and that he had killed so many people. More than he could even possibly wear, he already had more than enough medals, ribbons, and stripes on his uniform to decorate the uniforms of several men. He had no idea how many men he had single-handily shot in that one battle but he killed a lot, enough to make everything go quiet.

He knew that it was quiet because he stood in the middle of his kill zone with two smoking FN Scar, special operations forces combat assault rifles, in each hand while listening. The only sound he heard was the eeriness of death. He wondered if the men he killed were in their version of Heaven with a thousand virgins. Because, with him surely alive and alone with his guilty conscience, bad memories, nightly nightmares, and sleepless nights, left alive, and living here was his version of Hell.

When he returned home and visited his sister, she had a new born baby that never stopped crying. Too much noise with her two other kids running around her small apartment always yelling and fighting, he couldn't stay there. He gave her enough money to pay her rent and to buy food but he had to leave. He was forced to listen to too many suffering SEALS and Marines screaming in horrible pain after their limps were blown off by an IED roadside bomb, an improvised explosive device, that maimed and killed so many of his good buddies.

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Back then, the pencil pushers and bean counters gave soldiers vehicles without armored plating and supplied them with inferior guns that jammed. What were they thinking? No doubt, the defense contractors were thinking of all the money they'd make selling inferior armaments to the United States military.

Apparently, they didn't care that they were responsible for the deaths and injuries of so many Americans fighting another useless war for power, oil, and money. If it wasn't for Senators Ted Kennedy, John Kerry, and John McCain forcing Congress and the Pentagon to give his men what they needed to protect themselves and kill the enemy, more of his men would be wounded or dead. Yet, ever since he was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the new term for battle fatigue, having had a few psychotic episodes, sometimes he acted as if he's a crazy man on mind altering drugs.

He sometimes liked to think of himself as Rambo on steroids with an ecstasy chaser. Even though he's had evidence of having PTSD for years, the military doctors didn't officially diagnose him as having that and didn't tell him that he was so afflicted until he was honorably discharged. How convenient for the military to use him in such a personally damaging way for their benefit?

With all of the fighting, combat, and leadership experience he's had, too valuable of an asset to be sidelined, all they cared about was putting him back out on the battlefield. Even though he could claim it and put in for a disability with the Veterans Administration for all the times he was wounded in combat, he left that money on the table for a veteran who really needed it. Not wanting anything more or less than what was coming to him, still young enough to enjoy his private life, he retired at fifty-years-old.

He gave thirty years of his life to his country. Now he just wanted to be left alone in peace and in quiet with his 75% pension along with his pass to the base to buy whatever he needed at discounted prices at the commissary. No more bomb blasts. No more rat-a-tat-tat machine gun fire. No more frantic yells for "Medic!" No more waiting for the bomb that you never hear exploding beside you or the bullet that you never see coming for you. No more war, and no more noise, just quiet.

He needed everyone and everything to be quiet. Just quiet, nothing else but silence enough to hear birds singing and crickets chirping. Just peace and quiet is all that he wanted. Is that too much to ask to have after all that he's been through in helping to save his country from terrorism and their citizens from terrorists?

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"Thank you for your service," said strangers to him.

'Go fuck yourself,' he wanted to say to them but not wanting to appear crazy, he didn't dare say that in response.

'May I have some peace and quiet? Please? I just want to be left alone,' he wanted to say but he didn't say that either.

Actually, a candidate to be living in Montana, Wyoming, the backwoods of Maine, or even the hills of Vermont, places where there are more animals than there are people, he should be living in the country rather than in the city. A truck backfiring causes him to get down on the carpet or the street and grab his weapon. Yet, a city boy, he felt more comfortable in pollution, urban squalor, and over crowdedness than he did in the scenic majesty of mountains, lakes, and expansive scenery.

He hated the beach. The beach reminded him of nighttime parachute landings. Unless he was walking on the beach late at night, he felt exposed. Moreover, he hated the people that populated the beach. Too many people. Too much noise.

'Quiet! Please, be quiet. Shut the fuck up,' he wanted to say but didn't say that either!

Yet, the country was too quiet, unnervingly quiet, and, if left to his own devices, he imagined himself going off the deep end and setting booby traps for anyone who dared trespass on his property. Yeah, best he should be out and about with people than seeing and imagining things that aren't there when living alone with his bad self. An understatement, Christopher not only preferred the quiet, he needed the quiet to stay focused and centered.

Quiet kept him not only balanced but also sane. He preferred reading and meditating than to listening to a television blaring endless commercials, annoying infomercials, and drug commercials that listed dozens of side effects. As if he was Master Po of Kung Fu, with his head shaven but his eyes wide open even when they're closed, he needed the deep solace that comes from personal reflection after experiencing such horrible trauma.

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With a head for math and an appreciation for science, he's self-taught in chemistry. More than just knowing how to construct a bomb, he knew how to manufacture Ricin, a deadly poison to kill more than one person at a time. Only, angry enough to kill more than one, in the way of Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, he had a list of people he'd like to see dead.

Ricin, a weapon of mass destruction in quantities large enough to kill, all someone needed to do was to inhale it. Yet, happy just to study chemistry, memorize chemical formulas, and know all the chemical compounds, he preferred the deep introspection of self-improvement tapes, along with the soft sounds of country western music. Jennifer Nettles of Sugarland, Dolly Parton, and Shania Twain were his favorite singers. More than once when alone at night, he's imagined himself with Jennifer Nettles while stroking his erect prick.

"Christopher loves Jennifer Nettles," said his friends teasing him and making fun of him. "He loves Shania Twain. He loves Dolly Parton. Christopher and Jennifer, Shania, and Dolly sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g."

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Yet, Jennifer Nettles barely had B cup breasts. Even though he had a thing for blondes, he preferred women with big breasts. He loved tits, the bigger the better. Shania has shapely, C cup breasts but Dolly had huge double D ones. He wondered if her breasts were natural or artificial. Yet, not mattering to him if they were natural or implanted, he loved big breasted women.

Unfortunately, he couldn't find peace. No matter how well he insulated his house, no matter how much medication he took, no matter how much he meditated, and no matter how many self-improvement tapes, and country western music he listened to, it was always the same. The noise that he heard hurt his head, infiltrated him, panicked him, and attacked him as if the noise was trying to personally piss him off.