Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman Ch. 03

Navy SEAL come to the rescue of a homeless woman.

Three men against one is not a fair fight, only, what was worse, the one being beaten and sexually assaulted was a woman. It was his job to help her. It was his job to save her. It was his job to give her justice and retribution by beating the crap out of these three men.

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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 2: Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman.

Even though he didn't like the odds and felt bad for the poor bastard being so beaten, three of them were beating up on one, helpless, homeless man. Even though it wasn't a fair fight, the one being beaten obviously wasn't afraid to defend himself. Immediately, he could tell that the homeless man knew how to handle himself. He was getting in some good punches and kicks.

Keeping his distance while keeping a watchful eye, he slowly walked by the opening to the alleyway and stopped while staring down the alley. Minding his own business, he was about to continue going along his way without stopping to help the homeless man when he heard it. He heard the unmistakable sound of a woman's voice. Having stuck his big nose in someone else's business too many times before, he wasn't going to intercede on someone else's fight again, even an unfair fight, that is, until he heard a woman's voice.

"Stop! Don't! Leave me alone," she screamed! "Help! Please! Someone help me! Rape! Call 911! Rape!"

Yeah, as disturbing as it was unbelievable that three men would beat up on a poor, homeless man, it was even more unbelievable that the one being beaten was a poor, homeless woman. As if he was on a reconnaissance mission and heard a sound, a mere foot passed the alley entrance, he stopped walking and stood frozen to listen. How could three men beat a poor, defenseless, homeless woman? How dare they!

'That was a woman's voice I heard,' he thought. 'I'm sure of it. I heard a woman scream for help,' he said to himself and for no one to hear.

Immediately he remembered how the Taliban treated their women whenever they made too much noise. They'd just shoot them in the head. Problem solved. No more noise.

Only, we're not animals. We've civilized people and when a woman screams for help, with him being the right man, at the right place, and at the right time, she was lucky that Christopher was there to help her. He was ready to help her. He was ready to save her. He was ready to beat the crap out of those three men.

"Help! Someone please help me! Call 911," she screamed! "Help! Rape!"

"That's not right. That's not fair. That's messed the fuck up. That's just nasty. Those dirty, fucking bastards," he said turning back to silently, and stealthily walk down the alley. "How dare they make so much fucking noise!"

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Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman, Ch. 3

As if stepping in a phone booth to emerge as his own version of a Super Navy SEAL, he was ready to do battle. As if he was Charles Bronson in Death Wish, Sylvester Stallone in First Blood, Arnold Schwarzenegger in Collateral Damage, or Denzel Washington in The Equalizer, a one-man deadly fighting force, he couldn't live with himself if he didn't help her. He had to save her. After all he's been through to help people and after all the murderous acts he's done to save people, what kind of man would he be if he walked away from someone needing his help now?

Even if she was a sad, street urchin of a homeless woman, comparing her to some of those poor, defenseless Taliban women, she still had rights. She doesn't deserve to be beaten by three men just because she's homeless. She doesn't deserve to be sexually assaulted just because she's a woman living on the street and alone in an alley.

'Who do they think they are? How dare they,' he thought?

As does everyone else in this nation that he helped to keep free, she had the right to live her life without the fear of being beaten and sexually assaulted. She was still a human being stuck in this recession of an economy. With his sister a single mom with three, small children on food stamps, welfare, Section 8 housing, and home heating oil assistance, basically homeless and helpless, had it not been for state assistance, she could have been his sister living in that rat and roach infested alley.

She was a helpless and defenseless woman fighting three, fucked up men who, obviously, were trying to rape her. If all his hand-to-hand combat training was to come down to this one interaction with him playing the superhero Navy SEAL, he had to help her. He had to save her. There was no one else there to help her and it was up to him to save her. It was up to him to give these three men a lesson in manners by beating the crap out of them.

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Except for the anger that goes along with it, putting his PSTD on the back burner, he was ready to intercede. No longer a ticking time bomb, he no longer charged wildly with machine guns firing in each hand to stop the noise by temporarily creating even more noise. He was now more able to control his rage somewhat, most times, but not all times, like now.

Even though he was angry, he was calm. Even though he was angry, he was in control of his emotions. Not allowing his anger to get the better of him, already, thanks to therapy, medication, and drugs, he was a different man. He didn't need to be the monstrous fighting machine that he was on the battlefield to fight the Taliban. He just needed to keep his wits about him to easily defeat these three poor excuses for men.

Yet, scratch the surface, his anger was still there pulsating, percolating, and brewing in the way of impatiently waiting for that first cup of coffee to be ready. It was as if there was an alien creature alive, living inside of him, and waiting to be unleashed upon these poor bastards. They didn't know any better not to make noise. They didn't know that Christopher hated noise. How could they know that a Navy SEAL was about to make their wrongs right by seeking his own version of violent and personal retribution?

'Christopher hates noise,' he thought while referring to himself in the third person again.

In the way that Denzel set the timer on his watch in the Equalizer before he decimated his opposition, Christopher cracked his knuckles in readiness to destroy them with his bare hands. As if a slow burning fuse instead of an explosive bomb, he felt his anger burning and seething, until it erupted in a flash and exploded in his head. Yet, not going off half-cocked, never going off half-cocked in the way that so many other men do, in the way of Steven Seagal, calm replaced his anger.

His hours of hand-to-hand combat training changed him from a ticking time bomb to a well-oiled machine of murder and mayhem. Only, along with his hand-to-hand, combat training, the psychological therapy he's had, the medication that he was prescribed to take, along with the meditation he's been making the time to do, he was a different man. After nine, combat deployments in three different wars, now that he was retired and home for good, in time, he'd be okay.

Now more in control of his emotions, more complete in his mind and body, he had the clarity of thought of a Zen master with all the fighting skills of a Ninja warrior and a Shaolin Monk combined. Maybe it was the medication that he took, but he was more relaxed and more in control. Perhaps, it was the meditation that he forced himself to do, yet, unless there was noise to anger him, he was better than he ever was in years. Definitely, the psychological therapy helped him.

'Christopher doesn't like noise,' he thought to himself in the third person again. 'Just don't make any noise. Then, I'll be okay, and you'll be okay, too.'

As if he was playing a familiar video game, he saw everything in slow motion. As if he was a chess grandmaster, he knew all of the moves that he needed to make in advance. Unless they had a hand grenade and were willing to blow themselves up along with him, no matter if they had a gun, a knife, or a big stick, the three of them didn't stand a chance against him.

Forget about him being a super Navy SEAL, forget about him being the reincarnation of the equalizer, he was the enforcer. He was the end result that everyone got when they unnecessarily made noise that disturbed him. He was what they deserved to get when they dared to make him angry.

Now, not only more able to control his anger but also, he was able to harness his rage to use against those who caused the noise that angered him. Staying close to the wall, as if he was part of the wall, and walking slow with silent, measured steps, avoiding stepping on broken glass, he didn't make a sound when approaching them. Slowly walking closer to them, and with them nearly in reach of his long arms, as if he was their personal bomb, they never saw him exploding. As if he was a bullet meant for each one of them, they never heard him coming.

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'Christopher really hates noise,' he thought again while thinking of himself in the third person again. 'And they're making a lot of noise.'

He took a big breath to calm himself. Then, he re-centered himself to focus on what he needed to do. Never a barking dog, he didn't waste his energy with vulgar language, stupid talk, and idle threats. Never striking anyone until his hand, his foot, his knee, his elbow, or his head was forced, every blow he threw hit his target with devastating accuracy and damaging aftereffects. He never wasted his energy with wild, roundhouse blows that missed their target. As if he was John Wick, he was a disciplined and accurate, fighting machine.

With his strikes causing off the charts blunt force trauma, pity the poor bastards on the bad side of him. With his kicks breaking bones, pity the poor bastards who made noise that upset him. With his martial arts punches causing internal damage without leaving a mark on the outside, pity these assholes who were going to pay for what they did to this poor, helpless, homeless woman.

Breaking a bone and/or severing a tendon, every kick caused damage. Able to knockdown and/or knockout his opponent with one lightning quick strike, every punch caused a devastating head injury. He knew precisely how hard to hit someone to silence his opponent. He knew precisely where to hit someone to stop the noise.

Once all was quiet, the peace quelled his violent temper and his troubled mind. Cause verses effect for the expected resultant conclusion. It was more the noise that bothered him than it was the men causing it.

Only, pity the poor bastard who managed to get his full angered attention. It was by silencing the three men that he could stop the noise. Originally, his aim would have been more to stop the noise than it was to beat the men, but with them beating and trying to rape a homeless woman, he was ready to show them no mercy. In this specific case, three men continued to make noise. With them the exception to the rule, by beating and trying to rape a homeless woman, again, he planned on getting even by leveling them.

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If he was anything, because of his rage and because he was now more in control of his anger, the best of the best, he was an efficient killing machine paid and trained by the United States Navy. Now, a retired Navy SEAL, he was free to walk the city streets as an innocuous civilian. Go figure. How can a trained killer not do what he's been trained to do? Not that he needed a reason but as his justification, he needed to hurt, maim, and/or kill someone for making noise.

Just as he's retired, he'd never be an innocuous civilian. A trained assassin, a killer, and a fighting machine, he never could be turned into a mild, mannered neighbor. Perhaps, not a superhero and not a super SEAL, but he's more of a wolf in sheep's clothing. Nonetheless, he was no mild, mannered Clark Kent, not by any means.

A mindset that needed to be deprogrammed, it's impossible to go from one to the other without meditation, drugs, and psychological therapy. From a killing machine to a man out for a walk, without meditating, taking drugs, and having years of therapy, after all that he's seen and done, it would take a village to help make him somewhat normal. Able to live in society without him leaving dead bodies behind of all those who pissed him off by making noise, living his life normally was as impossible as most men who dared tried walking in his shoes.

Only, much like serial killer, Dexter, he needed to hurt and/or kill someone to stop the murderous thoughts in his brain. Every so often, when the noise in his head grew too unbearably loud, Christopher needed to stop the noise by beating some poor bastard to a bloody pulp who was responsible for making the noise. Going off less, he's more able to control his need to hurt and/or kill the one responsible for the noise. Only, and again, these three men were exceptions to his rule. They beat a woman while trying to rape her.

'Oh, yeah, that will teach you to make noise,' he thought. 'Next time, maybe you'll think twice about opening your big, loud mouth,' he imagined saying to the victims of his violent temper.

Whether at a baseball game, a bar, or out for a walk as he was now, he's been able to justify his brutal, physical attacks. As if temporarily distracted by what was running through his mind, he refocused on his mission when he heard her voice again. He needed to help her. He needed to save her. He needed to revenge her from this cruel, unprovoked, physical, and sexual attack.

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"Help me! Someone help me! Please," she screamed! "Rape! Rape! Call 911! Call 911," she continued screaming!

Yet, he didn't blame her for the noise. He blamed them for causing the noise. Instead of zeroing in her making noise by screaming, he turned his attention to the three men. Already having had his fill of those making this raucous uproar, it was time to put an end to the noise. It was time to make everything and everyone go quiet, again. He needed peace and quiet. It was time to make everything go peacefully quiet.

With old habits hard to break and as if he was a one-man, SWAT team, he took a peek around the corner and down the rest of the alley to make sure that no one else was keeping a lookout and/or coming and to clear it. Then, he poked his head around the brick wall again before yelling. With a one syllable word, he initiated contact with a yell.

"Hey!"

Normally, he wouldn't have warned them with a yell. He just would have hit them. Yet, proof that his therapy was working, he gave them the chance to stop what they were doing to this poor, helpless woman, and run away. Nonetheless, even after his yell, they acted as if they had never heard him yell to them. Accustomed to everyone yelling in this part of town, and especially at this hour, they unfortunately didn't see him nor hear him silently approaching them from behind.

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He could have verbally assaulted them personally by calling them vulgar names. Yet, a waste of breath and a distraction, even though he was intent on attacking them physically, not that he was a religious man, Christopher rarely swore. Besides, there were more descriptive words that he could use than just a four-letter swear words. Nonetheless, mere word were a waste of his violent emotions.

He could have ignored the noise. He could have continued walking. He could have remained quiet and found solace and inner peace. He could have minded his own business and allowed them to continue beating her, rape her, and even murder her.

He could have entered the alley stealthily and unannounced and slit their throats before they even knew they were cut and bleeding out to die. Only, he couldn't do that. Not now. Not ever, especially after having had therapy.

They were too busy sexually molesting her, to notice him silently approaching. With her shirt torn wide open and nearly pulled off of her, her big, naked breasts were totally exposed. Her pants were pulled down around her ankles again to reveal her naked ass and her naked pussy. He saw what they all saw. Only, instead of him being sexually excited, he was emotionally disgusted.

'How dare they beat her like a dog? How dare they strip her naked? How dare they remove her dignity by sexually assaulting her and trying to rape her,' he thought?

They never heard or saw him coming until it was too late and he was behind them and within reach of them. Even from a distance in the dim light, he could see that this poor homeless woman had one Hell of a body for a bag lady. She had big, natural tits, a round, firm ass, and long, shapely legs with a flat, toned stomach. Moreover, she was blonde. From what he could tell by the matching color of her pubic hair, his kind of woman, she was a natural blonde.

In the way of flies on food or on a dead body, six hands were touching her, feeling her, fondling her, and caressing her everywhere while leaning to suck her erect nipples. Unsuccessfully trying to stick their erect pricks in her mouth, obviously, they were intent on raping her. When one wasn't feeling her big tits and fingering, pulling, turning, and twisting her erect nipples, another was feeling, squeezing, and slapping her ass or trying to finger her pussy while forcing her hands on their exposed, stiff pricks. They forced her to stroke them and tried forcing her to suck them.

Difficult for him to wrap his brain around three men beating and trying to rape a poor homeless woman, what if she was his mother, his sister, his aunt, or his cousin needing immediate help? He hoped that someone would help them in the way that he was about to help her. With his decision already made by making his presence known with a yell, now, committed to saving her, he had to help her. As a man putting himself in harm's way, whether a Navy SEAL or not, it was the right thing to do.

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"Stop! Don't! No! Let me Go! Help someone," she continued screaming! "Help! Help! Rape! Call 911! Call 911!"

With the therapy, medication, and meditation changing his tactical offense, he could have done what he used to do with a volley of hands and feet. He could have run at them with fists punching and feet flying. Now with his calm mind working as if he's the Terminator, an alien robot programmed to complete a mission, he was focused and ready to engage the enemy as if a sensei ready to train his martial arts disciples.

Able to read the make, the year, and the model of every vehicle and memorize every license plate of every car parked in that alley with just a quick glance, these dudes had better run but they didn't. As he approached, he moved away from the brick wall and away from a lucky ricochet bullet should they fire a handgun. Still staying in the shadows, as if advancing upon another fighter in the ring, he stepped out sideways while keeping his body a narrow target instead of wide one.

As if he was a professional quarterback on a championship football team, he changed his strategies of defense and tactics of offense with every step closer he took and every move they made. As if he was Anderson Silva, one of the greatest, mixed, martial arts fighters of all time, ready, apprised, and aware, he was a professional and they were amateurs. Completely clueless, they didn't even know that they didn't stand a chance against him.

"Go fuck yourself old man," said the smallest when finally noticing him standing behind him.

He turned to confront him with a 3" pocket knife. Already discounting him as a threat with a stare, he looked away from him to leer at, touch, feel, and fondle the woman's nearly naked body. Seemingly, he especially enjoyed touching, feeling, and fondling her naked breasts. As if he had never seen, touched, and felt such big breasts, he was all over the poor woman's naked tits.