Navy SEAL and Homeless Woman Ch. 03

'Old man? Christopher's not an old man,' he thought while referring to himself in the third person again. 'Now that I've had therapy to control my anger, I'm in my prime. I'm a better man than I was a few months ago.'

# # #

Not looking his age with all the diet and exercise he does and with strangers mistaking him for 30-years-old instead of 50-years-old, he couldn't believe this punk called him an old man. As if he threw water in his face, as if he slapped him with a glove to challenge him to a duel, and as if he had chosen the one phrase that would anger him, he angered him. Still able to knockoff 250 pushups, a thousand crunches, a hundred pull-ups, still running 10 miles every day, and punching his heavy bag for an hour, he bench pressed 350 pounds for reps.

Still able to get and maintain an erection as hard and as big as if he was in his 30's, he wasn't an old man by any stretch of the imagination. In the way that Arnold Schwarzenegger challenged Jack LaLanne to a pushup contest when he was in his thirties and Jack was in his sixties, Arnold stopped at 250 pushes and Jack continued to 1,200. Able to do 250 pushups without stopping is an amazing feat for any man but able to do 1,200 pushups for a man in his sixties was mind boggling.

"Back the fuck off old man, before you get hurt," said the little man again when Christopher continued advancing.

Christopher laughed.

"Old man my ass," he said. "Christopher is not an old man," he said referring to himself in the third person again.

Looking a bit like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable, Christopher Ryan was the real deal, living version of David Dunn in the movie. Christopher wasn't any old man that they've ever seen before. He wasn't ready to yell his battle rattle, 'Hoorah!' just yet. He no longer needed that adrenaline rush to do what he needed to do, especially with these three, dimwitted fools.

What he had now, being calmly in control, was so much better. When he knew that he was going to end the noise to make everything quiet again, he had a clarity of mind that couldn't be distracted. He had a determination of purpose that couldn't be swayed. He couldn't be stopped from what he was about to do.

His decision was already made. Even if they begged him for mercy not to beat them, he'd beat them. Even if they apologized to the woman profusely for beating her, nearly stripping her naked, trying to rape her, and paid her for all the damage and indignity they caused her, he'd still beat the shit out of them. They needed to be punished for what they did and if anyone was the punisher, he was.

Able to summon up enough adrenaline only when needed, he didn't need any additional adrenaline at all with these, three fools. If he had to, only needing his right or left thumb, in the way that Sean Connery did as Lt. Colonel Caldwell in the Presidio, he could fight them all with one arm tied behind his back. Already discounting them, they were of no consequence to him. Actually, with them having no plan, no strategy, and no education, what kind of life would they have? He felt sorry for them.

Besides, just because he's retired from the Navy doesn't make him old. If anything, it made him smart. It made him still want to live above ground. Between coming in contact with missionary soldiers, he was pushing his luck rubbing elbows with the CIA. Sometimes hard to know who was the enemy, he figured if he was someone else's bitch, served one more master, and one more hitch, it would be his last one and he'd be coming home in a body bag as did so many of his buddies.

# # #

"What's wrong with you for hitting a woman?" He stepped closer with each word. "What's wrong with you for stripping her naked? What's wrong with you for trying to rape her? Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

No longer charging headlong into battle, he was smarter now. Instead of peppering his targets with the potty mouth of a drill instructor, which he was for a while, he didn't need to insult them with mere words. Instead, with a dozen kicks and punches, he only needed one clear shot to make his point and to make his world quiet again.

"Fuck off," said the tallest one. "Don't talk about my mother," he said taking personal offense as a son who was clearly having incestuous sex with his mother.

Rubbing their naked cocks against her nearly naked body, they were all touching her and feeling her while she struggled. Obviously, it was their intent to have a good time with her before they beat her bloody or killed her. They were intent on sexually forcing themselves on her. With them all trying to stick their naked cocks in her mouth, and with her pushing them away and turning her head away, they all wanted her to blow them.

"Let go of me! Stop! Stop touching me! Let me go!"

# # #

"Get off of her now," he said putting his hand in his pocket to act as if I had a gun and, of course, he did.

Registered to carry, he had a beauty of handgun on him, a Glock 19, generation 5, nine-millimeter, just in case things got out of hand in this not so safe neighborhood. With criminals always on the lookout for victims, no one dared walk these streets after dark without a weapon. No one dared stop to help anyone for fear that they'd be a victim, but he did. Yet, even though his hands and feet were deadly weapons, he'd never leave his house without his guns and his knife.

Only, Christopher was nobody's bitch. He had his Glock 19 in his shoulder holster and his Smith & Weston in his ankle holster. Only, a sacred rule he didn't break, he never pulled a gun unless he's going to fire his weapon and if he discharged his gun, he wouldn't miss.

"What's it to you? Mind your own fucking business," said the smallest one again, a Hispanic man of about 24-years-old. "Beat it, old man," he said again.

No doubt, the small man would have attacked him but with Christopher 6'4" tall, and weighing 230 pounds, he dwarfed the man. Even if he wasn't a Navy SEAL, albeit retired, men would think twice about standing up to him. Then, again, with him having so many personal weapons in his arsenal, they were all doomed to pay for what they were doing to this poor, homeless woman.

The second man cold cocked her when she turned to look at him entering the alley and coming to her rescue. Then, as if dropping a hundred-twenty-pound sack of potatoes in a warehouse, he pushed the woman to the ground, no doubt, in readiness to mount her and fuck her. Yet before he focused his attention to the woman, he gave Christopher a deadeye look while the tallest one, a black man of about 25-years-old, kicked her in the ribs when she was helplessly down on the ground.

Assessing his enemy with the glance of a trained assassin. Either him or them. He's killed more men, women, and children terrorists than he could count or even remember. The dead bodies of three more wouldn't make a bit of difference to him. With them already giving him plenty of reasons to kill them, he wouldn't think twice about ending their miserable lives.

He pegged the tall, black man as the most dangerous one of the three. He figured him for having a gun. After he cold cocked the poor woman, he'd be going down first.

The smallest man, no doubt angry that he was so small and always looking to prove how tough he is in front of his friends, was the most predictably unpredictable. He'd take him down at the same time that he'd disable the first man. The third guy, the one who just kicked the woman when she was already unconsciously down on the ground, would be last. Just going along for the ride, he was just a tag along of little consequence, and it wouldn't take much to disable him.

# # #

"Assholes" he said under his breath to blow off some steam before launching his physical attack.

In the way that a black belt in marital arts issues a warnings first, he wished he could carry a special card that identified him as a dangerous man and a killing machine. Then, he wouldn't have to bother with creeps like this. Worn in the way of a police badge, a tattoo on his forehead, or a 7th degree black belt sown into his clothes, he imagined them running away like the rats and roaches that they are whenever they saw him coming. Yet, even if he was a cop in uniform, too stupid to know any better, he didn't think these dopes would run.

As if a pride of lions with their kill, since the woman was nearly naked and on the ground, they'd never abandon her and their chance of having gangbang sex because of one, perceived as easy to handle, old man. Already committed after pissing him off by making noise and then calling him an old man, needing to show them that he wasn't an old man, they were going down now. Mindful of an ambush, he's always leery of closed environments especially alleys where someone could be protecting their friends from above.

While he walked closer, he eyed the woman. She was just a defenseless, dirty, homeless woman, a pitiful woman dressed in rags, albeit with a smokin' hot body. Definitely, she was younger than she looked. He wondered what she looked like when washed, dressed, and wearing makeup.

'Damn she had big, natural tits,' he thought.

Doing just fine defending herself, he felt bad for her because it wasn't until he opened his big mouth and she turned to him that they got the upper hand and demolished her. A tough broad and a real back-alley brawler, she used the wall to her benefit by pushing off it while punching, kicking, ducking, bobbing, and weaving to make them miss and hit the wall behind her instead of hitting her. Someone taught her how to box and if the fight had been one-on-one instead of a three-on-one, she would have cleaned the street with their unconscious body.

She held her own until, the one with all those prison tattoos surprised her and cold cocked her from the side when she turn to look at him. She stopped punching and blocking to look at him entering the alley instead of looking at them. One punch to her soft, sweet spot and she dropped like his duffle bag when he finally made it home in one piece from the Middle East.

# # #

"Cocksuckers," he said under his breath. "Now why did you say that? Christopher doesn't swear. Christopher doesn't like dirty talk. That makes Christopher angry," he said referring to himself in the third person again.

The black man looked at him as if he was crazy and, indeed, he would have been crazy to come to the rescue of a homeless woman defending herself against three man trying to rape her. Only, he wasn't just any ordinary man. He was a SEAL, a Navy SEAL who was trained to hurt, maim, and kill his opponents.

"Christopher?" The black man laughed while staring at him. "Who the fuck is Christopher?"

Christopher stared down at the three men as if they were a pack of hyenas.

"You better back the fuck off old man and mind your own fucking business before you get hurt," said the black the middle with all the prison tats. He was about 25-years-old. He was the one who cold cocked the homeless woman.

"It's okay with me if he wants to take her place," said the black man with a laugh. "I don't care who I beat to a bloody pulp. I just need to hit someone," he said slamming his fist in his hand.

With them all in their mid-twenties, they were all so young but old enough to know better and not too young to die for being so stupid. What Christopher deemed as volunteers for dangerous duty, he wished he had these three in his squad. Either he'd straighten out in a real hurry or they'd be dead. No doubt, if they were in combat and thinking they were going to die and these three would die, shaking in their boots, they'd be peeing themselves before taking bullets to the head.

# # #

"You're a bunch of tough guys beating up a homeless woman. Let's see how you do against a real man and against a United States Navy SEAL retired," said Christopher looking down at his chest as if his nametag and/or medals were still there. "Something that I never give anyone, this is your one and only warning," he said staring up at them and looking from one to the other. "Last chance," he said. "Best you leave now before I hurt you three of you really bad."

Instead of leaving, they laughed while Christopher persevered.

"When we're done with you, your mother, if she's still alive, old man, won't recognize you," said the little man with the big mouth.

As if he was Billy Jack in the movie of the same name, a half-bred, American, Cherokee Indian, ex-Green Beret, Viet Nam veteran, and a master of Korean martial art, Hapkido, Christopher remained confident in his fighting skills. In the way Billy Jack did in the movie, declaring in advance where he'd hit them and/or kick them before he even hit them or kicked them, Christopher boasted his actions. Even after giving them fair warning, he wanted them to know exactly how helpless they were to defend themselves against him.

"First, I'm going to hit your right temple with my right knuckle to render you unconscious," he said to smallest man. "Then, before kicking the gun from your friend's hand by hitting a pressure point on his forearm with my left, steel toe, I'll hit him with a karate chop to his throat. Trust me, he'll wish he was dead," he said with a laugh.

Again, he looked from one man to the other man.

"Lastly, I'm going to hit you with an open-handed slap to his solar plexus that will cause internal bleeding and horrible pain. And," he said pointing an index finger in the air as if an afterthought, "there's nothing that you can do to stop me."

All three men laughed.

# # #

"Say what? Are you warning us? Are you threatening us? Are you crazy? Who do you think you are? How are you going to hurt us really bad when I have a gun, my friend has a knife, and my other friend has a pipe," he asked while watching his friend pick up a pipe from the gutter.

The third man turned to him with a face full of anger to tell him that there's no man and no number of beatings that could set him straight to make him see the light. Only, he hasn't had a beating until he got one from Christopher. A real martial arts technician, punching him deep enough to damage a vital organ and to cause internal bleeding, Christopher could hurt him without so much as leaving a bruise or a mark on the outside of his skin.

The black man reached in his waistband and, as if he was a quick draw, pulled out a gun before walking over to the woman on the ground. Knowing he had a gun before even seeing it, Christopher already figured as much. Immediately, imagining kicking a pressure point in his forearm and the gun flying across the alley and breaking in pieces when it landed, he envisioned kicking the gun out of his hand.

"Leave her alone," Christopher said while surveying them and the alleyway as he dared walked closer.

The black man with the tattoos turned to confront him with his handgun.

"Fuck off man," said the third man menacingly while making himself a bigger target by facing him and confronting him in a menacing posture while holding the pipe.

Instead of turning his body to the side in the way of a boxer or a cage fighter to conceal his vulnerable spots, he left himself wide open to an assault. Dumb move. Apparently, they didn't know any fighting techniques. It was obvious that they've never had any training in hand-to-hand combat and have never been in a fair fight, the three of them against a retired, Navy SEAL was a laughable mismatch.

"Don't you know it's not right to hit a lady?"

He distracted them by engaging their mini brains in conversation while walking closer.

"Lady?" He laughed. "She ain't no lady," said the little one flashing his little, pocket knife while the other two left her to walk up on either side of him. "She's a nothin' and a no one. She's nothin' but a whore. She's just another homeless bitch. Ain't no lady that would live and sleep in an alley with the roaches and rats," he said.

"Yeah, this was all her fault for stopping us," said the tall man. "She asked us for money and I told her that I'd give her five dollars if she sucked my cock," he said grabbing himself in the way that Michael Jackson used to do.

Not even interpreting the words, not hearing what he was saying, all that Christopher knew was that he was yelling and Christopher didn't like all the noise that he was making. Without all the deafening noise and without the stench of death and burning vehicles, it was downtown Baghdad and it was downtown Kabul all over again. Suddenly as if under attack and he was, as if he needed to fight back and he did, it was as if it was all happening in slow motion. Knowing exactly what he was about to do, he was a second from leveling the playing field and stopping the noise.

No doubt, they figured that he was just some, sixty-year-old fool intent on committing suicide. If they only knew who he was and if they only they had seen him fighting in battle, they would have fled the scene already but they stayed there as if daring him to fight them. Fight or flight, Navy SEALS, even ex-Navy SEALS, and especially retired SEALS don't run. He's never turned down a mission.

Always able to stop the noise, as if he was Peter Graves as James Phelps in Mission Impossible, this was his accepted mission to save the woman now. Once a SEAL always a SEAL. SEALS are born to be SEALS. They never retire. Fighting is in their blood. Fighting is who they are. The best of the best, they're better than all the rest.

Once finished fighting and once retired, they just learn to blend until something like this happens. Then, they can't blend. They just react. Trained to put his opponent down on the ground and to render him helpless, he was expert at overpowering, disabling, and killing. As if there was a trigger that set him in motion, his years of training so reflexive, and without thinking, a combative defense that never left him and returned to him in an instant, he was ready, willing, and able. He was still a SEAL.

Besides, being that there was only three of them. With only one knife and one gun between them, it wasn't a fair fight. Just wanting to stop the noise while saving the woman, he'd rather fight than flee. He wouldn't feel right until they were all down on the ground unconscious and bleeding and she was safe from them.

As if he was James Earl Jones as Sergeant Major Goody Nelson in Gardens of Stone, he gave an order.

"Make a hole and make it wide," he yelled while marching towards them and as if he was walking through a swarm of enlistees in the barracks with the commanding officer walking behind him.

"What? Huh? What the fuck does that mean, make a hole, and make it wide?" The little man looked at him and laughed. "You're crazy old man but not too crazy to die," he said lunging at him with his pocket knife.

Too stupid to obey a simple order, wanting them to stay just the where they were, he knew that they wouldn't move if he ordered them to move. Without a weapon in his opened hands, as if he were Achilles in Homer's Iliad running towards Hector, the Prince of Troy, and his two bodyguards, he took three, giant running steps towards the three defenseless men for increased momentum.

To be continued...