I Poisoned the School Bully A working class boy’s life changes forever
when he gets a scholarship to a prestigious boarding school. His initial apprehension is surpassed by the
reality of meeting his school bully, who shows him no mercy. Eventually, he decides to put a stop to it,
but his efforts exceed his intentions, causing everything to spiral out of control. “Guide me, O thou great Redeemer,
Pilgrim through this barren land; I am weak, but thou art mighty;
Hold me with thy powerful hand: Bread of heaven, bread of heaven
Feed me till I want no more. Feed me till I want no more.” On the rare occasion I hear this hymn, I’m
taken right back to my school days. I went to a boarding school, and this was
one of the hymns we sung in the chapel. I very much doubt that any other of the kids,
nay, even the adults, really paid attention to the lyrics. But I did. They both resonated with, and repulsed me. I know now the repulsion stemmed from my inner
turmoil, my perceived deficiency. My parents had more in common with your average
East Asian parent than most of the British population; they had big ambitions for me. We lived in a slum growing up, with both my
parents working dead-end jobs just to keep us on the breadline. They didn’t want the same for me so, come
hell or high water, they were determined to ingrain in me a strong work ethic and devotion
to study. From a very early age, they spent what free
time they had teaching me to read, drilling as much of a book’s contents into my head
as much as possible. They had set their sights on a scholarship
to a fee-paying school and when it was time for me to move up to ‘big school’, they
got their wish. To be honest, I didn’t really want to go
to such a school. I wanted to go to a normal school like the
other kids, to be able to come home at the end of the day. I would never have dared say that to them
though, because I knew they would be furious, and that would lead to a smacking. So with my heart in my throat, I got packed
off to a school miles away from home, to be thrown into a lion’s den surrounded by strange
people. I was alone. I was an eleven-year-old boy feeling desperately
sad and that first night in the boarding house, so much so that I wept silently in the dark. I approached the following day with greater
jubilance, determined that if I was going to be stuck here, I may as well make the best
of it. It was a mixed bag; I made a friend-for-life
called James, son of a barrister, I found that I quite liked my science teacher, an
old English eccentric who always wore slippers and did the Stan Laurel head scratch every
time someone asked a question. On the flipside, it was also the day I met
my bully. A lanky chap called Blackwood, a boxing fanatic
with a mean right hook. Even now, I don’t know why he latched onto
me, but he did and I became his favourite victim. The very first encounter was rather mild compared
to what was to come; he merely tripped me over when I went to walk behind him in class. Everyone laughed and I pretended to be unfettered. Inside though, I had a deep pang of worry. I knew the moment was the start of something
horrible and I was right. A couple of weeks into the first term, and
following what had mostly amounted to mere insults, there came a lunch when Blackwood
confronted me on the school grounds. Now James, bless him, had advised me in good
faith that I should stand up to him for my own good (neither of us knew about the bully’s
martial training). He said that if I didn’t, the other boys
might end up trying to run rings around me too. Blackwood walked up to me and got very close
to my face, very intimidating, and started pushing me backwards, calling me all sorts
of things. When challenged though, I bit back and gave
him a hard shove. Well, the silence was deafening. You could’ve cut the tension with a knife! What broke it was a fist that landed right
on my nose, knocking me down and leaving me bloody. Then, he lunged at me and followed up, James
tried to step in and assist but some of the other kids held him back, leaving me to have
the snot beaten out of me. Much too late, Mr. Tindall, the gymnasium
teacher, eventually stepped in and pulled Blackwood off me. He sent him on his way and nonchalantly told
me to get up and to get myself over to the nurse. James accompanied me and when I got there,
I was shocked to look into the mirror of her office and see what a state my face was! At the time, I didn’t quite take it all
in because I was suffering from shock, but it was a bloody and blotchy mess. It stung a great deal, a little later on. Aside from James, the nurse was the only one
to show a measure of sympathy. She was a matronly woman and whilst she was
patching me up, she pulled out a packet of custard creams and offered me and James a
couple. That glint of warmth and familiarity I enjoyed
in that moment meant that I never wanted to leave. I imagined, idly, stupidly, a scenario where
I could just spend the rest of the term in here with these two, eating custard creams. It would’ve been a fine old thing. Lady Reality came calling though, and I had
to obey. The moment I dreaded most was the night. I would be stuck in a dark dormitory with
my bully, away from the teachers, away from the nurse and with only James as my right-hand
man. After today, I knew that nobody else would
come rushing to my assistance. My worst fears came true, but not nearly as
immediately as I’d anticipated. It must’ve been a week and a half later
when, in the middle of the night, Blackwood and one of his obedient sidekicks dragged
me out of bed and through the school, ending up down in some apparently deserted basement
area. In one of the rooms, there were three older
boys standing in front of a fireplace. The room was a grubby thing, with bits of
old furniture scattered around, gathering dust. That was the least of my worries — in one
of the boys hands was a branding iron. “Alright, Baker?” one of them said. That one had a terribly sinister smile when
he said that, so much so that it remains crystal clear in my memories even after all these
years. They taunted and teased me; mocked my background
and groped me leading as some ghastly build-up to the climax. When the time finally came, the oldest boy,
I think his name was Evans, proffered the iron to Blackwood. Even he initially seemed hesitant despite
past bravado, but the older boys worked him up and applied pressure until he eventually
snatched it from Evans. Slowly, he took it over to the fireplace and
bathed it in the hot flames. When he deemed it ready, he took it out and
turned to face me, the iron’s end facing me. I was quietly terrified. I didn’t know what to do for the best? Scream and hope someone cares enough to investigate? It didn’t seem likely. If nobody came, no doubt it would just leave
my captors enraged, galvanising their debased instincts. So I stood silently in their grip, limbs like
lead and tears welling up as Blackwood slowly came up to me. The other boys kept goading him, telling him
to hurry up and before I knew it, the iron was within an inch of me. I couldn’t keep it together any longer,
I committed a humiliating act — I wet myself. The sound of it trickling onto the hard floor
still makes me wince, as does the mix of disgusted groans and laughs of the boys. In the back of my mind, I had a distant hope
that this might satiate their sadism, might even inspire a nugget of pity in Blackwood. In truth, the obvious camaraderie between
bullies seemed only to embolden him. The other boys egged him to brand me, and
so, he went back to reheat the iron and then told them to get me ready. They grabbed the sides of my underpants and
pulled them down, making exaggerated noises of disgust, and put a pillow against my face
whilst Blackwood pressed the searing metal against my bottom. It was the most painful experience of my life. I screamed blue murder but there was nobody
to hear it, muffled by the pillow and far away in this remote bottom floor. After that night, my approach was to just
shut down. Shut down my feelings, my very humanity, in
order to survive this torturous prison for children. It wasn’t a long-term strategy though. The universe seemed to be conspiring against
me, starting with the moment when I had to start fagging for one of the other older boys
from that night — a blonde boy called Kemp. He had been more of a cheerleader than anything
else that night, but just the fact that he was there, that I would have to see his face
and kowtow to him, was bad enough. It was a constant reminder chipping away at
me. Nowadays, the young people call it ‘triggering’. Still, I persisted with my strategy, channelled
all of my energies into my studies, with a particular emphasis on history and the sciences,
in the hope that I could just tough it out. As it turns out, that was wholly over-optimistic. Once Blackwood found out that I’d become
a fag for Kemp, he decided that I should be his too, even though such a thing was not
at all usual. Such was his growing arrogance. Of course, he had to strong arm me into doing
it. Threats and mild physical abuse. In the end, I did it in the hopes of just
getting some peace. He had me making him cups of tea, fetch him
toast in the mornings and making his bed and if I didn’t fulfil his requests to the letter,
he made sure I paid for it. Little by little, the situation just seemed
to get worse and worse. Slowly but surely, I was rolling towards my
breaking point. Things came to a head on a summers day, during
a big event. Everybody was flocking outside and even parents
had been invited along (not that mine could make it) and I was making my way out when
Blackwood and company snatched me and dragged me to one of the science labs. At the front of the room, there was a cubby
hole with a lockable door — they threw me in and locked the door. It was a mean enough move in itself but I
suffered (and still do) from claustrophobia. I had mentioned this to James some weeks before
this, and I’d bet a pound to a penny that they’d overheard and were waiting to pull
this stunt on me. I pleaded with them to let me out, banged
on the door repeatedly — I couldn’t breathe, I felt like I was going to die. For a while, they stayed and treated my suffering
like they were listening to an amusing radio show, laughing and joking. But then they stepped it up a notch and just
left me. I was in there for three and a half hours! Even that was by the grace of god, for it
was chance that Mr. Anderson (the eccentric science teacher) had dropped into the classroom
to fetch something. I came out a blubbering, shaking wreck. He tried to offer some comfort but it’s
clear in hindsight that he wasn’t emotionally equipped to deal with such situations. He was yet another former public schoolboy
like me, emotionally stunted, emotionally clumsy. Still, I appreciated that he had good intentions,
it was more than most I’d known at that school. After I had calmed down and had time to think,
I decided enough was enough. Something had to be done about Blackwood. The question was, what? I had no martial talent and I was an outcast
as far as most were concerned. I did consider that I might rope in James
to help me ambush him one night, but I didn’t think it would be fair to drag him into my
mess, and there’s no guarantee that it would resolve the situation. Then I had a wicked idea — I could doctor
his food. I sat on it for about a week before deciding
to proceed. I weighed up the risks against all the mental
and physical suffering inflicted upon me, as well as that I could suffer in the years
to come, and decided it was worth it. Initially, I thought about the chemicals kept
in the lab; I knew which ones were dangerous but none of them seemed suitable. Hydrochloric acid would be delightfully nasty
but far too obvious, and there was always a risk that the teacup would be damaged before
I had even delivered it to him. Zinc sulphate? At best, I might give him an upset stomach. No, that wouldn’t do. I always knew that this move needed to seal
the deal in some way, as once it was done, there was no going back. When I got the opportunity, I went to the
lab and raided the chemicals cupboard. To my knowledge though, there was nothing
suitable. Out of the chemicals that could do harm, they
were either too obvious or two weak to do any lasting harm. I felt so frustrated! This had been all I could think about ever
since I set my mind to it. I repeatedly enjoyed the mental simulations
of my bully at my feet, begging for mercy. To what now were my ambitions to come? After initially feeling deflated, I steeled
myself and set my mind to coming up with something. The great idea came when I saw the gardener
about the grounds with a green canister in his hand. I could see from the image on it that they
were slug pellets. I had a funny vision of myself scattering
some and Blackwood scooting across the floor and licking them up. No, I don’t think that would work. It did allow me to join the dots though — the
lab wasn’t the only place I could find chemicals. I went searching the school for some kind
of storehouse and I found one; a tiny room, big enough for only one or two at a squeeze,
full of everything a school might need. I knew exactly what I wanted though. On a red packet, in black print, said ‘Rodine’. It was rat poison. Now, I knew that this stuff could do serious
damage. I had heard about cases of people suffering
severely, even dying, after ingesting rat poison. Did I want Blackwood dead? Not particularly, but I couldn’t have pretended
to care either. He had mutilated me, tortured me and there
was nothing resembling brakes on his journey of destruction. He could well kill me if I don’t act. I slipped the packet into my inside blazer
pocket and left the cupboard, and got ready to go to my next class. I was certainly on edge for the rest of the
day and, as my luck would have it, for the following day too. It was one of those odd days where Blackwood
didn’t demand my services. So, the evening after that, I went off to
prepare some tea and toast for him. When the toast was ready—and when I was
sure nobody was around—I pulled the rat poison from my pocket and spread a little
of the paste onto the toast. Then, to disguise the taste as much as possible,
I slathered on butter and jam, put the plate and teacup on a tray and then made my journey
to Blackwood. I avoided thinking about what I was doing
the whole way back, but no matter how much I tried to block it out, I could still feel
this vague sense of dread lingering behind me. When I eventually found myself standing beside
his bed, he told me to set the tray down and to leave, not even looking up from behind
his magazine (predictably something called ‘The Ring’). I don’t know what I expected from the poison
but I did expect it to act quickly. As a matter of fact though, despite loitering
around a good few minutes, there was nothing. I eventually walked off because I’d agreed
to meet James by the oak tree, but I couldn’t tear my mind away from it. Hour after hour passed and still I heard nothing. Come time for bed, I had begun to comfort
myself that for whatever reason, the poison hadn’t worked and that, maybe, that was
a good thing. The next day followed, and as the hours passed,
a feeling of black hope stirred, a sense that something wasn’t right with Blackwood. In the afternoon, he passed me without so
much as a shove. Odd. I noticed that anytime I saw him throughout
the day, something seemed off. Not that he would ever have complained; people
of the era wouldn’t dream of doing so, especially boys in a boarding school. No, one was expected to suffer in silence. Eventually day inched towards night, when
I was once again asked (forced) to do Blackwood’s bidding. I brought him some (clean) toast and tea,
which he took straight away this time. I left the room to go to the toilet but when
I came back, there was quite a stir; Blackwood had vomited all over the floor. In fact, just as I was joining the crowd to
witness the spectacle, I saw Blackwood on the floor, on all fours, his hands surrounded
by a pool of discharge, going to vomit again. It was terribly thrilling. On the one hand, if this was the result of
the poison, I feared getting caught. On the other hand, the violent, sociopathic
thug had been brought to his knees, pathetic and weak, a helpless victim. My mind slipped away to nasty dreams of what
I might’ve done to him if we’d been alone. One of the other scholar boys, Heppelthwaite,
dashed off to find someone. A couple of minutes later, he arrived breathless
with our housemaster, Mr. Jenkins, an old army type with a no nonsense attitude and
an empty space where his brain should be. He strode over to Blackwood, leant over and
slapped him on the back, saying “Come on boy, pull yourself together.” His reply was an incoherent mumble followed
up by another round of chunder. Jenkins eventually put two and two together
and realised that Blackwood could not simply suck it up and go on as normal. The rapid ringing of a brass bell signalled
the arrival of an ambulance, which promptly escorted him away. I didn’t hear anything of him until a couple
of days later, when I was called into the headmaster’s office. Blackwood’s condition was serious; the doctors
had diagnosed him as suffering from phosphorus poisoning. I asked him what was going to happen to him. The head told me that his stomach had been
pumped, and that he’d been administered potassium permanganate to detoxify the poison. If I had been the only one called in to see
the head, I would’ve been in a state of utter dread. As it was though, I was just one of many potential
witnesses to be interviewed. As it happened though, the fagging situation
was mentioned. Someone prior had mentioned that I had been
delivering toast and tea to him on a regular basis. The head probed the situation, clearly trying
to skate around the elephant in the room. I don’t think he could seriously countenance
that such a young lad could be a budding Mary Ann Cotton. He asked me how well I got on with Blackwood. I told him that although publicly we weren’t
on the best of terms, in private, we enjoyed an amicable and respectful friendship. That my ‘fagging’ for him was one of a
few mutual acts of respect we did for each other. I really played on the stiff upper lip, old
boys nonsense, saying that it was a given he couldn’t be openly affectionate. “It’s just not the way we do things, is
it sir?” He was satisfied with my response but did
note that the police had been and took the unfinished toast that was left on the side. He was sure that even though yellow phosphorus
was easily detectable, they wouldn’t find a thing. So was I. I thank my lucky stars for that
fortuitous example of crossed wires. About a week later, after having enjoyed a
few days free of him, I would discover there would never be a time again when Blackwood’s
name wouldn’t permeate my life. It was during an assembly that the head brought
him up. He told us that he’d died. Liver failure. He had us bow our heads and pray for him. I didn’t know what to feel. At that moment, none of it felt real. I bowed my head just as everyone else did,
repeated the prayer just as everyone else did and felt nothing, just as everyone else
did. The grace period didn’t last very long though
as, just a few short hours later, it struck me during Latin that I had killed someone. It sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? Of course I always knew that my actions had
caused his death, but it had all been so abstract and distant before. Thinking those words brought it all home. My initial response was subdued panic. I felt like I was being strangled, like death’s
crushing grip was on my throat, taking payment for the life I had stolen. Then came the rationalisation stage — trying
to convince myself that it wasn’t nearly so cold and callous as the panic would suggest. It was an act of self-defence. He had bullied me ruthlessly. He enjoyed torturing me, physically or otherwise. For some reason though, nothing seemed adequate. I couldn’t decide whether that was sensible
or not; after all, his reign of terror over me had been so terrible that he’d physically
scarred me. Was that truly not terrible enough? Why? Why did it not feel justified? If things weren’t bad enough, my own words
had come back to bite me. When Blackwood’s parents had come to the
school, the head mentioned that on discrete terms, I had been good friends with him. I guess that moment had gone too smoothly
to not come back and bite me. The bite consisted of his forlorn parents,
in the presence of the head, coming and asking me if I’d like to attend the funeral, perhaps
say a few kind words. I considered breaking down into untameable
tears and acting too despondent to consider it, but given what I’d said to the head
about stiff upper lip, I guessed it would look suspicious. So, in a terrifically mad moment, I said yes. The head, knowing my background, discreetly
asked if I might need some suitable get-up for the occasion. Feebly, I said yes, which he assumed was financial
embarrassment but which was nothing but guilt. When the day of the funeral arrived, I found
myself feeling very queasy and in what can only be described as poetic justice, I ended
up running to the toilet and vomiting. After I got myself together, I was transported
to a modest church with a modest attendance and when I walked in, there, at the far end,
was his coffin. God only knows what stopped me from turning
on my heel and bolting out the door. I quickly realised that the only way to survive
this mad event without breaking down, was to shut my emotions down. I even managed to get up and stand in front
of his family, nervously offering a few kind words about my late ‘friend’. It was a sickening and traumatising experience,
I felt like I couldn’t have said no to them. I felt like I owed them something, even if
their son was a wretched bully. Boys who go to such schools rarely end up
as emotionally well-adjusted adults but I think I must have eclipsed most in the ‘damaged’
stakes. As I went through my teenage years, I slumped
into depression. I left school with unremarkable qualifications
and found a dead end job. Aside from the occasional flutter of light,
I dragged myself through life for many years in that fashion. In the mid-80s, whilst working as a hospital
porter, I took a steel wool from the hospital kitchen, went to the toilets and started scrubbing
my skin with it. The noise I made inevitably drew the attention
of a young Pakistani doctor, who with some help, got me out and had me sectioned. I had suffered a mental breakdown. I don’t want to talk about the ins and outs
of that because it was a horrible time, but I will say that it forced me to reevaluate
everything and to be kinder to myself. I’ve been a work in progress ever since. Try to sexually harass my grandma, you might
take back a nub Tried to post to a different sub and was told
to post it here. Recently learned about the revenge subreddits
and have been enjoying some of the stories. As I've pondered things, I figured I'd share
a few tales myself. This first tale though involves my grandmother. So let me start this by saying yeah I'm on
mobile and English is my first language so please be harsh if you see any errors. Also a short TLDR at the bottom Setting- early 60s, medium sized midwestern
city, local neighborhood bar. The title of this story comes from my grandma's
old saying. See, my grandma always carries a switchblade
in her purse for protection and she said if anyone ever tried to attack her, they might
get her but she's gonna take a piece of them, hence her term "I'll take back a nub". Some context about my grandma before we get
into story time. My grandma was born in the deep South back
in the thirties. She was 1 of 4 sisters who I will refer to
for the rest of this as the 4 sisters. My family decided to migrate up to a northern
Midwest City in the fifties. Just for clarification my family is African
American, so if you know anything about United States history, you would understand why they
would want to escape the deep South during this time period. My grandma was 20 something when she moved
north with her husband(my grandfather). The rest of her family(her sisters, mother,
and uncle) also moved up north. Because of housing discrimination, my grandparents
were forced to live in the "black neighborhood". The rest of the family also lived in this
neighborhood and were basically within walking distance of each other. The thing to know about the 4 sisters that
they were all spitfires. They are some of the most caring women you
can know and were all excellent mothers and grandmothers but they were not to be trifled
or messed with. If you crossed one of the, that might be your
butt. This was especially true of my grandmother,
who was all of 5'1 and fairly petite. The four sisters where quite the characters
and it didn't take the neighborhood long to know of these 4 sisters because of their crazy
antics. They also loved hanging together on the weekends
either at one of their houses or sometimes at the local watering hole. On this particular night, my Grandma wanted
to go out for a few hours with her sisters. Only one could go(aunt C). My Uncle, my grandma's oldest son, was in
charge of watching his siblings for a few hours on this lovely Saturday night as my
grandma dressed to the nines and headed down about half a mile to the local bar to meet
up with her sister. This was a pretty small bar that got a lot
of regulars. My grandma had been there dozens of times
and has plenty of stories to tell about her time there with her sisters and also with
my grandfather. My grandma and aunt C are lounging in the
bar having a couple of drinks and cracking some jokes with some of the regulars when
a new character is introduced to the scene. This guy's name is Leroy. He was a regular as well. To picture this guy want you to think about
a guy as skinny as Jimmy Walker, and about the height of Kevin Hart. Combine this and make him about the age of
40 and you'll have Leroy. ( Almost everyone will know Kevin Hart but
if you're not sure who Jimmy Walker is look up the sitcom "Good Times" and you'll figure
out who he is). Leroy was a regular at the bar too but then
again, Leroy was a regular at almost every bar in town. You see kids, before the internet, online
dating apps and hookup sites, the way most people met was at bars. Our good friend Leroy was notorious for wanting
to have one night rendezvous with the ladies at the bar. Well everyone knew his game and after he has
had a few one night stands with some of the ladies in the neighborhood, most now avoided
him like the plague. This of course didn't stop him from going
to bars on a weekend trying as best to shoot his shot and hoping a lovely filly might come
home with him for the night. Leroy had flirted with my grandma and aunt
on previous occasions and even though he was told that they were both happily married he
keep trying to have conversation with them. As soon as he entered, he once again strolled
over there trying see if he could get some action with either of them. My grandma quickly told him not to waste his
breath but he sat down anyway. What surprised my grandma was that behind
Leroy was another dude. He was well over 6 feet tall and handsome. My grandma honestly couldn't recall this guy's
name so we'll call him jerk. My grandma knew right away that this Billy
D Williams wanna be was gonna try to sweet talk and charm his way into some ladies pants
that night. It seems that he had his sight set on his
first target, which would be of course, my grandmother and my Aunt C.
It seems like our good friend Leroy was gonna try to be jerks wingman. He started off with some small talk to my
grandma couldn't tell her how gorgeous she was and something about you know getting lost
with heater eyes and all the other nonsense. My grandma said that he had "diarrhea of the
mouth," and pretty much let what he said go on one ear and find the nearest exit. My grandma quickly shut this clown down and
let it know she wasn't interested, So then he set his sights on my aunt. Now you know my aunt can take care of myself
my grandma was always a little protective of her. Jerk made a comment by how nice my aunt's
thighs were as he looked lustfully at her. My grandma quickly told this fool that my
aunt was married and not interested in his nonsense.. This is where the story changes and revenge
comes into place. I'm gonna try to write this dialog as best
as she recalls it. Grandma- " she's not interested and she is
happy married" Jerk-" she can speak for herself" Jerk- "Your legs must be tired because you’ve
been running through my mind all night,"(yes this fool used a pickup line) Grandma- " Are you hard-of-hearing or something
or a little slow, I told you she's married and not interested" Jerk-" Bench, you talk to much. Maybe I'll put what's my pants down your throat"(
he actually said his d***, but not sure if I can use that word) Ladies and gentlemen, this is where crap got
real. Yes everybody else in the bar knew you wouldn't
and shouldn't talk to my grandma that way. She didn't play for that nonsense. This is one of those times where you could
actually hear a pin drop as everyone got quiet. My grandma exploded with a expected" what
the freak did you just say,?" My grandma was seething with anger but jerk
face played off as it wasn't a good idea. My Aunt C knew it was about to go down. She grabbed my grandma and starting leading
to the door. You see my sister knew what many other people
knew and that is my grandma kept a "38 snub nose revolver in her purse and typically kept
a very sharp switchblade wrapped up in hers bra. My aunt tried to led my grandma out of the
bar to avoid any more confrontation but my grandma wasn't having it. As she was being pushed out the door by my
aunt and another male customers, my grandma seized a nearby beer glass and flung it towards
jerk. Fortunately glass didn't hit him and erupted
close to his feet but it certainly got his attention.. This well over 6' ,well over 200 lbman jumped
out of his chair storms towards my grandma saying that he will kick her butt. My grandma replies "bringing on bringing on. She eventually gets fully outside and he decides
to come outside. He's a little apprehensive because a couple
of the neighborhood bar dudes had gotten up to see this and he's afraid they might get
involved, you know, since it's unacceptable for a man to hit a woman and all that jazz. The guys said they're not gonna do anything
and just want to watch. My grandma quickly pulled out the switch blade
that she had in her bra, unwrapped it from the paper and looked him in the eyes and said
come on motherf*****" You would think at this point any civilized
person might be apologizing further for the crude language he used earlier or you would
think that the guy, seeing that my grandma had heels on, might just walk away knowing
she's probably not gonna chase after them. Do you think this clown chose either option? If you said he chose neither option, you would
be correct, let's give you a prize son. What a woman with a switchblade bearing down
on him he decides to stand his ground and doubles down by again calling my grandmother
a bench and telling her he's going to beat her butt. He next starts putting up his fist ready it's
ready to go to town. No worries, no one says my grandma has to
fight fair fight fair. You see, what this clown forgot about was
my aunt. While jerk has his fists up ready start striking
like he is Mike Tyson, my aunt has conveniently took off one of her high heel shoes. She uses the heel to bash him right in the
shoulder blades. Of course this staggers our young jerk. As he turns looking at my aunt screaming obscenities,
it gave my grandma time to come and slice this fool right in the side. As our young jerk howls in pain, my grandma
says to him "Maybe I'll should slice something else off,". The jerk staggered sideways looking at T least
2 infuriated women one with her high heels still in her hand and the other with a switchblade
switch blade with the sight of his blood on it.. Don't worry he's wasn't too badly hurt as
she sliced him but didn't stab him. By this time a few other people are stepping
in and are trying to calm the situation down and jerk left the scene. THE AFTERMATH. My grandmother heard from others that the
jerk went to the hospital and got treatment for getting sliced on the side. This was the sixties so no cops were called
and if they had been called, they probably would pf been really slow getting to the scene. No idea what he told the hospital staff and
doctors but regardless regardless heard he got patched up and was no worse to wear. Rumor has it that he ended up moving to Chicago
a few months later. He never tried to get revenge on my grandma
for this so there's there's that. My grandma says she wasn't gonna tell my grandfather
about what happened(he was a over the road trucker and was out of town when this event
happened) but you know how things quickly go through the grapevine. He of course scolded her for this but she
just gave him a wicked smile and said that the jerk deserved it and that he came at her
so it was self defense anyway. Not sure that's exactly entirely true but
that's what she's sticking with. My grandma continued going to that bar every
once in a while(and was a bit of an legend. Our friend Leroy ended up being the epitome
of a dead beat dad. Rumor has it that he has something like 10
kids with 8 or 9 different women. My grandma still has the switch blade and
yeah she showed it to me. It's somewhere in her massive collection of
items now, otherwise I'd attach a picture of it. I also learned that my grandma is a woman
of her word because she actually took back a nub in the form of a ounce of flesh from
this jerk. Hopefully you enjoyed this story about my
grandma. She has told me the story a few times and
was a little fuzzy on couple details ,as she's in her nineties now, but I'll do my best to
answer any questions.
