Never bite off more than you can chew. Especially when it comes to starting a fight! These folks dish on the time they saw someone instantly regret throwing the first punch.
The Legend of Quigs
“It’s a beautiful thing when some macho, meat-headed moron picks on the wrong bad hombre and gets his butt handed to him on a silver platter. That is ballet, that is symphony. If you haven’t seen it yourself, you are truly missing something magical.
So we have this buddy. We call him Quigs, after Quigley Down Under. I don’t know why, he’s not from Australia and he looks nothing like Tom Selleck.
Quigs is an enigma in many ways. He studied the classics at a very specific kind of university. They read original texts. So, for instance, instead of taking geometry you read the collected works of Pythagoras in the original Greek. Rather than take a sociology course, you read Malthus’s An Essay on the Principle of Human Population.
I’m not bagging on it, brother. I think it’s the bee’s knees, and his ankles to boot. But you don’t always expect someone well-versed in hermeneutics and can deconstruct Virgil in the original Latin to also be a genuine butt-kicker.
But here we had a Quigs, one of the most unassuming characters on Earth. He was tall and gangly, with a beard down to his balls. He was lanky as an old scarecrow, and came across as someone who was more into roasting his own gourmet coffee beans than getting in the ring as an MMA fighter.
But he had been in two UFC fights, and went undefeated in lower circuits before that. He lost his UFC bouts, but he’d left a lot of busted-up beef in his wake on his way to getting there.
We were at karaoke night at a local bowling alley, and sat down at a communal table. We were laughing, being silly and having fun, so the young women who were sitting with a bunch of machismo stoics completely uninterested in having fun started to take notice of us.
The ladies began to engage us in conversation and general tom-foolery. It was just a good time. Nobody was interested in stealing these jack-wagon’s women from them. Quigs in particular was deeply in love and going to marry his fiance within the year.
Quigs was sitting closest to this group, so he took the brunt of the guy’s trash-talking and macho posturing. They were ticked at us for drawing off the flattery and attention of their ladies.
Suddenly, Quigs and the biggest, meanest, baddest looking of the guys get up and storm out of the bar. We looked at each other, not knowing what was going on and shrugging our shoulders. We thought they were going to grab a drink at the main bar and become best buds forever.
But eventually, when they don’t return, we think maybe we should follow along and get the lowdown.
By the time we found them, it had already gone down.
They had ‘stepped outside,’ as is the common parlance. The guy had pulled his belt off and started swinging it wildly at Quigs, telling him he was going to ‘make him his punching bag.’
Quigs got the belt from the guy’s hand, turned it around so he was swinging with the buckle, and chased the guy screaming around the parking lot. They took it to the ground, where Quigs quickly got the better of him and choked him out. The guy passed out, and Quigs took a few sucker punches to the dude’s face while he was deep in the Land of Nod, which he still feels bad about.
He left the guy on the curb and Uber’d home. The ambulance was already called and the guy’s face was already looking puffy and purple.
We had to get the story from the security guard, who recounted the duel in admiring detail.
The moral of the story is, watch out when you look at a group of guys and start deciding you’re going to pick on who is apparently the weakest link and biggest peacenik.
He might just be the baddest hombre in the bunch.”
Don’t Mess With This Guy’s Wife!
“So, I’m Asian. As is my dad. He’s been an entrepreneur all his life, kind of forced to since he had immigrated to Canada…as there was no recognition of his certificates and licenses.
When he and mom were in their 60s, they purchased a bar in a small northern Ontario town.
Most of the story below was relayed to me except for the last 5 minutes of what happened.
As with any place there’s always some yahoos who think they are king sh!t. In this case they were: two power lineman (roughly 35-years-old, 6-feet tall, 200 lbs) who came in while my mom (4′ 11″ 90 lbs soaking wet ) was helping close (2:00 a.m.).
They went into the men’s room. I assume they used the facilities, but then proceeded to destroy the newly installed toilet stalls and rip the brand new doors from the stalls that had literally been installed the weekend before. (I helped install them.)
According to one of the waitresses, Mom went in to investigate. Shouting ensued and she stumbled backwards out of the doorway of the men’s bathroom, landing on her butt. I assume my mom had been pushed out.
The waitress told me that one of the guys had grabbed her by the face and shoved her out of the way, and told to ‘Shut the heck up.’
The doorman was nowhere to be seen and the bartender called my dad, who happened to be working in the back office. He came running out and saw my mom holding her face and crying. He was quickly told what happened. In the meantime the two guys had exited via another door.
I saw my dad come running out of the bar as I was driving over to see if I could help close the place. (I was working shift work at the time and 2:00 a.m. is roughly my ‘lunch’ time.)
I heard him yelling at the two guys who towered over him (5′ 5″ and 150 lbs). They stopped and turned around. I slammed on the brakes and parked, almost in the middle of the road. The exchange went something like this in a matter of less than a minute…
Dad: ‘You guys just come out of my bar?’
Two guys: ‘Yeah, what’s it’s it to you, you f’ing [insert Asian slur]?’
Dad: ‘You push my wife?’
Two guys: ‘Yeah. What are you gonna do about it?’
Dad: (Physical action: Three to five rapid slaps to their faces, so fast that I couldn’t see anything other than he slapped them, but I did hear them…. I was about five feet away at this point.)
My dad then grabbed them both by the ears and started pulling them back to the bar, saying: ‘My wife is old enough to be your mother, you do this to your mom?’
He marched them back into the bar, and he made them apologize to my mom. I suggested calling the police and laying charges but he said no. However, he told them to come back in the evening for the next five days and fix the doors.
Off Duty…But Always Ready
“When I was a Deputy Sheriff I was about 5′11″, weighed about 160, and looked about 17 when I was really 23. I looked like a young dumb kid.
My older brother was a city police officer in the city that was the county seat at the time, and was walking a beat in the downtown area. I was off duty on this particular day, so he called and asked me to meet him for lunch. I accepted, and went downtown to meet him. His beat included an area that was a gathering place for the homeless, petty criminals, panhandlers, etc.
I was standing near this area, when one of its denizens approached me and asked for a couple of dollars so he could buy a cheap bottle of Riesling. I told him no, but that didn’t deter him. He kept harassing me for the money, and I kept refusing him.
Finally he said that if I wasn’t going to give him any money, he would just take it from me. He pulled a rusty switchblade out of his pocket, popped the blade open, and told me to give him what I had on my left hip.
He assumed the bulge he saw on my left hip was my wallet. It wasn’t, as he very quickly found out that actually it was my off duty weapon, a Colt .380 auto that I pulled on him, and aimed at the point that was right between his eyes. Seeing my weapon pointed at him caused a major widening of his eyes.
The next thing he saw was my badge and ID in my right hand. I told him to drop the blade and face the building that was behind him, and to put his hands on the wall, and to put his feet back and spread them. I told him he was under arrest for attempted strong armed robbery.
My lunch with my brother had to be deferred to another day, as I got hung up waiting for a Sheriff’s patrol car and Deputy to pick him up, and transport him to the County Jail. I had to go to the County Jail to book him in, and then to the Sheriff’s Office to write up the arrest report.”
Don’t Judge A Book By Its Cover
“In the gym where I worked a young guy insulted an elderly lady who was working out on an exercise bike. Her husband, about 80-years- old, 145 lbs was nearby and told the guy to apologize to his wife. The guy took one look at this little old man, laughed in his face, and told him, ‘Get lost, old man!’ then raised his fists.
I ran around the front desk and started toward them, but I needn’t have bothered.
Ed grew up on the streets of the Bowery, was a combat paratrooper in the Korean War, an Army boxing champ in his weight division, and still worked out on the heavy and speed bags three times a week, in addition to strength training.
The guy never knew what hit him. Three times.
When he came around a minute later, with a swollen jaw and a broken nose, he started screaming that he was going to call the police.
Ed told him, ‘Here, use my phone.’
And I told him, ‘Go ahead. You tell them you got your butt whipped by an 80-year-old man, and the rest of us (there were others gathered around by this time) will all be your witnesses.’
He screamed, ‘Eff you old man!’ again and ran out the door. Never saw him again.
Ed told us later, ‘He was a big guy. I knew I had to put him down in a hurry or I was going to be in trouble.’
I’ve seen a few others, but that one was truly the best.”
NEVER Pick A Fight With A Bouncer
“Yes, a friend of mine was stupid enough to have picked a fight with a bouncer.
I was 22-years-old, at a bar in Philly. Our little ‘crew’ consisted of a few guys from college whom I had played lacrosse with. Some were def. your stereotypical lacrosse players – you know the type.
We call them Lax Bros.
Anyway, we were in this bar, enjoying ourselves. It was a crazy packed bar in the city on a Saturday night around 11:30pm. At this point, none of us were driving home and way past the point of sobering up anytime soon.
Hanging out near a set of stairs, some guy pushed past my friend Jared and into the stairwell, HARD. Basically slammed him into the handrail, causing him to drop his drink onto some unwitting person who didn’t want to end up with Red Bull Svedka on their head.
Jared was ticked and chased after him. Jared on a good day is about 5′11″ 215. He’s solid but I’d never seen him get into a fight. But, dad bod muscles.
He ran up to the guy, pushed him from behind, the guy turned around. He was about 6′2″ 275, big big dude. Not a squishy 275 either, this was a muscles on muscles kind of guy..
He had clothes on though. SO I’ll never really know! Anyway, coincidentally that was the smirk this guy had on him when he turned around.
We ran over to grab Jared. He wasn’t just going to get his butt kicked, he was going to get killed. But no, Jared’s not having any of it. He went full d-bag. FU’s and I’m going to sue you, and blah blah blah. Worst yet, he kept on pushing Mr. Bouncer in the chest like that real annoying tap that is basically the same thing as saying ‘sir please break my nose’.
Well, after about 30 seconds of this guy not saying anything and just staring at him, showing incredible restraint and us screaming for Jared to walk away, Jared pulled the unforgivable move of spitting in the guy’s face.
It literally took one punch. The whole joke of it’s gonna be two hits: my fist hits your face and you hit the floor, came true. He knocked Jared the heck out. Then they threw us out unceremoniously, which I guess we deserved.
Jared lost a tooth, broke his nose, and by his account felt like trash for a week.
That, my friends, is why you never pick a fight with a bouncer. EVER.”
Another Old Boxer
“My grandfather was once a lightweight boxing champ. He was healthy most of his life, but like everyone, he grew old. At 90-years-old, though, he still liked to go dancing. He took his girlfriend to their elder community’s weekly dance. We went to join them for dinner and just visit them a while.
While I was getting them plates from the buffet, two scummy men came in. They had been drinking and were looking for some old people to bully – no joke. They were in their late 30s/early 40s. They stopped at my grandpa’s table and started talking about his girlfriend. My grandpa stood up and told them to leave. I looked over and saw this prick spit on the floor and shove my 90-year-old grandpa.
I saw my grandpa stumble backwards against the wall, and I dropped the food tray and started moving towards him. It felt like slow motion.
Before I could get there, I saw my grandpa push off the wall and punch the guy square in the jaw. The man landed on his butt and slid backwards nearly all the way across the room! No one could believe what we saw, especially not the two creeps. His friend went over and helped him up, and everyone watched them leave with their tails between their legs.
I finally went back and got the food for them, and we sat and talked about what happened while they ate. After a bit, the two idiots came back with the police. They pointed my grandpa out to the officers.
The police didn’t believe their story, and we all acted like we didn’t know what they were talking about.
I sure miss that wonderful, strong old man.”
A Real Slap In The Face…Literally
“My boss was friends with a guy who had been a tunnel rat in the Vietnam War. The guy wasn’t much to look at…he looked like Chuck Norris’s skinny brother. My boss swore up and down this guy was the baddest dude.
One night my boss invited me and my girlfriend to meet him and his lady and his friend and his friend’s wife to hang out at a place where there was dinner and dancing.
We’ll call this guy Chuck Norris Lite…(CNL for short).
CNL’s wife saw an old boyfriend of hers. When the old boyfriend saw she was there, he got up from his table and headed to ours to say hi. At first he was cool, but within a few minutes, he started talking trash…things like how they shouldn’t have broken up, he was better looking than CNL, she needed a real man, and other insults to CNL. Pretty sure he was wasted.
CNL listened to the insults and played it off. He didn’t need the fight, he had the girl.
Then the ex asked her to dance. She said, ‘No, if I want to dance, I’ll dance with my husband.’ A clear clue to him to back off. He didn’t take it.
He protested and wouldn’t take no for an answer. CNL did not get angry. He quietly said, ‘You heard my wife say no. Take a hike.’
It was then the ex made the mother of all mistakes. He said, ‘Get lost, prick. What you going to do about it?’ AND SLAPPED THE BACK OF HIS HEAD.
CNL didn’t even get up from his chair. He moved quickly, taking his right hand and doing a palm strike under his left armpit straight into the ex’s stomach. The ex dropped to his knees, and then CNL’s left elbow got him in the nose. The ex slumped to the floor out cold. After a few minutes, he got up and staggered for the door.
About twenty minutes later, the cops came in and approached the table. CNL went over and talked to them, motioned to his wife; she talked to them, they nodded, shook hands and left.
The ex had left and called the cops (this was in the days of phone booths). The officer in charge knew CNL as they both took martial arts classes together. The OIC (Officer In Charge) went back out and told the ex he was at fault, and to take his whuppin’ like a man and go home. He did so.
I was mightily impressed. Any man who can kick your butt and not even get up from his chair has some balls in my book.”
A Proud Mother
“My son was in college, and a resident advisor (RA). He called me one day, voice shaking as he told me he was going to be fired and possibly kicked out of school.
Someone had knocked on his door in the dorm. He looked out the peep hole and saw a guy with his head turned, looking down the hall. When my son opened the door, the guy, wearing a mask, turned around—and my son said all that registered was, ‘HE HAS A WEAPON!’ and his martial arts training kicked in (he is a black belt) and he reacted, no thought involved. The assailant was armed with an automatic weapon.
He said that he used both hands (the move is like offset clapping) to knock the Beretta out of the guy’s hand, came up under his shoulder and dropped him, and was in the process of falling with his knee to the guy’s solar plexus to incapacitate his assailant when my son saw the weapon, shattered, against the wall—and realized that it had been a toy. He then tried and mostly succeeded in not hitting his target with his knee in a spot that would prevent breathing. The guy jumped up and tore down the hall and into the stairwell while my son sat on the floor gasping and shaking.
I, of course, started whooping, ‘It WORKS?! I’m so PROUD of you!’
Nine years I sat on those lousy folding chairs, three days every week, watching ‘White Belt Self Defense Number One,’ as an ‘opponent’ punches in slow-motion towards a child who attempts to put each tactic into use. In slow-motion. Three self defense moves per belt level. Eight belts. Did I mention nine years? In all that time, I often wondered, ‘Yes, but will it work?’
IT WORKS! HOLY COW! THIS IS SO COOL! I AM SO PROUD!
My son says, ‘Mommy. You don’t understand. I am not allowed to use violence in my job. They can fire me. They can boot me out of school. Besides, I am never to use martial arts unless I have no other option, and it was just a toy.’
And I say, ‘First of all, do you really think that idiot is going to tell anybody? Second of all, if anything you’re afraid might happen happens, your father and I will be standing right behind you at the press conference we will call and they will NOT fire you and they will NOT kick you out of school. You disarmed an armed man in the hallway of a college dormitory. That makes you a hero. The fact that the Beretta turned out to be fake is immaterial. It was real to you when you opened the door.’
And he said, ‘Oh.’
And ten plus years later, his mother is still so proud.”
Robbie vs. Carl
“7th Grade. 1964.
School had just let out and I was walking with three other friends, on our way home.
Here comes Carl, the school bully — a really bad guy with a nasty attitude.
I got a little nervous. Carl was known for picking fights and leaving his victims severely bloodied.
Our group moved aside slightly, to let Carl pass. But it was a no go.
One of our buddies was a tiny little guy, Robbie, who was about 5’3′ at around 115 pounds. Wouldn’t you know that, as Carl walked by, he slammed Robbie’s books to the ground.
Bullies choose the easy target.
Carl: ‘You better watch where you’re going little a**hole.’
Robbie: ‘Yeah. Sorry man. I’ll do that.’
Carl: ‘What’s the matter? You don’t like my face or somethin’?’
Robbie: ‘Naw man, you’re fine. Sorry.’
Carl moves in with a predatory stance.
Robbie: ‘Huh? Oh! You wanna fight me? OK. Yeah, we can fight if you want.’
Robbie handed me his coat, then spoke to himself saying, ‘Hmm. I think I’ll leave my gloves on.’
I was terrified speechless for Robbie.
I looked fearfully at one of my other buddies who smiled ever so slightly and said, ‘Don’t worry (about Robbie). He’ll be fine.’
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but Robbie and Carl stepped onto the parking lot and took stances. Carl made the first move, going in for the haymaker, the knockout punch.
Robbie dodged the punch completely and started dancing with gloved fists posed cautiously in front of his face.
Carl was big. Carl was strong. Carl moved like a sack of potatoes.
As Carl kept going for the haymaker, Robbie dodged and weaved like a master in self defense. Picture a two year old cat when they chase imaginary monsters through the house.
Over the next three to four minutes, Robbie peppered Carl’s face with light little shots, one by one, perfectly timed at every opportunity, precisely aimed and perfectly landed until Carl’s eyes started to swell shut.
About that time, the School Principal ran out and hauled both boys off to the office. Robbie was a little winded, but untouched by Carl. Carl’s face was a bloody mess.
When the fight ended and my buddies and I resumed our walk, I let out a sigh of relief.
One of my buddies asked: ‘You didn’t know?’
Me: ‘Know what?
Long story short, Robbie’s father was a WWII Vet, now a Colonel at the local Military School. Robbie had been trained in boxing and self defense, by his dad, every Saturday morning since the age of five. That’s nine years, every Saturday morning. Robbie had also been taught the honor of only fighting when necessary. I never would have known.
Sorry Carl. You lose. And you can be bloody well thankful that the principal broke up the fight while you could even see to walk.”