Taking Out the Trash by cmsix

I've never been able to conceive of women as chattel. I'm able to make the leap of faith required to see them as special and to be protected, and I'll admit that the prettiest of women get the lion's share of protection. It shouldn't mean they get it all.

The old woman across the dark street didn't seem to be attracting much protection right now. She was screaming and cursing, but the young tough with the switchblade wasn't amused. While he watched her closely, I quietly crossed the street to end up behind him unnoticed - by him at least.

The old crone saw me, she wailed all the louder as I approached.

His grip and stance told me that all he knew about using a knife was that one end was pointed and that he should try to stick it into someone. That was fair; I didn't know much about the broken off two by four I'd picked up for a club. Eight-inch knife, three foot club. It sounded fair to me.

The first swing, to his head, really stunned him; he dropped his knife, and though he staggered wildly, he managed to keep his feet. The second swing cured that and he fell, unconscious.

I looked for the old woman and saw that she was about to say something, but I didn't have time for her thanks.

"Goodnight Ma'am," I said, shooing her away with a wave of my hand.

He looked like he was out good and would be for a while, but I don't like to leave loose ends. Two more swings and I was sure he'd never get up again. To my way of thinking it wasn't even cruel or unusual punishment - just taking out the trash.