This one struck a nerve…
From the Hazleton Standard Speaker:
Informant: 17-year-old accomplice in Reznick murder
The Ebervale man who died after being found beaten and bloodied on a Hazleton street escaped from the trunk of a vehicle into which he was forced after being robbed of his cellphone, according to court papers.
Breon Davonne Judon and a teenager beat Aaron Reznick after they stole his iPhone at gunpoint, investigators say in a probable cause affidavit that outlines charges of homicide and other crimes against Judon.
Nice. A guy was killed for his sexy, 21 billion jiggawatt phone. And it kind of plays into what I’ve been up to of late.
As was previously noted here, I recently moved, so I’ve been busy and then some while following up on all of that. Work has been flat-out nuts. And thanks to a hefty price increase coming from our previous Internet host, I have been busily investing in the creation of a new fantasy football haunt. I’ve been busy, namely, too busy for any of this blogging malarkey.
Anyway, I’m 53-years-old, and closing in on 54. And since the Boy Scouts permanently instilled that “Be Prepared” attitude deep within me, it’s the rarest of days when you find me unarmed. Not that I need a weapon to defend myself. As I have capably demonstrated many, many, many times in the past, I can scrap with massive adrenaline bursts and extreme prejudice as my only guides.
We all have some sorts of talents. You have yours. I have mine.
During the past two years, I have had one violent encounter in Hazleton. It worked out really, really good for me, but not so good for the Hispanic-looking thief that tried to steal my tools out of my work truck. I made him crawl away. Literally. I told him not to get up off of the tarmac so as to not get pummeled all over again. He complied.
I had another incident last summer on Altar Street In Hazleton that could have gone the way of violence, except for the fact that I brandished a claw hammer and challenged the three Hispanic-looking types (who had me flanked while demanding that I make change for a twenty) to an all-out death scrum. They cursed. They chuckled at the white boy. But they turned and walked.
I also was part of an incident here in Wilkes-Barre whereby a tenant of public housing was threatening one of my co-workers. I simply told the guy he was out of line. And when he focused his energies on me and his finger got stuck in my face, I told the guy in no uncertain terms that he was only seconds away from being horribly beaten. He ran away, but he got on the phone looking to cause trouble for me. He failed.
Getting back to my impending birthday, I can see why people feel more and more vulnerable to the seemingly growing criminal element as they grow older and still older. And for good reason, too. As our physical plants slowly fade away, we typically wear that increased vulnerability that we feel on our sleeves.
And the lawless idiots thrive on their perception of inherent fear that automatically comes with old age. And it is for that very reason that I recently made the decision to get back to my prime fighting weight, and, more importantly, back to the six-pack abs days of old.
If I can still do it at 53, I see no reason to assume I’ll still be able to do it at 63. I have not had an epiphany. I’m not undergoing a mid-life crisis. I seek not a younger, sexier female type. And I hope to impress no one but myself.
I have modified my diet, and I’ve shed 14 pounds since June the 1st. I shaved away my facial hair, and Wifey buzzed my scalp with the electric buzzer. I’ve upped the use of dumbbells as well as resumed the isometrics routine I once had. Even though most of those who know me think I’m some whacked-out vegetarian, I have increased my protein intake so as to replace the remaining fat with muscle. I’ve resumed the bicycling regimen with increased vigor. And you never know, I might even get in some paddling one of these days.
My point is this, and you can call me whatever you wish in response: In an increasingly lawless, violent and unforgiving world, I reserve the right to inflict more violence upon the phony brave than I am likely to receive from them.
It ain’t no big deal. It is what it is. It’s just me being me. I’d like to see very, very, very many of you adopt the exact same mindset as societal decay accelerates. And I'm remembering my machismo-soaked motto from the old days when I used to get paid to beat drunk people into submission while the police were still en route...
It doesn't matter if people get hurt so long as the right people get hurt.
As WILK’s Joe Thomas once said, “Oh, man. That Mark Cour is as hard-core as they come.”
Yepper. And getting harder every day.
Join me.
Later
