Rest well, tiny hero

Ever have I had the secret desire to be a vigilante hero. With the new neighbors downstairs, I might just get my chance.

I remember being 15 and fantasizing (I wish it didn't feel like that word has filthy connotations) about taking a few bullets for this girl that I had a crush on. We would be walking home from school. Suddenly, a man from the bushes would jump out with a gun and point it straight at her chest. Just as he fired the shots, I would leap in front of Amber Isaac, bullets piercing my chest cavity. Fortunately, in my fantasy the wounds never hurt and the bullets just happened to barely miss vital locations. And apparently, for whatever reason, the would-be murderer would usually just run away after his attack had been foiled. And there I lay in a pool of my own blood, head cradled in the lap of my crush, tears of gratitude streaming down her face.

I was a friggin weirdo.

Well, Friday night room mate 1 and I nearly had our chance to be heroes. 2:30 am. We had just finished a two hour endeavor to destroy all enemy tanks on Wii play. That ridiculous game is addicting. I have not yelled at a t.v. screen so much since my Mortal Combat II days when I was but a blooming, pre-pubescent man-child. My throat hurt. From yelling. We couldn't pass level 18. So we quit. As I walked to my room, I heard what seemed to be crying and desperate yelling coming from the vents. Intrigued, I knelt down on the bathroom floor and stuck my ear up to the vent. Mostly I heard a female yelling/crying "get off me...please...effing get off me, I can't breathe!" Bewildered, I looked at room mate 1 and said, "are you hearing this? Do you think we should go down there?" He suggested calling the cops. I shoved my ear back into the vent to listen. The struggling seemed to have stopped. They were having some sort of discussion, she crying and effing this and that. We decided to listen for a bit to make sure it wasn't going to escalate again, before calling the cops or performing a vigilante rescue.

In the ensuing minutes, she basically told him that it was over, that she couldn't believe he threw her on the ground, and that if he didn't think it was over, well she would just kill herself and then he could never have her. All this time I was thinking..."Who are these wretched people? Our land lord is a douche. Why did he move these white trash, domestic abusing dirt bags down there?" Slash, "I better get my hatchet in case I have to go down there." Well, after some more F words mingled with emotional discussion, we heard them go through the gate outside. She was walking briskly up the street, in a seemingly feeble attempt to escape the meaty clutches of her fat trashy boyfriend. I, stealthily, followed out the door, exceedingly sharp Gerber hatchet in hand. Suddenly, she kicked him in the shin and ran. Fat-Hands darted (if one such as he could be said to "dart") after her and grappled her in his beefy arms. Room mate 1 decided in that moment that calling the police might be prudent. I stood behind my car, heroic visions of grandeur coursing through my mind, hatchet aching for the abuser's blood.

OK well not really, but I was watching to make sure that nothing got too out of hand before Provo's finest arrived. Which they did. In like, 1 min. So after a short while, she got in the car with the police and Abuser Mc'Beef walked back to our lovely basement.

What a night. Our neighbors suck.