I've got a story to tell you guys. If you've got the time/interest/both, here it is.
On the way to dinner, as my co-workers and I were climbing into the vehicle that would convey us to our sustenance, I saw a quarter on the seat. I thought to myself, "This quarter is special." I don't know why I had this thought, but there it was, and there the quarter was, so I took it. The owner got over it imm
ediately, it's just a quarter. Or is it? Anyway.
During dinner, I pondered the mystery of my reaction to this quarter. I could not figure out why it had struck me as special at first sight. I decided that I should do something with the quarter that would make it special, give it a history and thus significance. Then I could return it to its owner, tell her the story, and be satisfied knowing that I'm not a thief and that the quarter is totally special now if it wasn't before. How I might accomplish this, I had no idea. Quarters are small, have almost no mass and even less value. But I held faith that someday, somehow, I'd make this quarter part of a story worth telling.
After dinner, when everyone was back in their hotel rooms for the night, I decided to take my car for a short drive. I love my car, but sometimes it has trouble waking up on cold mornings. We have a few things in common, I suppose. Running the car every once in a while keeps engine hibernation at bay. I've also got a great sound system, so going for a drive is a pleasant experience.
So there I am, cruising around West Virginia, listening to Lindsey Stirling. Look her up on youtube if you don't know who she is or what her music sounds like. Go now, I'll wait. It'll help you put yourself in my shoes, which we all know is one of the best ways to get the full impact of a story. Actually, while you do that, I'm gonna go watch one of her music videos myself.
Elements. God I love that song.
Anyway, so I'm driving along, thinking about the nature of significance. Hard to pin down, that. Some things are widely considered to be inherently significant, others become so by an event or even just a shift in our own perception.
I became thirsty just then, quite suddenly. Not like I was dehydrated, more that I just really wanted something to drink. Thinking quickly, I decided to kill two birds with one boomerang (what? it's more plausible AND you get it back at the end) and get some double xp for Halo in the process. So Mountain Dew it was.
Using my superior skills of observation and judgment, I identified a dimly lit gas station situated near a whole lot of nothing and pulled in. Mine was the only car there, which was cool. I had the whole creepy place to myself. I got out, looked around, took in the scenery. Everything outside the gas station's pool of light was a lovely shade of freaking dark. Great color.
On my way to the door, I heard footsteps coming in my direction from behind and slightly to the left. Somewhat rapidly, somewhat way too close to me for how long I'd been hearing them. I automatically reached into my right pocket, but instead of my trusty hostile-human-repellant (also known as a knife, which I had apparently not taken with me), my fingers closed around a quarter. Simultaneously, I had started to casually look over my left shoulder, trying to appear as if I wasn't checking for a possible assailant. Didn't want to offend anyone, you get it. Maybe the footsteps belonged to someone rushing to compliment me on my swag attire.
Turns out, that wasn't the case. Perp (short for perpetrator. that's his name in this story) had a knife in his hand and started running at me as soon as he noticed me noticing him. At that point, he was about 3 running steps away. Fight or flight kicked in, adrenaline already doing its thing as I immediately discarded flight as the more retarded option, what with a knife-wielding Perp of unknown top speed sprinting at me from 10 feet away. A fraction of a second of panic, followed immediately by a marvelous clarity. My body was in full crisis mode, but my mind was inexplicably serene. In the next fraction of a second, I noticed many things relevant to my survival but only one thought went through my head.
It started out as perfectly reasonable, defiant and determined as one must be in such a scenario. Then it evolved into something ludicrous and frightening. The evolution of this thought changed my life. The thought went like this:
"This asshole will not kill me.
I will beat him.
And I'll do it with this freaking quarter."
Taking the initiative, I crossed my arms defensively in front of my torso and quick-stepped towards Perp with my right foot, planting it firmly where his left foot was about to set down. Having noticed that my arms made it significantly more difficult to stab my torso, he did exactly what I hoped he would do. He slashed at my left arm. He started this motion just as his foot started to touch down on top of mine. My brain let out a mental sigh of relief as I confirmed that we was not in total control of his weight. This first part was going to work.
A few things happened more or less at the same time. I tilted the toe of my right shoe up behind his heel and did a controlled backstep with that leg, carrying his foot with mine. This threw off his balance, the strength of his swing. It also landed me in a solid stance, from which I have been trained to wreck havoc. I intercepted his knife wrist in my left hand early in his swing and clamped down with all my strength, pushing it out wide.
At this point, my right arm is loaded and ready. I snapped two quick punches into his face, mostly so he couldn't pay attention to what came next. I stepped forward again with my right leg, setting up a leg sweep, using my left hand to get his knife hand as far from his body as possible. As my leg defeated the remainder of his balance, my right hand expedited his fall to the ground with the quarter. How I did this was vicious, but I expect you'll forgive me.
As I was stepping into position for the leg sweep, I held the quarter tightly between my thumb and index finger, and pushed it up against the nerve bulb located in the upper inside part of the eye socket, pinning it between metal and bone.
His back arched and his legs gave out immediately as he sought to move his head away from the excruciating pain. He yelled. I know how much it hurts with a thumb, this was probably noticeably worse. I kept the pressure on all the way to the ground and pinned him there with it, stepping on his knife wrist for good measure. And I held him there until he let go of the knife of his own free will, which took all of 2 seconds. Then I held him there a little longer, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I wanted him to feel what it's like to be helpless and scared, give him a taste of what his victims felt.
Events ensued. I got around to giving the quarter back to its owner. I told her the story. She agreed the quarter was indeed special. I nodded and smiled to myself in satisfaction. Special quarter, not a thief. Hell of a day.
Unfortunately, before any of this happened, the owner got her quarter back after it fell out of my pocket at dinner, rendering this whole story a work of fiction.
But ask yourself this: If the requirement for the quarter being special was that it be part of a story worth telling, did I just create a special quarter where there wasn't one before?
