# 11: Beer Run

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many years later near
a major college in the US

Hank rolled to a stop before he got to the corner of the building. He was on a beer run to the local grocery store. He had a case of Samuel Adams in the “bed” of his wheelchair. Hank was very protective of his beer.

Hank knew there was going to be “trouble” before trouble even rounded the corner. Trouble...for some ...very low...values of trouble. Like what COULD cause him trouble? Kill him maybe...but Hank had seen more trouble than most people in his years of life and mostly just didn’t care any more. He really, really needed to get his “give-a-shit” meter re-calibrated… because now and for some time he just....didn’t. Care about other peoples opinions and about government rules that is. Hank cared quite a lot about some things.

He didn’t have time for this. Hank had stuff he was working on back at the shop and he had future plans. Those plans involved access to and from the shop frequently. He didn’t need gang-bangers interfering with his plans.

Hank thought about it as he flipped open a panel on his wheelchair armrest and punched in a number on the exposed keypad. “hmm....that ought to be about right....turn their guts to jelly” he mumbled.

Unheard...systems on his wheelchair began to radiate low frequency sound. Very low, ...much below that possible for humans to hear. These low frequency sound waves had an interesting quality though. It seems that they caused humans to become uneasy, fidgety...in some cases frightened, if exposed to them long enough. Terrified even.

Finishing the adjustment Hank closed the compartment. The only question was what color they were going to be. Ethnic that is, would they be Chicano or Black. No one else lived around here. Too “dangerous” supposedly. Chicano Hank guessed....the blacks lived a little bit further north....and generally couldn’t be quiet enough for a decent ambush.

Not that these guys were being quiet. Oh...they thought that they were maybe. The sounds of the traffic and the city noises should have covered the clatter. Hank, however, had jungle skills and he also had sensors in the wheelchair in which he rode. Hank scanned the sensors.

Five he thought. Maybe. Could be one more or one less. They weren’t even going to give him a work out. He signed again. It wasn’t like the old days. Why he remembered when he used to get into fights with Mexicans when he was in School....a gang of them against him....

And five “tough guy” Chicano teens walked around the corner. They approached Hank speaking in Tex Mex. No doubt in an attempt to frighten the poor crippled old guy in the wheelchair. It so happened, however, that Hank spoke Tex-Mex just fine.

It was so much like “Old Times” that a tear come to Hank’s eye. He wiped it away with one hand...thus giving the Chicano’s entirely the WRONG impression.

“Give us your money cripple” said the “leader”...his four buddies flanking him...two on each side and slightly behind.

sigh
....Hank’s right hand fiddled an amplitude control on the low frequency generator.

They really wanted to do it the hard way.....

Oh. Well.

“Son” said Hank ”you’re making a big mistake. There are SO many ways that I could kill all of you right now. You wouldn’t believe it”

Speaking in Tex-Mex among themselves....trying to jack up their courage, the low freqs were working...they were getting nervous as hell. These weren’t really thugs...just wannabe’s , they had no real experience. This MIGHT have been their first robbery attempt....and it was NOT proceeding according to plan.

The leader finished a particularly obnoxious statement and pulled out a knife...so did his followers. Hank rolled his eyes.

“You sure you want to do this boys” Hank said in Spanish “Well then ok...come on. I’ll try NOT to hurt you....too much...I’ll be gentle. I think you guys might be salvageable.”

Hank just sat there in his wheel chair...staring at them. Drumming his fingers on the arm rests.

Unlike on Television, real fights don’t take long. Seconds at most, this wasn’t even going to qualify as a “fight” by Hank’s standards. Lambs to the slaughter... so it would take even less time. Once all the posturing was done with that is...

The boys, started to move in, waving their knives in front of them.

Hank actually cringed…(face-palm) they were SO bad. “I’ll tell you what children. After this is all over, in say a week...when you can all walk again...I’ll have a talk with you about the way the world works. Ok? Now if you’re absolutely serious....”

“Bring it ON!!! “

Hank shouted....while increasing the low freq to max. Hank could be loud all by himself... in addition his shout was also amplified by systems in his wheelchair. It was almost like a sonic blast. What with the Strobe lights, the sirens and the smoke it was very disorienting.

So much so that the cough-cough, cough-cough of the two silenced semi-automatic shotguns, concealed in the armrests of Hank’s wheelchair... shooting bean-bag rounds almost weren’t heard.

They were felt though. The four other boys besides the “leader” fell to the ground, curled into a fetal position… and began vomiting. Hank’s idea of “gentle”...wasn’t.

Bean bags rounds fired from close range. To the crotch.....wasn’t lethal....usually….but it wasn’t all that ‘gentle”.

Now it was a Mexican standoff. Hank was sitting calmly in his wheelchair picking his teeth with a toothpick...facing the lone “leader”. The last boy standing.

The leader had stopped but still had his knife and was holding onto his courage with bleeding fingernails......considering that the subsonic, “turn your bowels to water” sound waves were still pumping out the wattage, this was one brave kid. Hank had known experienced soldiers who would have broken and run by now.

Which was kinda what he’d hoped the kid had done....

Oh. Well.

Hank moved the toothpick to the side of his mouth and grinned, looking at the boy. Hank said in a low voice,gently, in an almost approving tone. “Come on son....show me what you got”

.....and Hank reached over his left shoulder with his right hand and drew forth a...........stick. It was just a little one inch hardwood dowel....about two foot long.

The boy screamed something in Spanish and charged....knife forward trying to drive it into Hanks face. Hank just sat there until the last second then flicked his little staff. Faster than the eye could see the tip of the stick hit the kid in the wrist causing him to drop the knife. The kid had momentum though, and couldn’t stop...he ran right into Hank...tripped...and kinda draped over Hank and his wheelchair.

Hank, meanwhile, did evil things to tender areas and nerve centers. The kid screamed a lot, quivered, and kind of oozed off the old man in the wheel chair and plopped onto the pavement.

They just sit there for a moment. Hank staring the young Chicano....the young chicano straining and twisting....unable to speak because of a paralyzed diaphragm...barely able to breathe. ...and unable to escape.

Looking the kid right in the eyes Hank said. “oops”.

Hank reached out with his right hand and using thumb and middle finger …”thumped” the kid on the nose.

Oddly enough this shocked the kids system just enough so that he could take a breath. The kid took a deep shuddering tearful breath...and then another.

“Wuss” Hank said and backed away....

Hank carefully examined his beer. They hadn’t spilled it had they?

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Next Episode
# 12: Making the Acquaintance of Okie.…
Previous Episode
# 10: An Aide Station somewhere in the ‘Stan.
First Episode
# 1: Pain…

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