Chapter 2: Backup Arrives—And So Does Hell

Suddenly, she flipped the script and called her husband. She whined into her phone, "Babe, why aren’t you here yet? Hurry up, I’m getting beaten up. If you don’t come soon, I’ll be beaten to death!"

Her act was flawless—no longer the attacker, but the helpless victim. Tears, trembling voice, all for effect. She played her role like a pro, and I nearly lost it.

My fists tightened, nails biting into my palms. I wanted to scream, to force her to tell the truth, but I bit my tongue. I knew how quickly stories get twisted, how the world always believes the person who cries first.

She was the one attacking me, but on the phone, she turned it all around.

It was the oldest trick—flip the script, play the victim. I saw her switch from rage to tears, her voice quivering just enough to sell it. I felt powerless, a bit player in her drama.

Right then, I finally got what my grandma meant when she said some people are just poison in a family tree.

It sounded like something you’d hear on a porch in Georgia, but watching her spin her web of lies, I got it. Some people really do rot everything they touch.

I’d seen her type before—front row at the school board, scowling at waiters, leaving one-star reviews for the smallest slights. The kind who thinks the world owes her and will burn it down to prove a point.

This woman was that kind of menace.

She slapped my window, cursing, "Get out! Today I’ll show you what a 911 is! Get out here! Damn you, how dare you call me a broke loser driving a Cayman? I’ve never been so insulted! A business tycoon stands before you and your pathetic eyes can’t even recognize it!"

Her words were a cocktail of pride and fury. She hammered the glass like it owed her money. I looked at her, red-faced and twisted with rage, and just felt exhausted.

"I failed to recognize greatness. Please, just let me go, okay? I won’t call the police. Can you just let me leave?" I pleaded, my voice ragged, desperation outweighing my pride. I’d say anything to get out of this alive.

She screamed, "Get out right now and kneel to apologize!"

She punctuated every word with a slap to the glass, her face inches from mine. The night air carried her breath—thick with booze.

It hit me all at once. The slurred speech, wild mood swings, reckless bravado—the sharp, sour tang of vodka or tequila. She was drunk. The realization made my fear spike. She was even more unpredictable than I’d thought.

No wonder she was out of control.

I’d seen enough late-night bar fights to know what drunk rage looks like. This wasn’t just a car accident anymore—it was a powder keg with a burning fuse. I froze, trying not to provoke her.

Drunk driving means no insurance payout, and a drunk person can’t stay rational.

That’s what the ads say: if you drink and drive, you lose everything. But the law only matters to those willing to follow it. She clearly wasn’t.

I didn’t dare get out. If a drunk woman attacked me and I fought back, the police might call it mutual assault. My life could be ruined.

Just then, a Land Rover pulled up in the next lane. Its headlights sliced through the dark, spotlighting the chaos. For a second, hope flared—maybe a Good Samaritan, maybe someone to call 911.

I slapped my window, shouting, "Please, help! Call the police! Someone’s drunk driving and causing trouble!"

My voice was hoarse, desperate. I waved, praying for rescue. But my hope died as soon as the Porsche owner ran to the car, sobbing, ramping up her tears for the new arrival.

She clung to the Land Rover, crying, "Why are you only just here? I’m about to be beaten to death!"

Her performance was perfect. She showed off her scraped knee like she’d survived a war. She pointed at me, wild-eyed, voice cracking. A man got out—built like a bouncer, buzz cut, thick gold chain, prayer beads, gold ring. He looked like he belonged outside a Miami nightclub—buzz cut, gold chain, prayer beads, the whole tough-guy starter pack. He looked at her with concern. "Were you beaten?"

He glared at me, eyes cold. He ignored my pleas, focused on her wounds.

She pointed at her scraped, bloody leg, making a show of it. "Look what I’ve been beaten into!"

She buried her face in his shoulder. His jaw tightened, hands curling into fists. He popped the trunk, grabbed a heavy wrench, and stormed toward me.

"Dude, let me explain—" I started, but he was already at my window, eyes merciless. I held up my hands, but he didn’t care.

He raised the wrench. The first blow crashed into the glass with a sound like a gunshot. The window held, but the second blow cracked it. The third shattered it, glass spraying into my face and burning my skin.

He grabbed my hair and dragged me out. "So you hit my wife, huh?"

His grip was rough, the gold ring biting into my scalp. I tried to twist away, but he was too strong. The scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of fear.

"Your wife’s drunk and causing trouble. I never hit her!" I blurted, blood running down my face from a cut above my eyebrow. The night air stung, adding insult to injury.

But he didn’t care. "That’s my wife you’re messing with. You think I’m just gonna let that slide? Think again."

His voice was thunder. He pinned me against the car, wrench still in hand. Panic overtook reason. Adrenaline surged, washing away pain and fear. My instincts screamed at me to fight back, to survive.

If it’s a woman, the police won’t call it self-defense. But now it’s a man, armed with a wrench, smashing my car. The rules had changed. Now it was survival. I grabbed him by the throat, fingers closing around his neck, squeezing with everything I had. His gold chain pressed into my knuckles. He struggled, but my grip held. His face turned purple, eyes rolling back.

The Porsche owner panicked, screaming, "Let go of my husband!" She ran to her car, yanked open the glove box, found a small bottle, and sprayed it straight into my face.

There was a hiss, and then fire exploded across my skin. I gasped, stumbling back. The pain was instant, blinding.

I clawed at my face, half-blind, half-crazy, gasping like a fish on concrete. I’d never felt so helpless—or so angry. My nose and throat burned, every breath a fresh wave of hell. I coughed violently, tears streaming, my lungs screaming.

I tried to hold back, but my body betrayed me. I inhaled, sucking in more of that fiery stuff. The pain got worse. My legs buckled. I thought I’d die right there, on the cold concrete. She aimed at my eyes. I let go of her husband and shielded my face, but the next spray hit my hands and some splashed into my eyes. Everything went black.

Panic overtook me. The darkness was total. I clawed at my face, desperate for relief, but every touch only made it worse. My hands shook uncontrollably. The pain was so intense I wanted to rip my own skin off.

Pepper spray. I’d seen it in movies, but nothing prepared me for this. All those action flicks where the hero shrugs it off—lies. I could barely stay conscious, let alone fight. My lungs burned. I coughed, retched, even vomited stomach acid. I’d never known pain like this.

I grabbed a water bottle from the console, desperate to rinse my face, but the Land Rover guy seized the chance, yanked me out by my hair. My fingers fumbled for the bottle, but he was on me. The water spilled onto the pavement.

He couldn’t beat me in a fair fight, but with me blinded and broken, he was finally in control. I could have killed him barehanded, but the pepper spray had destroyed me. I collapsed, lungs burning, terrified I’d die from this stuff. Every breath was fire.

Anyone who’s ever cooked with hot peppers knows you need to open windows and turn on the fan, or you’ll choke. Anyone who’s chopped chili and touched their eyes knows the agony. Getting sprayed in the face is a hundred times worse.

The Porsche owner, seeing me dragged out, slapped me hard. "Get out here! Who did you say drives a Cayman? Take a good look!"

The slap stung, more salt in an open wound. She loomed over me, triumphant, her laughter echoing in my ears.

I had no strength to fight back. The world had shrunk to a tunnel of pain. All the pain I’d ever felt was nothing compared to this. I coughed and vomited blood—my throat so raw from coughing, I was spitting red. I tried to hold back, but my body kept betraying me.

They both grabbed my hair, dragging me like a dead dog. My hands and legs scraped against the curb. She pressed my head against the car hood, gritting her teeth: "Can you see now? This is a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car! Whose car is worth just twenty grand?"

I couldn’t see. I couldn’t open my eyes. She raged, "Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness, loser!"

She shoved my head down harder, grinding my cheek into the metal. Her laughter was merciless. I fought to keep my dignity, even as she tried to grind it into the dirt.

"Do you… do you even respect the law…" I gasped, voice barely a whisper. I clung to hope that someone would show up and save me.

She laughed, "The law? I am the law! My family has enough money to bury you!"

The Land Rover guy squatted next to me, smacked my head. "Kid, kneel down and apologize to my wife, pay for the repairs, and this ends."

He leaned in close, his breath hot and sour. The threat was clear: comply or suffer. My pride flared, even as my body begged for mercy.

"No way… I’m calling the police…" I gritted out. The words cost me everything. My voice cracked, but I forced them out. I would not let them win.

"Call the police! Go ahead! You really think you can win against the rich? Let me show you something." He sneered, pulling out his phone. The screen glowed. I couldn’t see the zeros, but I knew what he was waving in my face.

"You know how many houses I own? You think I care about jail? I’ll still be making bank while you’re eating ramen in county. Even if I break your legs and do three years, I’ll be richer when I get out. What about you?"

I’d always known people like him existed, but never stared into that kind of power. It was suffocating.

He rifled through my car, found my license, snapped a photo. "Now I have your home address. What if your parents get hit by strangers’ cars every now and then? What if your kid gets dragged into an alley and beaten so bad they’re afraid to go to school? Isn’t that exciting?"

His words chilled me. He spoke so casually, but the threat was real. My family, my loved ones—they were all targets now.

The woman giggled, covering her mouth: "You can move, but when you sell your house, someone will come splash red paint on your door. Or just abandon the house, right?"

Her laughter was sharp, mocking. She painted a picture of endless harassment. I felt sick, fear gnawing at my bones.

She squatted down, sneering: "No big deal, just losing a house. That’s nothing to you, right? No way, don’t tell me your family only has one house?"

She pressed the point, reveling in my helplessness. Her words were poison, seeping into every crack in my armor.

"You have two choices: call the police and do as I say, or kneel, apologize to my wife, and pay up," the Land Rover guy said coldly. He made it sound simple, as if my whole future hung on a coin flip.

I knew they weren’t bluffing. Their confidence was absolute. They’d done this before, or at least believed they could get away with anything. I was just a sport to them.

They were capable of anything. I saw it in their eyes—the lack of fear, the absence of doubt. I was prey, and they were the hunters.

If I called the police, it wouldn’t slow down their money-making. They could still send people to harass me and torment my family. The law was supposed to protect people like me. But tonight, it felt like a distant dream.

The poor can use the law to defend their dignity. But the rich can torment the poor until they’re too afraid to seek justice. It was an old truth, whispered in break rooms and barbershops. Tonight, I felt it in my bones.

I gasped for breath, coughing painfully. My lungs ached, my throat raw. Each cough sent new pain through me. I fought to stay upright, to hold on to what little pride I had left.

How I wished someone would pass by and call the police. But at two in the morning, the street was empty. Not even the drunks from the bar down the block were around. Just me, them, and the echo of my own misery.

The Land Rover owner barked, "Kneel! I don’t have time to waste with you till dawn!" He grabbed my hair and yanked me up. The pain was blinding. I bit my tongue, refusing to scream. He forced me down, the gravel biting into my knees.

I couldn’t resist. Just brushing against his clothes made my skin scream in pain. The aftereffects of the pepper spray were still there—every touch a new burst of agony.

He forced me to my knees: "Apologize to my wife!" He shoved my head down, my burning face pressed into the ground. So painful…

This is what it means to wish you were dead. I finally understood—not just pain, but the loss of hope, the sense that nothing would ever be right again.

The woman took pictures of me kneeling, laughing: "Come on, loser, let me take a picture of your pathetic apology. I’ll send it to your family, let your parents and kid see."

Her laughter was the final blow. She snapped photo after photo, making sure to get every angle. I imagined those pictures showing up on social media, another humiliation to haunt me forever.

I gasped, rolled to the side, fighting the pain. I didn’t want to kneel. Dad used to say, “Never kneel for anyone but God or your mama.” I’d never understood how hard that could be—until now.

Seeing me resist, the Land Rover owner lost it. He choked me from behind.

His arm locked around my neck, cutting off my air. The world narrowed to a tunnel. I kicked, desperate for breath.

He snarled, "You tried to strangle me just now? Fine, now it’s my turn!" His grip tightened, rage fueling his strength. I felt consciousness slipping.

I kicked hard, slamming my head back into his nose. There was a sickening crunch, and he howled in pain. Blood spattered across my neck. I gasped, air rushing back into my lungs.

He screamed, blood pouring from his nose. He staggered away, clutching his face. I heard the woman shriek, her voice sharp with panic.

He cursed, "This kid just won’t give in, really wants to push me over the edge!"

The woman sneered, "The poor only have their dignity left. Haven’t you heard? The poorer you are, the more you care about pride. Don’t choke him, you can’t beat him anyway. Look over there."

She pointed at the roadside. I followed her gesture, blinking through tears and blood. There was a deep puddle by the storm drain, left by the rain.

The water was black, reflecting the streetlights in broken patterns. I knew what was coming next.

The Land Rover owner muttered, "It’s not that I can’t beat him, I just don’t want to go all out."

He grabbed me by the collar, dragging me toward the puddle. He shoved my head into the muddy water. My face hit the cold surface, the shock jolting me. I tried to twist away, but his grip was iron.

I couldn’t breathe, struggling as he pressed his knee on my head, roaring, "Keep acting tough! Aren’t you tough?"

The water filled my nose and mouth. I flailed, desperate for air. The world faded to pain and fear.

The woman called out, "Babe, don’t go too far. It’s not worth three years in jail."

Her voice was smug, but cautious. Even she knew there were limits.

He laughed, "Don’t worry, I’ll only cause minor injuries—no criminal charges. Then I’ll pay people to mess with his family!"

His words echoed, promising endless torment. I wanted to scream, but the water filled my mouth.

She asked, "You sure it won’t be serious injury?"

She sounded genuinely concerned, as if this was all just business. I hated her more than I’d ever hated anyone.

He scoffed, "Don’t be scared. Legally, minor injury is nothing. Your husband knows the law."

His arrogance was absolute. I felt my last reserves of hope slipping.

He yanked my head up, grinning: "How’s the filthy water taste? It’s just right for trash like you."

I spat out the muddy water, gasping. My chest burned, my skin crawling with shame and rage. I met his gaze, refusing to look away. Even in pain, I wouldn’t let him see me break.

He said coldly, "I don’t like the way you look at me. You know, with a day’s pocket money I could pay someone to gouge your eyes out."

His words were ice. Before I could answer, he shoved my head down again. My face hit the water, the cold searing my skin. I fought to remember who I was.

He was furious that he couldn’t beat me in a fair fight, so now he was torturing me while I was weak.

I couldn’t breathe. Cold, dirty water covered my face. I flailed, but he kept pressing me down. The world faded to black, my body numb. I waited for the end, but it never came.

But what he didn’t know was, this actually eased my pain. As the water washed over my face, the burning from the pepper spray faded, replaced by blessed numbness. For the first time since the attack, I felt a flicker of relief. The water stung, but it was the only thing keeping me sane. Somewhere above, their laughter echoed, but I knew—tonight, I wasn’t done fighting.