There was a time when I'd walk under that bridge, and there would be three huge black men with baseball bats and I'd walk out from under the other side of that bridge slapping backs and laughing, uproarious, with three new friends.
It does not speak well of me then, that when they came at me, I pushed their baseball bats into them, wrecked their ankles with my toes, boot heeled their hands, whipped cupped hands against their ears, stomped their fallen necks and stood, smirking.
This morning: I was not an enlightened being. And then one of them was pointing a gun at me. I stared at the gun, and, mentally -nothing but a thought!- plugged the barrel. I told him, though. I said, "I've blocked your gun, it'll explode when you pull the trigger."
He swore at me, asked me: "How?"
"Like Star Wars?" One of the two I beat down a minute ago was on his feet again, though hands on knees.
"Yup." I said.
He pulled the trigger, the gun exploded and the one who managed to stand up took off into an access, a maintenance door.