The small herbal remifying plant in the corner of the living room — well fertilized by the coffee grounds provided per the rental agreement — was the only reason I was able to sleep last night. Like Buddha and his seeds — only a bit more the just seeds — it helped provide the relaxation and release necessary to sleep. But the day is anew...

The pain in my body is nearly unbearable. Every muscle hurts to move; all joints feel swollen, bruised. The only thing clear is the masterful mind hauling this beaten body, though beaten by choice. Training the body sharpens the mind, and the most important weapon in life is a well sharpened, practiced mind. Still, in the state this body is in after yesterday's training, followed by a session of volleying play in an abandoned house's pool, the mind is anchored by suffering, debilitating weight. But life goes on.

No work. Could not even find a shift of coffee crushing or floor sweeping to pick up to put the mind elsewhere. Unlike my roommate, I am not interested in spending the day altered in front of the television. We all have purpose, and that is not amongst mine — we have enough place holders. Perhaps a walk downtown, where the citizenry can be observed and good can witness where justice is lacking — within, I know who I am, who I was, who I can be nothing other than, who I must be, so it is appropriate to wander the sites of the citizenry.

The wonderful thing about the human body is that it will exert as much effort as there is will. The body wishes to please the mind, its master, and do all that is asked, so though every step ached and pain whispered sweet dreams of disintegrating purpose and coach potatoness, the request that the preparing body move forward was executed. The day was a successful venture in observational recalibration.

After grabbing a burrito, I began to return to my place of wickedly wrangled rest, thinking the day was done, but there was a wrench in the monkey juice, and a few of us find it impossible to simply observe injustice.

Walking down the street, a gigantic man came out of an overpriced steakhouse, followed by a frail, sickly looking man. As they walked down the street, a man of uncommitted residence, who appeared to be taking a respite on the ground, put his hand up and out, requesting charity. Sickly scoffed at him. Uncommitted grabbed at the man's pants. Sickly kicked the wanting hands away. Deciding this rejection was not enough, Sickly stopped, walked over and kicked Uncommitted, shouting, “Get a fuckun job!”, then walked away. Unfortunately, this action was something not sanctioned as appropriate by the shadowy, fickle hand of fate.

As they approached, there was no clear plan of actions. Gigantic passed — he was bigger up close. Sickly passed, and without hesitation, like a rambunctious, playful schoolboy, the foot of justice's friend swiftly kicked his frail, nonexistent gluteus minusculus.

“What the...!?” Sickly shouted, stopping.

Gigantic stopped, turned and immediately came to Sickly's side.

“You are giiiiiant,” the jocular justicer observed aloud to the compatriot of cretinism.

“You,” I offered, pointing at Sickly, “don't get to go around kicking citizenry, even when they are grimy and grippy.”

Sickly laughed. “You apparently don't know me, mate. I'll do whatever I fuckun please,” he replied unequivocally in his arrogant accent.

“No,” was the counter adeptly conjured and offered with minimal hesitation.

Turning to Gigantic, Sickly gave an order. “Slap him like...how do you say...like a little bitch.”

“Yes, sir,” Gigantic pea brain responded obediently, with one of the deepest voices ever to capture the ears of goodness.

Stepping up to thee, Gigantic said, “You should not have bothered Sir. I have to slap you now.”

“God, you're huge. Did that physical attribute cause your foray into this line of work?”

“Slap him,” Sickly ordered.

“It's okay,” I whispered in confidence to Gigantic. “You can do it once. I'll let you, just know I am going to slap you back, and would rather it not escalate from there. You are HUGE.”

“Fair enough.”

Slap.

His hand was as big as my head.

“There, there,” Sickly gleefully chuckled.

Slap.

“Give that to the pecker with the accent, since you are delivering messages.”

“He hit you! You can't let him do that to you! Do something, you fool!”

There was conflict in the eyes of Gigantic.

“I know, you have the job because you are scary huge, but you and I both know that does not mean you are a fighter.”

“I would destroy you,” Gigantic promised, our voices both low enough to keep Sickly out of the conversation.

“Yes, I am sure that is what you want me to believe, but I should tell you a small, dark secret: pain brings me to life, and conflict is the tortilla that makes the burrito. I am more willing to die vanquishing evil and its pawns, you, than you are to look good in front of that piece of evil dungness. And truth be told, I'll cheat to beat your big ass into the ground, if you were under the illusion there were rules in this type of dance.”

“What are you two talking about!?” Sickly shouted, angrily. “Just take care of him!”

Gigantic smiled. “Just run like a little bitch,” he whispered, pulling aside his coat to show me his weapon.

Not sure what he thought a foe would do, but as it was presented with convenient access, I grabbed the gun before the expression on his face could reveal what happened.

“Why did you want to give me this?”

“You big, stupid moron! You let him take your gun? You're fired, you damn, bloody fool!”

“That really was stupid. Why did you open your coat like that with the gun just waiting for me to take? This was your plan?”

“You need to stop waving that at me and give me my gun back.”

“Yeah, that's not going to happen. Well, maybe if you go slap him...”

Gigantic turned slowly and looked at Sickly, then looked at me, shaking his head from side-to-side, declining my suggestion.

“You bloody, fuckun wanker!” Sickly shouted and began to gimp away.

“I need that gun back,” Gigantic stated calmly, suggesting in his deep voice that there was no choice in the matter.

“You didn't slap him.”

“He's my boss.”

“He fired you.”

“He does that all the time.”

“This is the problem with people these days. You are more afraid of the man with the money than you are of the gun. You are a huge, scary looking man, encasing a timid 12 year old boy. I really thought this was going to be a major conflict of good and evil, but you are so timid I have to ask to which side I have been assigned. No, you are willingly employed by evil and carry out evil's tasks, so I am good.”

“Man, just give me my gun.”

“Shoot him!” Uncommitted shouted, having witnessed the entire scene.

“Hey,” Gigantic argued against.

“Shoot him!”

“Shut up,” I requested. “This is not about you, it is about the way the sickly man treated a fellow citizen. Because he is an ass makes him an ass, it does not elevate you. My concern is not for you, my concern is evil be stopped. Because he is evil does not make you good.”

“Come on, man, just give me my gun so we can all get on with it.”

Gigantic had a look in his eyes. He was going to do something, which could become very unfortunate.

“Don't do it,” I warned.

“Just give me my gun, man.”

“Shoot him.”

“Listen, tough guy, why don't you go and catch up with the gimp that kicked you and kick him back. At least give him a piece of your mind, tell him it was wrong and ask him to apologize.”

“Give me my gun.”

“Damn, you've got a deep voice. You should be in the entertainment industry, voice-over work or something.”

Uncommitted ran down the street toward Sickly. Gigantic had that look in his eye, the one that made it clear he was about to do something escalating, which is stupid when it is so obviously written on one's face and posture.

As a precautionary measure of obvious intentions, the kindness kind stepped back a couple of feet, for safety, and placed the gun into the rear waistband of my ill fitting pants.

“No. And what do people usually do when you open your coat like that and show them your shiny gun?”

“They get smart and run away.”

“Yeah, but it was right there, closer to my hand than yours? You want to threaten my life by placing the gun in my hands? You really should find another line of work. And my head is ringing from your slap. I bet you didn't even feel mine?”

Gigantic chuckled. I took another step back. We looked into each other's eyes, gauging. Perhaps we were not that different?

“I need my gun.”

“You lost it, sorry.”

“I need it.”

“Yeah, sorry, but I hope we can do this again, perhaps without guns.”

“You take my gun and I'm gonna find you and kill you.”

“If I believed you, I would have to kill you now.”

“Better do it then,” Gigantic declared, taking a step forward.

“God, you have a great voice. 'Better do it',” I repeat in my best base voice. “I'm going to leave, with your gun. If you want to find me, it's not hard. If you want to kill me, be prepared. If you what to enjoy life, find something more in line with your nature, not your size.”

As I backed away, Uncommitted came running up, full of excitement.

“Look! Look! Look what I got! I got his watch, his wallet, his pen. He just gave it all to me.”

Gigantic slapped it from Uncommitted's displaying hands.

“Hey!” Uncommitted whined.

“Like I said, this is not about you, it's about what that evil skeleton of a man did to you. I don't care about you as an individual,” I reminded out of necessity.

Uncommitted stared at Gigantic, wondering what would happen if he tried to pick up his treasure.

“He's huge. I'd listen to what he has to say,” was the suggestion for Uncommitted.

“But...but...”

“Don't touch it. Go!”

With the order to “go”, Uncommitted ran away. I made my final eye contact with Gigantic, offering a respectful nod. He nodded respectfully in reply. It was agreed, we were done. I turned and quickly walked away as Gigantic picked up his bosses belongings.

Sometimes the most evil are the least capable, but able to get some of the legions of those who wander aimlessly through life to do their bidding. Perhaps everyone is capable of evil at a price, but where are you in life when you are the low bidder to paint evil's ugly picture?

It would appear the meek are easily confused; because good defends you, demanding the stronger treat you with the same humanity they treat other basic citizens, there is no elevation of your status. You still have less to offer. You are not elevated, hoisted upon our shoulders as heroes, geniuses, you are still the meek, at the bottom of mass pyramid. If you wish to rise up and claim your power, you must. It is upon you to find the strength. And if you succeed, how do you think you will treat those beneath you, the new meek? I suggest you treat them as you wished to be treated.

I have a small, dark wish: If you treat them any less than you would want to be treated, I wish that those of us dedicating a modicum to the mold of good are there to right the course.