The simple social power of obvious and implacable contempt.

I drove yesterday because I had to go out to the county anyway - my oral surgeon is a genius, there's no one I trust more to drill holes in my skull - and leaving the car in the Giant lot as I made the last of the errands, I saw a man my age with a takeout bag scuttle fearfully ahead of three young men in the uniform of the local high school, recently dismissed and enjoying a beautiful city afternoon in the innocently boisterous fashion of all healthy youth as they headed into the restaurant for a late lunch or early snack. (They're teenagers, of course they refuel about like hummingbirds.)

I marked the man's course and altered my own, so that he did not see me until he turned the corner of his compensatory Ram 1500, and then found himself faced with six feet of - well, all this, wrapped in lavender Joseph A. Bank plaid, over battered olive drab Carhartt work pants, over size ten black shitkickers that gleam even three months since their last polish. And coordinated boots, belt, and watchband, this last on an unidentifiable but understatedly expensive-looking item peeking half out from under the left shirt cuff in the way that says either "tailoring" or "*really* good at picking off a rack." (Goodwill, babey!!) And sunglasses. And an expression that would be a smile, except that when we say someone is smiling we usually mean an expression that seems friendly.

Well, in Doom you can do some enemies a lot of damage in their wakeup, and I find I can surprise people into a similar condition. Before he finished shaking it off, I said, "Look at you! A grown man scared of children. That's a little embarrassing, don't you think?"

I don't know if he'd yet got to expecting what I'd say, but his face told me I'd surprised him, as did the I would say 'incredulous' tone in which he asked what I was talking about.

"You!" I said. "Hearing them boys laugh behind you, looking over your shoulder, and running away. Shameful, if you want to know what I think about it."

By this point I stood abreast of the other man, looking at him over my right shoulder with his truck on the other side of him. I had not wanted to stop while fully facing him, because I did not wish to learn what sort of weapon this coward needs to carry to feel safe. But when he began to explain that I hadn't in fact seen what I actually saw, I abruptly became bored: I have once in my life had something that tried to start as a fight end with me giving a blowjob, which both parties enjoyed, but all this guy would be good for was whiny excuses, so I walked away.

I hadn't really realized what a power it would have, showing him my broad back and the way my trim little satchel bounces off my ass each time I take a step. What can you say to that? And he tried. The last I caught was something about how I shouldn't assume things, followed by the sound of a Ram 1500 door closing so gently and disconsolately that I'm not even sure it actually latched.

Well, maybe I'll mosey over to the Rotunda next week and haunt the parking garage. It was a very distinctive coal-roller, especially for a trim little obviously Jewish academic fellow of the type who'd normally have me checking my satchel for a Perle di Sole in case I needed to sweeten my breath and lubricate my throat in a hurry. Maybe he doesn't have anything to do with Webb, but everything about him screams Hopkins, including the idea any street in town has a wrong side or my neighborhood is it.

Maybe I'll leave him a note under his windshield wiper, if I remember to bring a stepladder so I can reach the fucking thing, just to let him know it wasn't a one-off that he got called out on his shitty behavior, and he should think about the fact that in this city we care about each other, and while we welcome the "gowns" for their tax base, drinking habits, and occasional cultural value, they had better know in whose city they live and be prepared to show the nominal courtesy we require of anyone wishing to be made welcome among us.

But what really sank it for him was that I gave him nothing to negotiate with. I just stepped in him, paused long enough to scrape him off my boot, and went on stepping. He had no chance to tell me I had read him wrong and that's really the part he lost sleep last night about.