Few of the Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth ring more personally to me than this one. In a philosophy and religion that stresses the survival of the fittest, stressing the ego (and thus the self), it is thusly that I find child abusers absolutely disgusting. I myself had to endure this kind of bullshit for nearly fourteen years, until I was big enough to fight back.
In a county of absolute police corruption known only as Volusia, within Florida, it is more than often impossible to get the local police to do virtually anything. I can't tell you how many times I've reported child abusers at work (I am only eighteen years of age, and thus work in retail), just for them not even to call me back.
Today, I decided to take matters into my own hands, perhaps foolishly; perhaps not so.
Nothing disgusts me more than a "parent" slapping a child -- when the child had done nothing. There is a fine line between "discipline" and abuse.
This particular incident occured between a child who could be no older than four years old; his shoes were mismatched, perhaps the very first thing I noticed of him, and his eyes an almost unhealthy blue. While they were in the process of leaving the store, his keen eye spotted our candy machines; in curiosity, he walked about four feet from who I can only assume to be his parents.
His mother was a typical "southern" woman -- the kind you'd find in a stereotypical parody of FOX News; blonde hair, brown eyes, overweight and barely able to walk. His father, equally as stereotypical; with a racing hat, practically white facial hair and little hair on his head, he was the epitome of dirty. Sandy white clothing adorning his body, along with what appeared to be a golden cross necklace.
As they finished checking out their items, the child turned excitedly toward who I assume to be his father -- I was, at the time, covering the customer service desk, and so only naturally saw it. Now, I know whiney children, I know how annoying they can be, the kind that do nothing but scream and bawl when their way is not gotten. This child was anything but. "Look at that one," he exclaimed. The only reply he was met with was a slap across the face by his "father", who proceeded to grab him by the arm and practically drag him out of the store.
No tears came from the child's eyes; perhaps he had simply forgotten how to cry. It was not out of a weakness of a blow, for his head smashed against the candy machine at the force.
This isn't the first time I've witnessed child abuse, as I've said. I've seen it constantly in my current job, too many times to count. I feel sick when I can do absolutely nothing, the very image haunting me. When I can, I try to report such things to the proper authorities, but as I said, they do virtually nothing here. I am responsible for covering "loss management" (aka: security), although I am not officially one of them -- I am more often than not, the only stock person, and the only "security" person there.
After telling -four- managers, who -witnessed- the event, they shrugged it off and did nothing.
I found the family as they were getting into their vehicle; my sight was red with absolute hatred. I know what it's like to go through far, far worse abuse.
"Excuse me, sir" I whispered, my hands balled into fists behind my back.
They turned to me with little hesitance, an exlcaimed "What?" escaping the mother's lips.
"I don't know if you y'know this or not, but we have laws here, sir," I said, my attention focused direclty on the father, who was in the passenger seat. The child was in the back, pinned to a window by vast amounts of merchandise. Their vehicle was a rusty pickup.
"If I ever see you hit him in this store again, or anywhere else, I will have you put in jail. Alright?"
I should have anticipated the response.
The "mother" apparently had not witnessed the event, she turned to look at the "father" suddenly, who, after a relative three seconds, looked at me with his pale, sandy eyes and exclaimed a mere, "Fuck you, faggot."
"No, fuck you. Any miserable cunt like yourself who touches a child not even a quarter their size and then has the audacity to wear a cross should steer clear of me."
I could see him opening the door. This asshole wanted a fight. He couldn't possibly have been more than about six feet -- of course, I am six and half.
"Yeah, you're a fuckin' pussy, come on over here faggy boy and I'll teach you a lesson. You're just a punk bitch."
His words rang with a bit more accent than I care to put out in words, but I found it doubly ironic that he immediately resulted to "homophobic" insults. I suddenly found myself concerned. What if this asshole had a gun? I had put my well-being at risk, but I felt that this time, it was for a worthy cause.
"I've said what I needed to say to you," I stated, my voice clearer than it ever is when I am not angered. I looked over to the child, his blue eyes gazing through the dirty window. "It's your choice, kid. You can either grow up to be scum like him, or you can be something grand. If he ever touches you again, don't let him li--"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TALK TO ME!" the father exclaimed; I merely finished. "You call 9-1-1 he does shit to you again."
The "mother" kept absolutely silent.
Unfortunately, they had no license plate on their car; if so, I would have stayed longer, but -- finished, I simply turned, and walked back into the store.
As they pulled out and drove into the main lane, he shouted through the window. "I bet you get it in the ass every night, don'tcha boy."
I simply turned to him with a smirk, traffic blocked up. "Words from a coward with an ego so impoverished that they have to pick on their own seed are as empty as their minds."
Alas, I think it went totally out of his head, as he responded with "Yeah, you look like a fagg'it!"
Perhaps there was a more pragmatic approach I could have used. I certainly didn't go out there for a "good-guy badge"; I did what I found to be necessary. I did what I wished someone would have done for me when my own father treated me like that. I intervened. Upon enterring the store, I informed our loss management supervisor. It's up to him now to report this; though, with how I acted, I could lose my job. Big deal -- it's only a seasonal job.
And maybe, if the child remembers, I gave him hope too that not all people are vermin.
I have no respect for anyone who harms a child. They are the worst type of cretin; they should be drawn and quartered.
At the very least.
Meine Ehre heißt MachtUndercroft