Of the many nicknames, by which I have been known, “Woman Beater” is one of my least favorites. “Lock and Load,” “Rapid-Fire,” and “Drifty” (my favorite), among others, are OK, but “Knuckles” and “Woman Beater” were beyond the pale. Yes, sir, beyond the fugging pale.
Dammit, it was a FAIR FIGHT. Da bitch outweighed me by at least 20 pounds and, of FAR more importance, she threw the 1st punch; a round-house right to my chin. Less than 1 second after her punch landed, my punch landed. It was pure instinct. My punch landed high on the side of her fat head (the rest of her was fat, as well), probably giving her a mild concussion, because we led her around like a well-trained dog, for 2 minutes, where before and after that 2 minute period, she was a a screaming psycho. White trailer trash couple, “My wife has NEVER done anything like this before.” Bowling-ball-shaped woman, about 5’2″, 165 pounds, with a surfeit of homicidal FURY; “I’m gonna kill that sumbitch,” she exclaimed, referring to a pit boss, whom she also weighed more than, as she charged the pit like an enraged hippo. Then, my thoroughly brain-dead shift supervisor wanted to turn her loose!!!! I had to explain to him that we had a living, breathing, walking, and talking LAWSUIT on our hands, if we didn’t put her skanky ass in jail. Common sense and my free legal opinion carried the day, and we never heard a word about it. On one of my days off, that same supervisor let two geeks, a father-son combo that I would have taken pleasure in stomping into the carpet, GO, and they filed a lawsuit TWO DAYS LATER.
That was short; so here’s another example of me as a Woman Beater.
We got a report that a woman had run out on her bill at the buffet on the 18th floor. She was described as short, fat, and wearing a white dress with itty-bitty navy blue polka dots on it. About 45 minutes after the report, another security officer saw her and asked her to go with him to the security office. The security shift supervisor and the food-service shift supervisor, from the buffet, joined them. A discussion, most polite in nature, then took place. All participants were agreed that a “mistake” had occurred, and that everything would be hunky-dory after she paid her bill by credit card. During part of this time, I was present, not saying anything. While I was there, the bitch threatened, several times, to sue Harrah’s and us, personally, for imagined slights. No one had touched her, no one had yelled at her, no one had handcuffed her, and no one had even accused her of anything but, by god, she was going to sue. When I brought her back to the office, about 15 minutes later, IN HANDCUFFS, the dumb-ass wanted to turn HER loose.
My supervisor told me to go with the food-service supervisor and the woman, back to the 18th floor, to run her credit card. We were all at the place where you paid for your meal, when the bitch took off running, with me in pursuit. Did I tackle her? Hell, no. Running just behind her I tapped her, most gently, on the shoulder, and said, “Ma’am, please stop, I’d like to talk to you.” She stopped, turned around, and started punching me with both fists. Pow, pow, pow, pow. With her short little fat arms, she could only reach my upper arms with her punches. My arms were receiving about 120 punches per minute, none of them in the least bit painful, but I placed my right hand out, and very gently placed it on her upper chest, to keep her from possibly smashing the prescription glasses I was wearing. The bitch took a DIVE, SIDEWAYS. She bounced and slid over some fake rocks, which enclosed some fake trees, and came to rest, NOT MOVING, on her belly, on the floor. I’m thinking, “Goddammit, now I have to put this bitch in jail.” I didn’t want to do it; she MADE me do it!! The buffet was its usual Friday night insane asylum packed house, and some twat is always there to yell, “Hey, man, don’t be hitting a woman, man.” She was in a perfect position to have cuffs thrown on her, but I figured a full-scale riot would start there, on the 18th floor, with magnificent views of Lake Tahoe, if I cuffed her, and I would get all the blame. I decided to frog-march her ass, uncuffed, into the kitchen area. She “awoke” in front of the dude with the tall hat, who was carving prime rib, and said, “What do you think you’re doing, you son of a bitch?” Me: “Shut the fuck up.” I’m REALLY pissed at this woman for making me put her fat ass in jail. Oh, by the way, I believe she was a school teacher from San Jose.
The food-service dude held her while I cuffed her. I asked him to call my supervisor, and tell him I was bringing her to the security office, through the basement. We got on the humongous service elevator, and I pushed the button for the basement. I then made her stand at the back wall, facing the door. The elevator stopped, on the 10th floor, the door opened, and PAUL REVERE AND THE RAIDERS, in full “fruit suit” (Paul’s words) glory, tri-corner hats, poofy shirts, and skin-tight satin pants, got on. Paul’s a great guy, and he and the band are going, “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Everybody’s smiling, and the bitch turns around, so they can see the cuffs, and says, “Look, the son of a bitch has me handcuffed.” I grabbed her arm, turned her around, and slammed her into the back wall, saying, “Shut the fuck up, bitch.” It was very quiet for the rest of the ride. When the door opened, in the basement, Paul and the lads took off RUNNING down the hallway.
It’s a very long corridor, which runs the entire length of the casino, so it takes a few minutes to walk it. I walk at a slow pace, but Miss Smarty Pants started walking VERY slowly. I gave her a couple of “come on, stop slowing down”s, but when she kept doing it, I stopped her, went nose-to-nose with her and said, “You will walk, or I will drag you by your fucking hair.” She walked right smartly after that. At one point, she asked me where I was taking her, and I told her, “To jail.” She asked why. I said, “Because you’re a fucking asshole.” We had to go through the employee cafeteria and the parking lot security officer who had given me the handle of Woman Beater, was in there. He saw us, put both hands to his face, and said, “Oh, my God, he’s got another one.”
I, of course, talked my supervisor into not turning her loose, and we never heard a word about it. Sue THIS, bitch.