Monthly Archives: June 2016

My first encounter with Hell’s Angels.

There were four large  hotel/casinos on Nevada’s South Shore of Lake Tahoe.  The other three had long-ago 86’d ALL bikers, not just the Angels, for various anti-social activities.  Harrah’s was the LAST place that allowed them entrance and, man, did they appreciate it. They couldn’t wear their “colors,” but we knew who they were, as they still had the tattoos and other accoutrements of the outlaw-biker world.  They were on their “best behavior,” when they were guests of Harrah’s; no fighting, no riding their motorcycles in the casino, no things like that.   We were polite to them and they, in turn, were polite to us.

I’d only worked there about a month, when I got into my first rugby scrum with someone who did not wish to be handcuffed.  He was a 19 year-old, blond-haired, surfer-dude, with shoulder-length hair (important later).  Ted Koorganoff, you remember him, he’s the one who bled all over the security office, after being sucker-punched by a negro.  He had been called to a pit to check this fucker’s ID and, while conversing with him, was sucker-punched by the punk.  He got only a small cut (no blood) at the bridge of his nose, but broke his fucking thumb in the fight which followed.  (He walked, quite proudly, through the casino, for the next two weeks, giving one and all, the “Thumbs Up.”  By the time I arrived, in response to the Double-X which had been called, Ted had been joined by four other security officers, and all of them were struggling to cuff this guy.  I joined up with my comrades, trying to take the fucker to the floor.  One security dude was trying to choke surfer-boy out, but he wasn’t having any luck.  Suddenly, we were all in a pile on the floor, with surfer-dude on his belly, facing me, with his mouth snugged-up against my crotch.  I’m not an overly religious person, but I was praying, “Please, God, don’t let him bite my wienie.”  We were in that position, for what seemed like several minutes, as I tried to choke him out, quite unsuccessfully.  Ted finally got him cuffed, we stood him up, and we were all treated to Ted’s famous, “Fuck with me, and you lose your hair, motherfucker,” game of pay-back.  With one hand on the cuff-chain, and the dude bent over at the waist, Ted used his other hand to pull blond hair out of the guy’s head, and discard it onto the casino floor.  It was a short frog-walk to the security office and, when we got there, Ted continued pulling hair, until the kid was fucking BALD.

About a 1/2-hour later, the graveyard security shift-supervisor came on duty, and I was in the office with him.  I said, “Man, you should have seen it; Koorganoff pulled every hair out of that kid’s head.  He was BALD, when he went to jail.”  The supervisor, who hadn’t seen the kid, was going, “Yeah, right,” thinking that I was grossly embellishing the story.  I said, “You think I’m bullshitting you?  Look at this,” as I picked up the two plastic trash cans, each of which was 1/2-full of blond surfer-hair, and showed the contents to him.  “And this doesn’t count what’s still out in the casino.”  Ted had to go to Barton Memorial Hospital and Medical Malpractice Center, to have his hand X-rayed and bound-up, with his thumb sticking up, which he proudly displayed for two weeks.

Now, the the Hell’s Angels connection:  During one of those fights, as I quickly found out, you’re not aware of anything about your surroundings, not even the identity of your fellow security officers; you’re zoomed in on the scofflaw, and the sanctity of your private parts.  Therefore, I was completely unaware of the fact that about six feet away from the scrum, a biker chick was yelling, “Kill security, fuck those assholes, kill those motherfuckers.”  As soon as we got surfer-boy to the office, an announcement was made, “Double-X to South Valet Parking, Double-X to South Valet Parking.”  I wish I would have responded to that Double-X, because it was a classic.  As about ten security officers arrived at the valet parking area, they observed a huge biker, beating the shit out of a biker chick, and saying, “You dumb bitch, you could get us kicked out of THIS casino; the last one that lets us in.”  He was punching the shit out of her face.  Biker dude saw all those security officers arrive and stopped pounding on the chick.  The SOs indicated that they were pleased to see the ass-kicking and urged him to continue, which he did, while they watched.  Such was the “bond” we had with outlaw bikers, including the infamous Hell’s Angels, from Oakland and Frisco.


“You chicken-shit assholes.”

As a Harrah’s security officer, I was fearless, as I figured if I got really fucked up, Harrah’s would have to pay my hospital bills.  With an outlook like that, I got into a number of beefs that might be considered to be “sketchy.”  I was usually the first to arrive at any “Double-X” that was broadcast on the PA system.  A Double-X meant drop pretty much anything you were doing, unless it involved money, and haul-ass to where the action was.  On one particular Double-X, I was the last to arrive at Pit 5, our top-dollar pit, to see eleven security officers, in a shoulder-to-shoulder half-circle around one of the tables.  I glanced at the table, and saw a 325 pound, 6’5″ Hell’s Angel, who had his head on his arms, on the table, and appeared to be sound asleep.  The 21 dealer was backed away from the table, and two pit bosses were standing there beside her, looking at the drunk, but harmless, biker. I was looking at the situation, and had figured out what was up, but asked the two 70 year old geezers, who could barely walk without a walker, whom I was standing back of, and between, “What’s up?”  “You see that guy over there?”  “Yeah.”  “He’s so drunk he’s just throwing his money away and making stupid bets.  They want him backed off and asked to leave, so he can’t come back later and accuse Harrah’s of cheating him.”  “Has anybody asked the man to leave?”  “Are you kidding?  Look at that guy; he’s a monster.  We’re waiting for the supervisor, with a gun, to get here.”  I said, as I forced my way between those two idiots, who both would be gone in a week, and almost knocking them both down, “Get the fuck out of my way.”

I walked up on the guy’s left side, leaned over, and said, softly, into his ear, “Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve had a lot to drink.  Maybe you should consider going back to your motel room and taking a little nap.  Take a shower, get something to eat.  Come back later, and we’ll be happy to see you.”  About 2 seconds later, he exploded up from his chair, where he stood about one foot in front of me.  I was quite startled, and thought, “Oh, shit, I’m going to have to fight this motherfucker,” as I slipped my right hand into my pocket, to try to get my brass knuckles into action before he reduced me to protoplasm.  I just about had my knuckles on my fist, which I could then pull out of my pocket, ready to punch someone, when he said to me, and this is a quote, “Can you direct me to the nearest exit?”  I GULPED, for the first and only time in my life, just like in a cartoon, and said, “Why, yes, sir, it’s right over there,” pointing with my right index finger, after I had dropped the knucks and pulled my empty hand out of my pocket.  He extended his right hand, and said, “Thank you.”  I said, “You’re welcome, and thank YOU, sir.”  We shook hands, and he turned around and staggered out of the casino.  I said, to his back. “Have a nice day, sir,” for only the 3rd time, in my LIFE, that I’ve ever said that to anyone.  (At least until I was around 65 years old, when I said it to a 4th person.)  [As nearly as I can remember, I’ve said that to only 5 people, and one of them was a “mistake.”]

I turned, and observed eleven worthless cocksuckers, who would not have helped me if a fight had started, standing there with their mouths open and weird looks on their faces, and said, in a loud voice, “You chickenshit assholes.”  One of them, a guy I’d never seen before and never saw again, walked up to me saying, “Wow, man, tell me what you told that guy, so I can use it in the future.”  I said, “I didn’t tell him anything, I just asked him to leave.”  I was PISSED, and walked away from those assholes.  I encountered our supervisor, with two more security officers, walking briskly towards where I’d just left.  I motioned for them to slow down and said, “I took care of it.”  He said, “OK.”




Niggas in an Uproar Over Evil White Racist Cops’ Arrest of Violent, Resisting Sheboon

Tar Baby on June 28, 2016 at 10:40 am said:
Biting? Spitting? She needed at least a couple of face-plants into the curb. Guaranteed life-changing event. I have been there, and I have done that. I don’t care if it’s a white middle-aged woman or a mafia dude (Whom I face-planted into the hood and trunk lid of a Crown Vic.) in a thousand-dollar Eye-talian silk suit; if they piss me off, I’m going to open a can of “fuck-you-up.” (I don’t, to this day, know if that guy lived through that little “tune-up.”) [I doubt it.]

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How to piss off a jew.

Yesterday I watched a video of muzzie atrocities in Germany, which I like to do, to fuel my hatred for those child-/livestock-raping fuckers.  I posted a comment, which included the words “motherfucker,” and “goat-fucker,” and included a suggestion for Germans to begin playing a game called “Stick-a-shank-in-a-muzzie,” with the rules for scoring.

AFTER I posted it, I discovered that I was NOT on a friendly blog, but was, in fact, on shariaunveiled, an anti-muzz but pro hebe website.  Oh, shit, I was already being closely watched, I’m sure, because of a previous comment about “jooz,” which the owner/moderator had gotten all butt-hurt about.  That one was also a mistake about where I was.  I’ve managed to sneak a lot of “antisemitic” shit onto that blog, however, and have gotten a few people to start questioning the motives of those hook-nosed cocksuckers.  But, crikey, I have to word my posts very delicately, as you would well imagine.  So, I was concerned that my access to this site was soon going to be terminated.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Ms. Owner/Modulator gives me an “lol,” and says “that’s the funniest damned thing I’ve ever seen.  SHALOM”



“Don’t shoot the Sergeant,don’t shoot the Sergeant.”

All but two of my twelve printed submissions, in Combat Handguns magazine, just bore my initials (R.G.) and the city I was in.  In the other two, I got a full by-line.  The first of these was in the sister publication, Guns and Weapons for Law Enforcement, where they printed three of my stories, as one “Street Smarts” article, paid me $450 (Harry Kane knew I was homeless and needed the money), and put my name at the top.  The first story was the first one that they had published, this time with “I don’t give a fuck if you live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in the White House, get the fuck out of my parking lot,” left in it, as Harry knew, by that time, that everything I wrote was true.  I can’t remember what the middle one was, but #3 was my newest one, a very long piece which was a three-fer (3 stories in one submission).  #3, in #3, was about how I came very close to blowing a Compton (yes, that Compton) police Sergeant, in plain clothes, away.  Harry PCd out, by failing to print the name of the city.  He probably thought that there was a racial aspect to the story, but everybody was white.

Sunday afternoon, 4:30 pm, ADT’s Long Beach substation (station/car 9), the start of my shift.  10 minutes later, my moron supervisor calls me on our direct phone line to tell me to roll on an ultrasonic alarm, in the lay-a-way department, at the north end of the Compton Sears store, on Long Beach Blvd.  He FAILS to tell me two very important things:  (1)  It’s about the 6th alarm we’ve received, that day, from that same alarm, meaning it’s probably another false alarm and,  (2)  There’s a fucking plain-clothes dick in the store, on a fucking stakeout.  That’s right; Walter Cranse, my shit-for-brains supervisor, did not tell me there was an armed LEO on the premises.

Rolling 60 mph up a deserted Long Beach Blvd. (I wasn’t in a hurry), it still took me about 20 minutes to get there.  When I arrived at the rear employee entrance, there was a Compton police car parked near the door.  As I was getting the keys, to open the door, out of the trunk of my car, the uniformed ROOKIE cop was pissing and moaning about how this was the 3rd time, in 2 hours, that he’d had to pour out his coffee, at Winchell’s Donuts,  stuff his donut in his mouth, and drive down to this false alarm.  I commiserated with him, assuring him that I didn’t like false alarms either, but the fucker kept sniveling about his coffee, the donut, and the false alarm.  He kept this up for the next 2 minutes, as I unlocked the door, we stepped inside, I closed and locked the door, did NOT flip the common/everyday light switch, on the wall, which would have turned on every frigging light in the store.  It was late afternoon, the sun was low, I knew it would be fairly dark in the store, but neither one of us took our flashlights with us and we had no lights, but we did have enough light to make our way down some stairs, into the basement, walk across the basement, up some stairs, and start walking down a large main aisle, towards the lay-a-way area.  I had just finished telling the cop to give it a rest, as I was getting annoyed, when I spotted a dude, in civvies, standing at the far side of the aisle, about 20 feet away.  Lickety-split, my S&W Model 27, 5″.357 Magnum was cocked and pointed at the dude’s heart, with my finger on that 2-pound trigger.  I said, in a VERY low voice, which was almost a whisper, “Move, and you’re dead.”  Officer numb-nuts was right beside me and grabbed my right arm, with both of his hands, and forced my arm straight up, so that my gun was pointed at the ceiling.  I never took my eyes off the “burglar,” but tried to get my arm back down.

My arm was waving around, but pointed at the ceiling, and I was saying, “Let go of my fucking arm, you idiot, there’s a burglar over there, who may be armed.”  All this time, my finger was on that “hair trigger,” but I have superlative muscle control.  During this time, das rookie was mumbling, “Bub, bub, bub, bub,” like a PCP aficionado.  As I said, my attention was on the “burglar” and, if he would have blinked, I would have dropped the hammer, after turning my head and closing my eyes, to unleash a sheet of flame, two FEET long, out the muzzle, and two sheets of flame, one foot long, out the respective sides of my gat, from the cylinder gap.  That’s what I had observed, somewhere in the middle of the Mohave Desert, after the sun had gone down.  I can bet you the farm, that with that pyrotechnic display going off in his face, he would have let go of my arm, allowing me to throw down on my perceived adversary.  When the wanker finally found his voice, he kept repeating, over, and over, and…, “Don’t shoot the Sergeant, don’t shoot the Sergeant.”  It took but a fraction of a second for me to discern the reason for his seeming, from out of nowhere, previous break with reality, in not recognizing what, to me, seemed a potentially deadly threat.  I stopped trying to get out of his grasp, and said, “Everything is cool; you can let go of my arm.”  He released my arm, I lowered it and, while I’m certain that I could have lowered the hammer, on a live round, with one hand, I chose to use both hands, because who needs an accidental discharge (AD) at ANY time?

We walked over to where the Sergeant was still standing, in the same position, when I first threw down on him.  He hadn’t moved even one cell in his body, during my fight with the coptard.  The Sergeant said, in a voice filled with a yearning for a plausible explanation for why he was almost shot, “What the fuck is going on here?”  I said, “Sergeant, this stupid son of a bitch didn’t tell me you were in here, and I came close to blowing your ass away.”  The Sergeant exploded on the rookie, “You stupid asshole, this man almost shot me, because you didn’t tell him that I was in here.”  Rook:  “Well, Sergeant, I assumed…”  Sgt.:  “Stand at attention, when I’m talking to you.”  The rook stood at rigid West Point-like attention, for the next five minutes, as timed on my Rolex Submariner Superlative Chronometer.  THAT was the most thorough ass-chewing that I’ve ever witnessed; the asshole was almost crying, especially when, near the end of this historic verbal assault, the Sergeant said, “Tomorrow, at 9 A.M., I’ll be in the Chief’s office and if, at 9 oh 5, you still have a job with this police department, you’ll be one lucky SOB, because I’m going to tell the Chief to fire your ass.”

The Sergeant had absolutely no beef with me, and eagerly got close to me when I called my supervisor, in Huntington Park.  “Shit, man, we’re in a world of trouble.”  “Why, what’s wrong, Rick?”  “You know that Sergeant that’s in here, the one you forgot to tell me about?”  “Damn, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you.”  “Well, shit, man, I don’t know how to say this.”  “What’s wrong?”  “Well, the uniformed cop I came in here with, also didn’t tell me the Sergeant was in here, and, oh shit, I blasted him; he’s lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”  “Oh, my God; what will Jim [the manager of our office] say?”  At this point, I held the receiver about one foot in front of my mouth, and YELLED into it,  “I don’t give a fuck what Jim says, you asshole.  Now, listen up, Walter Cranse, this is the SECOND time that you’ve done this to me; sent me where there was an authorized person, who you didn’t tell me about, and I threw down on them.  And I didn’t shoot the Sergeant, but I came real close to blowing his ass away.  If you EVER do this to me again, the first thing I’m going to do, win, lose, or draw, out here on the street, I’m coming to Huntington Park, and blow YOUR FUCKING ASS AWAY,” and slammed the phone down on the cradle.  The Sergeant:  “Right on, right on, right on, that’s telling that son of a bitch.”

“We’re rich motherfucking niggers.”

The night after the bomb went off in Harvey’s Hotel and Casino, which was front-page news in the London Times, we in Security at Harrah’s Hotel and Casino, across the street, were taking NO SHIT from ANYBODY.  At 12:30 A.M., 30 minutes before the end of our shift, another security officer and I were in the security office, when we heard, over the public address system, “Double X to the Cabaret, Double X to the Cabaret.”  Double X meant big-time shit going down.  We looked at each other, then rushed out of the office, racing to get to the Cabaret, to engage in some ass-whooping.  As we arrived at the entrance to the Cabaret, we saw one of the Cabaret hosts pointing down the Cabaret BAR, where the beef was really happening.  We stopped and observed Ted Koorganoff, a Russian born in China, and one security officer, among many, who enjoyed kicking ass, talking to a black gentleman.  As there wasn’t any fight, as yet, we just stood there.  We didn’t have to wait more than 2 seconds, for the coon to sucker-punch Ted in the mouth, which later required four stitches at Barton Memorial Malpractice Hospital.  We rushed to where the action was, the other security officer jumping on the nig, along with 5 other security officers.  As I had already been in scrums like that, and one more of us wouldn’t have made any difference, I stood calmly, one foot away from the melee, getting my handcuffs ready to snap on the spade.  The moment I saw a black arm appear, I threw a cuff on it.  He immediately stopped resisting and dropped to the floor.  I jumped on his back and cuffed the other hand.  Ted frog-marched the asshole to the security office, performing his ritual of pulling the hair out of the motherfucker’s head and throwing it on the floor of the casino.  The first time I saw him do this, was to a 19 year old, blonde, surfer dude, who had also sucker-punched him, who was BALD when he went to jail.  It was Ted’s ‘signature move.’  He improvised a bit on this guy, by bleeding all over the back of his shirt.  When we got to the office, Ted threw him on the floor, where he remained, on his belly, for the rest of the party.

Meanwhile, Loretta, our only female security officer, had been bracing nigra #2 all the way across the casino.  She was backed up by 3 or 4 other security officers.  He took umbrage at our treatment of his bro.  Loretta, the 2nd coon, and the other security officers, were just outside the office, with about ten of us inside the office with the first one.  I began going through the 1st coon’s wallet, which he lost in the scrum, to get his I.D.  A big commotion began outside, and everyone except me and another security officer, stampeded out the door.  I sat down at a desk, got out a yellow legal pad, and began writing down the spook’s name and address.  I heard people bouncing off the walls, outside, and looked to see if the door to the inner office was open, which it was.  I said, “Let’s drag this fucker into Art’s office.”  He smiled and made punching motions with one hand into his other hand.  I said, “No, no no, don’t you hear what’s happening outside?  I think we’re going to have another customer, real soon.”  He listened, got my drift, and we reached down to grab him, when the door flew open and #2 came in flying, like Superman, only with his hands cuffed behind his back.  He was horizontal, head-first, about 4 feet above the floor.  We both jerked back, and #2 landed on top of #1, ending up back-to-back, head-to-feet.  Both of the fucks immediately started screaming, “Honky motherfucker” at us.  Everyone else crowded into the office, where there was standing-room only.  About a minute later, our supervisor, Roland Thiessen, who was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s, opened the door and walked in.  He had been in the parking lot, checking out a fender-bender, and knew NOTHING of what had transpired.  He spotted #1, right in front of him, and place-kicked his head with one of his size 14 wing-tips, damned near knocking the guy out.  He said, “Oh, I’m SO sorry, to have accidentally stepped on your face,”  Then he spotted #2, straddled the pile of bodies on the floor, and gave #2 a vicious punch, to his face, while exclaiming, “You fucking asshole.”  That was the beginning of the PAR-TAY.  For the next 30 minutes, the two niggers screamed, “Honky motherfucker” at us, while we made fun of them, and Ted bled all over the office.  His blood was on the floor, the desks, the walls, everywhere.  Right after Roland had punched #2, he was standing right next to me.  He turned to me and said, “Are you involved in this mess?”  I said, “My cuffs are on that one,” indicating the one he had kicked.  He said, “Write a report.”  Someone was sitting at the desk, but I reached for the legal pad that already had the guy’s name written on it.  I picked it up and saw that there were two huge spots of Ted’s blood on the pad.  I went, “Eeyoo,” and tossed it back on the desk.  Roland turned and said, “What’s the matter?”  Me:  “It’s got blood all over it.”  Roland:  “Use that one, use the one with the blood on it.  I WANT THAT REPORT WRITTEN IN BLOOD.”  Me:  “You got it, Roland,” and I wrote the report in blood.  Meanwhile, the two spooks were going on how it was IMPOSSIBLE that we were going to put them in jail, because they were “rich motherfucking niggers.”  They thought that being “rich motherfucking niggers” gave them a get-out-of-jail-free card.

I talked to two people who were present, the next day, when the Security Manager watched the videotape.  Art put his face in both hands, and kept repeating, “What a bloodbath.”

I couldn’t believe how lucky I was, to get paid (at a ridiculously low wage) to do this job.

“Your Chiefs Special Ace in the Hole”

My first submission to COMBAT HANDGUNS was the only time I made the cover.

“It Happened to Me

A Coked-up Biker with a Knife

Your Chiefs Special Ace in the Hole”

(Harry Kane wrote all of this lurid stuff)


This happened in ’75 or ’76, when I was a valet parking attendant at a very nice prime rib dinner house in the Naples section of Long Beach, California.  Sometimes I had 3 Ferraris, a ’57 Mercedes 300 SL roadster, a fire-engine-red Rolls Royce, and a ’73 Lamborghini ESPADA in my lot, all at the same time.  I started packing a gun, in January, 1972, when some asshole tried to stab me in the belly with a 6″ hunting knife.  It was a Smith & Wesson Model 60, Stainless Steel Chiefs Special, loaded with 125 grain jacketed soft point .38 Special +Ps.  I had it in an IWB holster, at the 12 o’clock position, pointing at my “junk.”  I was 100% legal, as a person, in California, doesn’t need a permit, if you’re carrying it on your  Business Property.  I practiced pulling that baby thousands of times, and could draw, aim, and fire it in about 1/4 of a second.

One beautiful summer evening, 3 yuppie bikers, now known as RUBS, or Rich Urban Bikers, rolled in on their Harleys.  They were riding around in circles, in the middle of my lot, and I walked up to them and politely told them they couldn’t park in the lot.  One of them said, “What the fuck do you mean, I can’t park here, I live in Belmont Shore.”  That’s when I said, “I don’t give a fuck if you live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in the White House, get the fuck out of my parking lot.”  They left and I thought the incident was over. About 2 minutes later, the smart-ass one returned with 6 friends, who had been in cars. There were 3 guys and 3 women, and I’m talking nurses, school teachers, and stock brokers, the usual yuppie scum.  The 6 friends remained on the sidewalk, while shit-for-brains stood a couple of feet inside my lot.  When he was still on his bike, I saw that he had a Buck 110 on his belt.  He started speaking to me thusly, I’m going to take my knife (helpfully pointing his finger at the sheath), and carve my initials in your fucking forehead.  Then, I’m going to cut your fucking heart out, and stomp it in the fucking ground.”  About 1 second later, I had worked out what I was going to do, if he did 3 things;   1.  take the knife out of the sheath.  2. Open the blade.  3.  Take one step towards me.  3b.  I blow his fucking brains out.  He took the knife out of the sheath and partially opened the blade.  Meanwhile, his friends were saying, “Come on, Kevin, let’s go get a beer,” and touching him on the arm or shoulder.  He screamed, “Leave me alone, don’t touch me, I’m going to kill this motherfucker.”  He said that about 3 times.  Meanwhile, I’m standing there, with a smile on my face, in a state of Zen meditation, I was so calm.  Just before he completely opened the blade, 2 or 3 of his friends grabbed him and dragged him out of my lot.  What a dumb motherfucker that guy was.  Either I’m the dumbest person on earth, or I know something that might be of interest to him.  I had not said a single word to him or his friends, because anything I might say could be twisted by his friends, if I had to shoot the goof.  The asshole never understood how close he came to seeing the ‘promised land.’


“If bullshit was a street,”


Your Mind is Your Ace in the Hole

     First, let me state that, without reservation, I am the greatest BS artist who has ever lived.  I have only used this ability about a dozen times in my life but, when I do, it is awesome.  I only use it for special occasions, and the last time I BS’d someone, it probably saved my life.  If I was an evil person, I would be truly dangerous.

     I have had twelve previous submissions printed in Combat Handguns and Guns & Weapons for Law Enforcement, and every single word in those submissions, and in this one, is absolutely true.  In every single encounter with one or more bad guys, whether you are armed (as I was on many occasions) or not (as I found myself in this last instance), your most important weapon is your brain.

     I firmly believe that, in many cases, a person’s profession can be discerned by the look of their face.  I have correctly guessed someone’s profession many times this way.  I have known, for a very long time, that I look like a cop.  I’ve had a police officer ask me if I was a police officer.  Aside from the fact that I look like a cop, my command voice is in a top percentile, and I exude a quiet self-confidence.  That saved my life, when I didn’t have a gun, or any other kind of weapon on me, and was about to be robbed at knife-point.

     Every single gang-banger/convicted felon in this country knows two things:  1. Only two kinds of people will look them directly in the eyes; other gang-bangers (who will be shot for doing it), and police officers.  2. They all know that off-duty cops are armed, and so are most retired cops.  As I am now in my sixties, I now look like a retired cop.

     It was about 10:30 P.M., and my small pick-up truck, with a camper shell, was the only vehicle in a parking lot.  I was parked all the way in the back.  I had just opened the rear gate and shell, and was walking to the open driver’s door.  An individual about 30 years old, 6′ 1″ tall, 200 muscular pounds, with a shaved head and prison tats, was walking straight towards me.  He had much better looking clothes on than I did, but he said, “You got any spare change, man?”  I looked him right in the eyes, with my #1 dirty look, and said, “No, man.”  He walked around to the back of my truck and looked inside.  He stood about three feet from the open rear corner of my truck, on the passenger side, and remained standing there for about five minutes.  No other words were exchanged.

     I made four or five very slow trips, moving stuff, while giving that guy my #1 “don’t mess with me” look almost constantly.  He was doing a lot of thinking.  He was a smart guy, because he didn’t think that I was stupid.  He had several things to think about:  1. Just inside the camper shell was a 7 1/2 ” bowie-style knife, in a sheath, held in place with a bungee cord.  2. He could get to that knife a lot faster than I could.  3. He knew that I knew that he could see the knife, and that he could get to it first.  4. I didn’t seem too overly concerned about him grabbing my knife.  5. I kept giving him the “hard look.”  6. I looked like a retired cop who was armed with a gun, and was not reluctant to use it.

     As I said before, he was a smart guy, and decided that he didn’t want to make the classic mistake of showing up at a gun fight with just a knife.  He took off, and I went about my business.  If he had decided to rob me, I was defenseless, and he would have had to kill me because of his distinctive look, his very distinctive clothing, the fact that he was on foot (no car), and the fact that I had been staring at him for five minutes and had memorized everything about him, which put the fool in jail a few months later.

     Fellow students of armed self defense:  before, during, and after you have mastered your weapon(s), train your mind.  The best way to do that is by reading Combat Handguns magazine and the books by Mas Ayoob and others.  Don’t ever think that you “know it all.”  I’ve been studying this subject for over fifty years, and I learn something new in each issue of CH.

     To extrapolate a bit, I would have done absolutely everything exactly the same way if I had been packing.  Think about it.

     An addendum to this story is that a few months later I witnessed this same individual sell drugs to another person.  Less than 48 hours later, he robbed EIGHT gas stations.  I was the person who ID’d him and caused him to get sent back to prison; this time for 25 to life.

Richard Gearon


The foregoing is a submission I sent to COMBAT HANDGUNS magazine, which they didn’t print.  They HAD printed 12 of my previous submissions, for which I was paid a total of $1,850.  The former editor, a Mr. Harry Kane, with whom I spoke on the phone one time, left, and the new editor fucked up the whole deal.  The entire organization, Harris Publications, went out of business at the end of April, this year, no doubt caused by the new guy.  Harry Kane quickly came to realize that every single word, that I write, is true.   New guy probably didn’t believe the story.  I’ve given this matter a lot of thought; why people don’t believe my stories, and I have THOUSANDS of stories, and I’ve decided that almost everyone has never had a SINGLE experience like mine.  It’s never happened to them, so they don’t believe someone who tells them that it has happened to them.

I was in a senior-living apartment facility, and became friendly with two ex-Marines, both of whom had fought on Guadalcanal, with Chesty Puller, and one of them had been at the Chosin Reservoir, in Korea, with Chesty.  They told me some of their stories and I told them some of mine.  I thought, “Great, I’ve got two guys who believe my stories, because they both were in heavy, sustained combat.”  Then, one day, one of them, out of nowhere, said to me, “If bullshit was a street, you’d be the PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY.”  I was stunned, but immediately replied, “No, if bullshit was a street, I’d be the motherfucking SAN DIEGO FREEWAY.”  That really hurt me, that they thought I was bullshitting them.  I decided that even combat didn’t cause someone to believe my stories, because nothing even remotely like what has happened to me, had ever happened to them, as CIVILIANS.  On murderbymedia, I’ve related how a joo cocksucker professor, called me a “racist antisemite,” in front of a college class in Sociology, and I yelled back, “Don’t call me a ‘racist antisemite,’ you fucking asshole.”  How many times, in the history of the world, has anyone ever called their college professor a ‘fucking asshole?’  Once?  I’ve cussed out a Nation of Islam motherfucker, and others of that ethnic persuasion, so I don’t go off on just the hebes.

I am the greatest BS artist, in the world, but you won’t see any of it when you read my stuff on the web.  Thank you.