I had been mugged and that is putting it rather mildly. My executioners were standing over me apprehensively because not only was I still moving; I was trying to bargain with them. In my state I should admit that I was in no position to negotiate. I was down, bleeding, weak and hopelessly outnumbered.
It was a surprise attack where I had been felled by two blows from a half brick, one to the back of my head and the other to my forehead. The last thing I remember was the decoy reaching into his shirt pocket and then ‘Pow!’ According to the inebriated doctor who treated me later, the blows could have felled an ox. At that point, I wished I was one.
The muggers were meticulous, having thoroughly rehearsed their moves. One could tell that they had done this sort of thing dozens of times. They had honed their moves to the point of perfection, much like actors in a Shakespearean tragedy. In reality it was a cold and calculated attack where the thugs held the initiative and retained the element of surprise until the first blow was delivered.
As I leveraged myself into a sitting position I confessed to not having any money on me, which is what they were obviously after. For some reason they were not buying that story. I was not surprised by their disbelief. What was I doing out here, standing out like a sore thumb, in an expensive grey suit and carrying a very conspicuous portfolio case? I was literally written ‘mug me’ all over!
One of them held me up by my expensive suit jacket and yanked me up like a lifeless mannequin. In a flash they descended on me like a pack of rabid wolves all the while swearing and making threats to my life. Sadistic as it might sound; this was the ‘best’ part of the mugging for me. At least they were not stabbing me.
But for a brief moment of weakness that temporarily overcame me, I became fully conscious of what was going on around me. It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I took out my wallet to prove that I had no cash on me. Looking back, I realise now that it was a potentially stupid and risky thing to do.
For one, reaching for my wallet might have spooked the muggers into thinking that I was drawing some weapon. On the other hand, by highlighting my temporary poverty, I could have incensed them into a blood-letting frenzy. There is said to be an unwritten rule among muggers that a victim should pay dearly for not carrying any cash on him.
Thankfully, these muggers seem not to have heard about this rule. The physical assault which included crude panel beating, kicks to the mouth, chest and groin, came to a stop. One of them then gingerly reached for my wallet and examined it thoroughly.
I was warned not to scream, something I was not keen on doing for macho reasons. It became apparent that they were not going to extinguish my precious life. The whole ordeal then took a business-like, almost clinical turn. With astonishing skill and speed I was relieved of my expensive grey suit, equally fashionable shoes and the portfolio case.
I still vividly remember the thugs walking away going through the pockets of my suit as if they were going to send it to the dry cleaners in the morning. As I sat there in my shirt, socks and underwear, I was glad that I had survived the ordeal and would live to see another day. Then it dawned on me that the muggers could easily change their minds and come back and finish me off.
I picked myself up and staggered into the darkness. No one else could mug me in this state, I comforted myself. Getting home in a state of near nakedness was indeed a challenge. I had taken off my shirt and made a bandana that would slow the bleeding from my head. If I was to meet anyone looking like this at that hour; there was the possibility that I could be mistaken for a crude version of some comic super hero after a hard day’s work.
I was not keen on making a spectacle of myself by rocking up at the local police station in a state of undress. Even as beaten up as I was, I wasn’t going to give the cops something to joke about for the rest of the millennium. To cut a long story short, I reached home without any unpleasant surprises. My mom, a nurse by profession, took care of the injuries.
I then faced the inquisition in the form of my father. I must admit that his barrage of questions like what was I doing where I was at that time of the night, prepared me well for what was to follow. I must have related my tale over a thousand times! I should admit that the story improved in quality to the extent that I can now submit it as a screenplay for a future television drama. But then I digress.
At the police station it took a good two hours for my turn to have my statement taken. To my relief, I wasn’t the only one who had been mugged that day. It must have been open season for my muggers. By the time my turn came, the cops only added ‘expensive grey suit’ and ‘conspicuous portfolio case’ to the ones they had already recorded saving us all precious time.
Make no mistake that I expected the police to rush out to apprehend the muggers like they do on television. I was merely concerned with being able to get hospital treatment because in my country there is a rule that victims of muggings can be attended to only after a statement has been recorded by the police. Never mind the fact that you could be bleeding to death. How else can the police be seen to be doing their job?
After the stupefying bureaucracy, we were driven to the hospital where we queued up to be stitched. They had fish out the doctor on call from someplace, and it wasn’t long before we discovered where he had been.
To be mugged and robbed of my favourite suit was one thing. But to be stitched by a doctor breathing alcohol fumes directly onto your face for the best of an hour is worse. The only good thing about it was that after a few minutes there was no need for local anaesthesia. In a short while I was well and truly knocked out for six. But that’s another story...
No comments:
Post a Comment