Being a soldier didn't teach me much about fighting. We were put through an assembly line instruction on how to throw a real punch and kick something standing still. A few light spars with other clueless young idiots. There were a few who came already knowing something real about brawling, but you learned to avoid them when they pair you off.
They did a much better job of teaching you to kill people with ranged weapons. The cold logic of it is obvious. If you can kill an enemy before they get to you, that is the most efficient outcome. If they make it all the way up next to you, good luck, but you should have spent more time at the range.
There were specialists and exceptions to every rule. People deadly at any range, or even those who focused on pure close combat. I wasn't any of that. I was what you might call a basic bitch soldier. Live in a big group and fight in a big group. Between bouts of mind-numbing boredom, and pants shitting terror, I spent most of my time reading for fun and firing the government's money down the practice range. Me and a few boys from the motorpool had a weekly D&D game that lasted almost a year. Ironically, I was a Cleric. Perfect missed opportunity for foreshadowing.
I didn't learn how to really fight until I became a Detective. Civilian life has more civilized rules. You eventually understand that it's all a cheap veneer, but you still can't go around putting lead in everyone who threatens you. So, you learn to fight the smart way. Dirty. It's the safest and best of all the bad options of being physically close to someone who wants to hurt you. Sometimes you just need to flash your iron and heavily imply you are crazy enough to use it. The best fight is the one you walk away from, and it doesn't really matter how you do it.
Currently, I am employing the 'hide in the candy aisle' technique of conflict resolution. It is a lovely day on Route 66 and I pulled into "Buckee the Beaver's Travel Station." Clementine and I both need to slake our thirsts, and I need to leverage my magical Spatial Storage for free road beers and junk food. It turns out that things retain their temperature when stored in my space. I put my watch inside and it came out showing the same time as when I put it in. I guess time doesn't exist there. It's a troubling concept, but the practical applications are obvious. Using it as a mini fridge for cold Dr. Pepper and Miller High Life.
In my defense, even in October, spending your whole road trip with lukewarm beverages is basically self-harm. In my hubris, I left Mr. Mossberg and my .38 in the front seat of my car, covered by my stupid cowboy jacket. I need more space for stolen beer and candy, and I can't pull off the jacket. I tried so hard. I walked into a diner wearing it, and the look the old farmer sitting at the counter gave me...haunting. He just sipped his coffee and shook his head, and I can't bring myself to wear it again. Back to my current problem.
Eleven bikers just pulled into Buckee's. They all have the same stupid vests on, and they are clustered around the gas pump filling their tanks and gossiping about the "problems in Oklahoma City." Cranking my senses up, I can hear them just fine from the store, but at the cost of super smelling the bathrooms and the hotdog roller. The roller is worse.
I gingerly set down my half-eaten dog in a Zagnut box and wonder why they can strut around in those vests while my poor jacket is trash bound. Shamelessness. Young people. Dissolution of basic morals in modern America. They continue to talk, but don't seem to have all the information about how their lab was destroyed. Great!
I finish filling my space with candy, and head for the checkout counter. Pay the gentleman for Clementine's fuel and head out the door. The bikers are filtering towards the store as I head for the pumps. They have the standard asshole look criminals give when they have a decisive advantage. They're looking for trouble, but in a lazy kind of way. Mostly out of habit. I keep my eyes down and hop in the car.
I fire up Clementine and get ready to head West. The bikers have left a younger member to guard the bikes. It seems he hasn't gotten bored with being an asshole yet like the others. He kicks Clementine's passenger side door and leans in the window.
"That's right fucker! You better drive your ass out of here while you can."
I can smell the new leather of his vest. The patch reading Mercs is sewn on with durable sinew thread. He is probably about my age. Long brown hair and a few days of scruff on his chin. He has a fixed blade knife on his waist, but no gun. All the other bikers are in the store, and the windows are tinted to keep out the harsh Texas sun. Buckee is a responsible beaver, and there are a few security cameras looking out from the roofline. I can smell cheap booze on his breath, but his pupils don't seem dilated strangely with drugs. He has pretty eyes.
I keep the gun as low as possible as I press Mr. Mossberg's sawed-off barrel against his teeth. I let him look into my eyes as we really get to know each other. We have a nice long moment, but he doesn't like whatever he sees. The metal barrel is chattering against his enamel as he shakes. I give him my best smile and tell him the truth.
"Today was your day to die, but you got lucky. Security cameras and a few too many of your buddies in the store, but mostly, I'm working on my severe mental problems. Killing you would make me stronger, but I want to focus on me time. A different kind of personal growth. Clementine is tough and I'm sure that boot print will buff out. I'm going to leave now. If you tell your buddies, if you follow me, I'll get you first. Whatever else happens, I'll make sure you aren't alive to see it. I promise you. Throw this fucking jacket away for me."
Sometimes you just need to flash the iron, but just in case, I turn back East and when I'm well out of sight, I turn down a gravel side road and keep off the main Route for a good long while.