Being Mugged V

My faithful readers may well remember my “Being Mugged” cycle of stories (I, II, III and my brother's turn). Daring tales of a swashbuckling English teacher in Rio de Janeiro, with a devil-may-care attitude, who would be damned if she'd let any mugger take anything from her. And yes, that's how I usually think of myself.

It couldn't possibly take too long before it happened again, right? After all, I'm a danger magnet!

It was a beautiful Saturday morning; the sun was bright, the birds were singing and I was going to work. Life was full of promises.

But every promise can go awry, and that Saturday was no exception to Murphy's Law: as I turned around a corner a guy bumped into me, pressed a knife against my stomach and demanded my purse, with no one around to see it.

(On my dying bed, when I see my life flash before my eyes, all I'll see will be guys demanding my purse.)

I immediately said “no!”, and as he tried to jerk the purse away from me I jerked it back, in a very dangerous thug of war, one might say. He pulled the plug on our little game trying to stick the knife into me. Quick as a cat I swerved, but that moment was all he needed to grab my purse and walk away. Yeah, he WALKED away.

Would pretty little me let him WALK away with my purse? I strode after him without a second thought. It didn't take the mugger much time to realize I was going after him, and he broke into a run right away. I mean, I may not be much of a threat, I'm pretty tiny (I'm 1,58cm or 5'3'' tall, and weigh 48 kg or 105lb), but I wasn't going down without a fight! He ran, and I ran after him. And I swear that dude wasn't normal. When he saw I was chasing him, he threw his knife away. Seriously, he just tossed in on the ground and kept on running. What the flying f**?! I ran even more, I wouldn't let a complete ball-less moron take my purse.

But of course, since I'm as graceful as a platypus and as good at running as a peacock, the inevitable happened: I fell. Hard. One of my shoes went flying across the street, and when I stood back up my hands were bleeding, and my pants had two huge holes out of which my knees, covered in blood and pain, could see the world. A weaker being might've given up then – not me! I continued my chase in my newest identity: Lady Limps-a-lot. Believe it or not, I kept on chasing him limping on both legs. After I'd picked up my flying shoe, of course.

Now the tiny little limping girl was not a threat, and the mugger simply walked on. He had a thousand heads' start over me, and I could see him becoming a teeny point in the distance, with a burgundy blur on his back – my purse. He got further and further away.

I'm not ashamed to tell you that at that point, though I did not stop walking after him, I did start slowing down. I was far from home (I'd chased him for a long while), my knees hurt like hell and he was getting away with stealing my stuff. The world was a horrible place to live in, and my head was hurting because of the fall. As I prepared myself to finally quit that foolish chase and shake my fists towards Heaven, a strong tall man was jogging by; when he saw me, he looked at the guy disappearing in the distance, then back at me again, like in an Old Spice commercial. He stopped.

Jogging Man: Did that guy mug you?

Shaky Me: Yes...

Jogging Man: Does he have any kind of weapon?

Shaky Me: No... he did, but he threw it away...

Jogging Man: He threw it away?!

Shaky Me: Yeah, he had a knife, but he threw it away while running...

Jogging Man: Ok, I'm going after him. Go home, don't stay here, you're hurt!

And Jogging Man, with no further ado, sprinted after the mugger.

A little befuddled, I watched him sprint for a while, then decided to take his advice. I arrived home and screamed for my husband (the keys were in my purse, of course, and the door bell was out of order). Hubby wore a question mark on his face as he opened the gate and that was when I finally burst into tears.

After I'd explained everything between sobs and tears, and he'd given me some water, he started taking care of my battle wounds. I called my work, explaining why I wouldn't be able to go that day (not only did I have to go to the police station, but I also could not go anywhere with both knees swelling up to the size of a basketball each). When I was done, the telephone rang: my father. With flowers in his voice:

My Happy Dad: Good morning my beloved daughter! How are you?!

Angry Me: Awful! I got mugged!

My Happy Dad: Really? Well, worry not!

Angrier Me: “Worry not”?! What the...

My Happy Dad: Worry not, because the guy that went after the mugger actually got him, beat him up, got your purse and found my number in your agenda as “emergency contact”! He's got all your stuff back for you!

No Longer Angry Me: … How... *burst into tears again*

The story: Amazing Jogging Man finally reached him (I was not surprised: Jogging Man was huge and, well, a jogging man! The mugger was much smaller and not at all athletic), gave him a mighty beating as if he were Chris Brown and the mugger were Rihanna, took off his clothes, threw them away and warned him to never go back to that neighborhood ever again. And left him there, bare naked for other people to lynch him (because at that point there was a mob watching, holding forks and torches).

We talked some more, I thanked him a gazillion times and went home, for my unexpected day off from work.

To this day, people keep telling me that I was crazy to chase the mugger; well, my answer to that is: hadn't I chased him, Jogging Man wouldn't have bumped into me and thus saved me. You know what they say: “Faint hearts never won fair ladies” (“fair ladies” meaning “their purse back”) and “Nothing ventured, nothing gained”.

Also, we now refer to my savior as The Jogging Avenger.

To be fair, my Jogging Avenger looks nothing like him. But Chris Evans is ALWAYS an eye candy, am I right girls?!