That Guy Macing Everyone Needs a Cape

I drove my taxi one Friday night through the "Triangle" night life section of Cow Hollow, near the Marina.  Normally, the police presence is about 6-8 SFPD officers and 4-6 Highway patrol officers. This control keeps a lid on the acting out by testosterone and alcohol-laden men, egged on by proximity to pretty, young, alcohol-laden women.  This night there was no presence at all.  No squad car fenders peeking out from the alleys, no clusters of officers watching the proceedings.  Of course, a sizable fight broke out between two groups of young men in front of one of the popular bars.  As the chaotic scene of jumping, boxing, kicking and falling young men
blocked the entrance to the club, a brawny bouncer stepped out of the doorway and ordered the men to move down the street.

My company's in-taxi computer interfered with asking dispatch to call the police, so I found a pay phone and called 911.  I told them that about 12 young men were fighting savagely, without weapons, but one side was much more capable than the other, and we would need ambulances if it went on much longer.  I asked why there was no police here, dispatch said, "There was an officer involved shooting in the Tenderloin, everybody responded."

The bouncer's demand momentarily stopped the fight. They moved over about one storefront before another punch was thrown, down went a man, then all twelve were back in action.  As the tougher guys started pinning and bashing the downed other guys, ear and hair-held heads were slammed to the ground.  Courageous girlfriends tried to rescue their guys by jumping on the backs of tough men, or punching and pushing the victorious men who were showing no quarter.  I carried two cannisters of a mace/pepper spray combination, so I went across the street to intervene.

I surgically shot jets of the spray in the eyes of the each of the combatants.  The brave girlfriends were tapped or grabbed by other citizens to step back while I stopped the melee.  The crowd remarked several times, "He has mace," and the onlookers moved out of accidental macing range. I sprayed the downed men, everyone still standing, and reached down to spray upward into the faces of men sitting on the chests of vanquished men, punching them relentlessly.  The last unsprayed man noticed the man he was beating had suddenly stopped punching, and proclaimed, "What the F...!" and turned to me and I shot a jet into his eyes.  He folded his arms over his face with a loud "Acch!"  The whole group was immobilized, and the damage had stopped.  I left the scene. Disposing of one of my used up cannisters.  I climbed into my cab and drove away.  I went around the block onto Lombard street and looked up Fillmore Street.  Several squad cars arrived in those moments after my departure, and others were showing up.  All brawlers were gathered up and and I drove away.

I stopped what I believed was going to result in grievous injury, and everyone was going to have to explain to the police what the heck happened, and maybe there'd be justice, but there'd be peace again in the Triangle. I felt a little like superman, standing in the midst of fighting, falling and fallen men, and spraying without injury to myself.  As if I were invisible, spraying the immobilizing fluid.  For $25.00 worth of mace, I felt good.  And I had a story to tell.