“Nice car,” one of them says, but I’m not here to play games or posture with men twice my age. Instead, I move around to the trunk of my car and open it, selecting a wooden baseball bat from inside. In my experience, wood is better because it acts as a sort of litmus test for how hard you’re beating somebody. Metal can make mistakes more easily, and I’m not about to kill some thugs and go to jail—for real this time.
