The very first time I was faced with the evil that lurks in our society was around 1968, I was like 12 years old or so.
For as long as I can recall, I have had a profound love for hunting, fishing, target shooting, and the general out doors. So I would often sneak out really early on Saturday or Sunday mornings, before my parents would be awake, pack a small lunch, grab my sisters 22 cal. revolver, which she was aware of, and I would go rabbit hunting. I would ride my bike a good 10 miles to my favorite hunting spot near Villa Park Dam. I was aware that this was probably risky for a little kid, but I always considered myself careful and responsible in this respect, and wasn't really doing anything wrong or getting into trouble, just hunting.
So this one particular morning I headed out, and not far from my destination a man in a truck drove slowly past me on that desolate road. I got a bit nervous and was on my guard, and as I came around the curve in the road, he was stopped on the shoulder. I veered to the opposite side of the road, and he yelled out to me, saying, hey do you know where such and such road it? I just answered no, to which he said come here, I can;t hear you, or something to that effect, I responded with no, and started to ride off. He jumped out of the truck and chased me down, grabbed hold of me and just started dragging me and my bike toward the truck, and punching me, probably to get me to let go of the bike. But I knew my only possible hope of surviving was to get hold of the gun I had bungy strapped under the banana seat of my Schwinn Stingray, to which I succeeded in doing just before being knocked out. At that very instant, and unbeknownst to him that I had a gun, I fired a random shot, which was my only option being that I was almost completely physically spent. He let go of me right away and started backing away from me. Then he stopped just before getting back into his truck, and then started walking back toward me and saying something to the effect of, you won't shoot me, your just a fucking kid, and started to come toward me again, to which I opened fire with two more rounds. I don"t think I hit him, but I heard at least one round hit his truck. He just turned and ran for his truck, screaming something like "Oh Fuck" stop shooting, I'm leaving, please, I'm sorry, stop shooting.
Some sick bastard that God only knows what he would have done to me of I hadn't managed to get hold of that gun. I know I had no business being out in the predawn hours of the morning, all alone. But I was a kid, and all I wanted to do was hunt or fish. Neither of my parents ever spent any time taking me fishing, hunting, or doing much of anything else with me, so I just wanted to enjoy myself and didn't think I was doing anything bad.