11-Year-Old Girl Fights, Beats Black Gangbangers

A chapter from a novel by David Sims

by David Sims

“IN OTHER news tonight, the police investigation into the beating of some youths has revealed that their assailant was an 11-year-old Brookstone student named Brendalyn Jones. Yes, apparently a little girl beat five members of the Krack gang so badly that all of them were sent to Columbus Memorial Hospital for serious to critical injuries. Police say that the girl, who came forward the moment her classes at Brookstone’s college campus were over, testified that the youths attempted to ambush her as she was going to class.”

“Mark,” said the news anchorman. “Why is an 11-year-old girl going to the Brookstone College campus? She seems a little young to be enrolled there.”

“Peter,” said the reporter. “She is young. But Brendalyn Jones is the girl who made headlines across America a few weeks ago after tests revealed that her IQ is somewhere above 200. She has been given permission to take college-level classes, and she must run each day from Brookstone GSC to Brookstone College because she’s too young to drive a car.”

“And how is it that a little girl beat up so many gang members?”

“The police aren’t too sure of that,” said the reporter. “Apparently, Miss Jones has had martial arts training of some kind.”

“Will the youths recover from their injuries?”

“Several of them will be in the hospital for a while. One of them has three broken ribs. Another has had to have his lower jaw put back into place. A third has a burst left testicle and a bruised right . . .”

“My word, Mark, that is one tough little girl.”

“Peter, she told the police that it was their good fortune that she hadn’t killed any of them. She said that she had no choice other than to use nearly lethal force because the odds were five-to-one against her.”

“Well,” said the anchorman. “I think we can all understand that. Turning to events at the state capitol…”

* * *

The girls in the dorm lobby were clustered around the TV. Watching the local news was a habit with us girls because it told us where the gang activity in Columbus was the thickest, so we could avoid those areas. But never had the lobby been so quiet, with attention so fixed on the 6 o’clock news as it was on that Tuesday evening. I was sitting on the broad central rise of a furry, brown, all-the-way-around couch which half filled the dorm lobby, my legs crossed, reading about the ride of Paul Revere (and the similar rides of William Dawes and Samuel Prescott) from my history book, when the eyes of thirty other girls turned my way.

It was so comical that I couldn’t help laughing. What was even funnier is that most of them started asking whether I was all right, even though there I was, sitting on the couch rise, reading a book.

“Nobody better mess with my roommate,” said Ruby, acting fierce. “Or they’ll have to deal with me!”

Giggles and guffaws broke out among the girls at that. Well, at least the shock-and-awe mood that the newscast had created was broken. The other girls congratulated me on my victory and related horror stories about girls who had been raped or beaten by gang members. Which meant Black gang members, but they were careful not to name the race of the perpetrators. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed that people were unwilling to discuss the socially significant differences between the races in a candid manner. Although it seemed such a simple thing to do, nearly everyone had been strongly conditioned to avoid it.

Although I wasn’t familiar with the techniques of military brainwashing, I didn’t think that psychological conditioning of any sort could be stronger than that which had instilled within so many people a reluctance to talk honestly about racial differences.

An 11th grade girl named Patricia Greenwood excused herself, saying that she had to go study in a less noisy place. I suspected that she wanted to be the one to bear the first gossip about my fight downtown because, on her way out of the lobby exit to the east wing, she told me “It’s nice to see the good people win for a change!” Perhaps she meant the White people. It had been a while since we were winners, hadn’t it?

About a hundred years.

Survival is the greatest school, and Death is its best teacher. But no living thing graduates, ever. The beneficiaries of Nature’s lessons aren’t individuals, but races, which endure so long as they pass the tests and which prosper by how high they score. The White race had gotten itself into trouble partly by being too generous, and, in its generosity, making itself vulnerable. Other races had been quick to take advantage of that vulnerability. They infiltrated White countries, seeking out key positions of control, of supervision, of decision-making, and of power, which, once they had them, they used to benefit their own people at the expense of White people. Non-Whites of every stripe had become favored above Whites, and, being favored, they received rewards even when there were White people who deserved them more.

My fight could, conceivably, have landed me in jail. Or it could have imposed on my parents a legal obligation to pay fines and the hospital expenses of those gang members. The reason that didn’t happen was that I’m only eleven years old — a little kid — and a girl, and have no prior record of mischief of any sort. All of those things added up to a degree of favor that outweighed the favor that those gang members had just for being Black, once their prior records for trouble-making had been subtracted. Or, rather, my favor exceeded my opponents’ favor this time. If I had to fight again, especially against Blacks, that earlier fight would weigh against me, even if I were as justified next time as I’d been before.

To be sure, I could have outrun those Blacks. I hadn’t admitted that to the police because, in their opinion, it would have put blameworthiness upon me. Why didn’t I just outrun them? Because the next little girl who happened to walk down that street, past that alley, would not have had my advantages. She’d have been robbed, beaten, raped, and probably murdered by those Black “youths.” It was morally necessary that I deprive those gang members of their ability to harm someone who actually was an ordinary child, something I only appear to be.

And there was one other reason as well. There is no idea more obscene than that decent people should be expected to give ground or right-of-way to vile predators. Good should roar so that evil trembles, not the other way around.

Those five Black youths would recover. But would they reform? Had I taught them a lesson that would change their predatory behavior? No. They’d return to their previous lives, maybe a little more cautious than they were before. But sooner or later they would attack another innocent victim.

The conviction was growing in me that I’d made a mistake by not killing them. It was a mistake that I’d made before, in my old neighborhood in Druid Hills, when I had defeated four teenage Blacks who had attacked me. By letting them live, I’d made the violent deaths of some number of other people probable. Though it hadn’t occurred to me at the time, I’d chosen between the lives of those gang members and the lives of whomever it was they would someday murder, and I’d chosen wrongly.

And now that my fighting skill was known, I wouldn’t be presumptively excluded from suspicion if gang members began turning up dead. I could no longer afford to do what was right. My moral weakness, which had made me reluctant to kill when killing was proper, had cost me that much.

* * *

Source: part of a novel by David Sims