"not really..."
damn it, the damage is done, and in one second he had handed over enough ammo to gun down a brilliant and proud young child -- but the suspect and coconspirators committed to a far more twisted ordeal. see, our hero had taken the bait and bit into a mild tasting apple that bites and fights back, just you wait. a bookworm with nook-learned knowledge unearthed and gobbled thoroughly, taken hostage and made shook by the urban dwellers, kept yelling in a cellar where they'd first lightly burned his pride and then tried harder as he eventually eyed the black and blue blights and blisters that emerged from the surge of blood prying down his side...
it happened as fast as thunder and lightning, but fighting was something he'd never gotten to know. a few shoves were thrown around and those times his hands planted themselves abruptly on faces were where large red palm prints branded those spaces; it's the closest he's ever gotten to a good ole scraping.
untaping his hands from behind, his fist glided, guided by his faded sight and, after a slight adjustment, made its way to a snide smile and then on to the rest of the pile. see, revenge is best served cold with a blend of old dressings and topped with a hint of success, as i'm assuming you've already been guessing...
___
not a single one of us is a perfect person, and so i'm fairly certain that delusions of grandeur simply serve to ensure the nurturing of one's own easily beaten and over-enduring ego. ergo, it's the most effective defense mechanism, if you ask me...
