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What is the best case of “You just picked a fight with the wrong person” that you've witnessed?

Some deeply epic stories in this thread, think I'll tell you mine too.

Before I go on though, a disclaimer and some background.

First, I don't know if I'm the bad guy in this, but seeing as it had a happy ending, I'm looking at the positives; I leave the verdict to you.

Ok, so we're talking about 10 years ago. I was living with my father, whom I had only known in brief moments throughout my life, and on top of that I was battling severe psychosis, anxiety and scizophrenia, as well as one hell of a heartache from a crashed relationship; I wasn't doing well, and my relationship with my father was hanging in a thin thread on top.

One evening, where our quarrels had been particular hard, I relieve myself from the bad wibes at home, and head out for a rare beer in downtown some 500 meters from my father's apartment.

I was seriously worn out, in a terrible state inside; sad, on account of my ex being out of my life, lonely, for the same reasons, tired and worn out, because of the diagnosis and pretty much so.. Spend, that I was in no way aware of my surroundings, receiving my 0,5 liter favorite labeled beer in the bar.

Having paid for it, I find a place by the window, and allow myself a sip or two. - On a normal day, I'd browse the audience, see for threats, know the exits, all that jazz you got going, suffering from angst and paranoia - but not tonight; I was so worn down, that I was just”there”.

That's when I see the guy, towering over me. I'm 187 CM, but this man, he was at least a head taller than me, and BIG. He's wearing one of those wife-beater armless t-shirts, leaving no doubt about the muscle he packed, and then he does it: pricks my chest with his finger, saying: “Get lost, you're stealing all the women”. (That he, in that situation, and in my state, couldn't find anything smarter to say does, I'd say, explain why it'd be sane to expect this scenario from him in the first place).

Looking at him, and then looking down, and then looking inward, I realized, there and then, that I - not just wouldn't- but COULDN'T take it. - Having been through so much bullshit over the course of the previous years, there was simply no room for any more. Not one drop.

He's still got his finger pressed against my chest, and that's when, as a strange observer, from inside my skull, I see my hand, holding the half a kilo of beer, covered in a glassframe, crushing this container of now deadly sharp shards, into his face, sending him down, with his hands covering his now deeply shredded, bleeding from everywhere mug.

Next is flashes.

I remember seeing the guy, covering his face, bleeding onto the floor, shades of pinkish blood, mixed with the beer, and finding this funny, as I, myself, am flying in slowmotion through the air, hit or kicked by one of his, sadly, rather large crowd of gangmembers also present in the bar.

I remember landing on some sort of sofa or bench, and sliding down, before blacking out for however long.

I remember waking up, while an unknown number of these brave soldiers of glory, kicks and jumps on my chest, while I, in all this havoc, with a tired sigh say; “Relax guys, you HAVE won”, before blacking out again.

I remember an unknown number of people, though minimum four, carrying me out of the bar, one person for holding each of my extremes, before they throw me on the sidewalk, my smashed glasses following, and a dry voice affirming to an unknown person, that; “This guy is toast, he's bleeding out of both ears..”.

No one did a thing, which, looking back at it, is pretty sad, but that's where I was. Thrown in the gutter, dying by people's best estimates, bleeding in the street.

I'm not sure of how long I was laying there, but it was mid-winter, and it felt pretty much like hours; the bar had closed before I was.. Well, not particularly on my feet, but at least not on the pavement.

I felt nauseated, and, you know, beat up, but I managed to get a taxi at some point, and let him drive me the half a kilometer back to my dad's.

Getting out of the cab took a while, and the five stories up his apartment was pretty much Mount Everest, but I made it, found a mattress, and slept, for four days straight.

Damage control on waking up was, by personal estimates; five broken ribs, concussion, slits and bruises and the longest toilet brake in my life.

That and the only fucking earthquake this country's ever had, but that's what woke me up then; the whole house shaking like it was about to collapse.

And that was that; after calling the police, making sure I wasn't wanted, I could move on with my life.

And with that, the happy ending, I promised you.

See, two things happened that night.

One: I was beat within an inch of my life, but, that's pretty much the best thing, that ever happened to me: I have always been terrified of going out, literally hated it.

But since that day? No fear. Nothing. Nill. Zip. Nada. I'm completely cured of my anxiety, don't fear people, nor violence, not even in the slightest, because I know it now.

You either win, get bruised, or you die.

It's not scary. Not in the slightest. It hurts, but you know.. It's life..?

And the second thing happening is, that that brutal motherfucking gangbanging coward of a fucking meatball idiot, severely learned his fucking lesson: I might have gone down, but his face will NEVER be the same, and, if I'm not mistaking, there's chances of Him being afraid in his life now.; teaching the fuck a minimum of basic respect for other people.

I mean, you never know when the fragile little easy-prey mouse, turns into a fucking wolf, fucking you and your face up so badly, that you need your whole fucking army to take him down, do you..?

Karma fucking served.

Regardless, the guy gave me one of the biggest gifts of my life: freedom to not fear people like him.

Thanks for reading.

S.