When I was 10 years old, my parents and I took a vacation in Turkey. Every evening, the hotel we stayed at put on a little show for the children. While my parents and I watched, a superhero was fighting a villain. The Turkish puppeteers did a terrible job of putting on the show. As predicted, the villain hurt Superman so badly that he lay there on the ground, unconscious. All the children were now told to come on the stage and touch Superman in the right spot in order to bring him back to consciousness. All the other children touched him on the forehead, the chest and the stomach and nothing happened. Because my parents had forced me to go up, I hit him in the balls, which woke him up immediately. The other children were jealous, because I'd found the right spot. My parents of course didn't think it all that good and sent me to Superman after the show, and I had to apologize.
When I was about 13 (m), I was hanging out with some friends and we were trying to make a dirt ramp for our bikes. I really disliked (and I mean passionately hated) one of the guys (guy 1) and thought I'd do something to piss him off. I got a handful of some dusty, dry dirt, and when the others weren't looking, I flung it in his face. He ran all the way home clutching his face, barely able to see where he was going. A while later his mother then came out and started going crazy at all of us, accusing one of the other guys (guy 2) for throwing the dirt (apparantly guy 1 hadn't even seen me throw it). Then told us that there was some glass in the dirt, and the glass had gotten into his eye. My other friend (guy 2) couldn't control his laughter at the mother losing her cool, which made her think he was the one who did it. She stood there for a further 5 minutes screaming at him for 'doing it', making him laugh more, thus making her more convinced it was him who'd done it. Fast forward a week or two later and guy 1 has been to the hospital and has some sort of scratch on his eyeball that can be fixed, but he will have a slight blur in his left eye permanently. Most people think it was my friend (guy 2) that did it - which he obviously denies. I have never told anyone who it really was. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
When I was in 4th grade, there was this boy who rode my bus. He was mentally retarted or something. And God, was he annoying. So one day, after we got off the bus (he lived in my neighborhood too), his annoyance became unbearable, so I picked up a rock and threw it at his head. Needless to say, he started bleeding all over the place and he ran home. When confronted, I said I hadn't ridden the bus that day....
I saw a red Ford Thunderbird on 2 inch rims in the mall parking lot, several people I knew had cars like this but not as nice and I knew they were great cars. I thought this would be a great time to live out my dreams and thrash a dream car. I used a coat hanger to get in the car and my screwdriver did the rest. I drove the car all day sideswiping parked cars until the gas went low. When the car was a total wreck I parked the car in a downtown parking garage destroyed the interior and left it. Later that evening I called my friend "Gary" for a ride to the club.
Gary proudly spoke on the phone he told me how he used his summer money to put in a radio in his car buy rims and paint his dreary white Ford Thunderbird in to a Red Sexy masterpiece.
He laughed on the phone and said he let his girlfriend drive it to work today. Gary also told me that She had just called him because she couldn't remember where the car was parked and was being driven around in a golf cart trying to find it. He laughed and said yeah I will take you in a few, when she returns with the car.
She didn't find the car, The police recovered it and I never told Gary who stole his car. I hate it when he brings up his "stolen car story" because sometimes I think he suspects it was me but never said so. I never stole a red car again.
When I was six, my father died of cancer and we, my mother, my two sisters and I, had to make it on our own. It wasn't easy to start with, but life went on and it was good. That is, until my mother met another man; I had just turned eight. He was a carpenter and, as often happened in his line of work, had two fingers missing on each hand. That did not make a trust-inspiring impression on a kid at the first meeting. I was afraid of him and very standoffish. It may seem like it's childishly naïve or mean to let oneself by upset by such things, but fairly soon it turned out that the first impression hadn't been wrong. His external appearance wasn't nearly as hateful as his interior. He was married, and, because his wife had money, he didn't want a divorce (thank God). But he wanted my mother anyway, and so she gave in to a three-way. To top it all, he was a terrible despot, saw himself as the head of the family and always took the seat at the head of the table as if rightfully his. That this presumption could hurt him sometime apparently never dawned on him.
There were a lot of arguments with my older sisters, with a lot of shouting and even some physical stuff. I never said anything about it. I was a quiet child who had not emerged from himself yet, in part to avoid stress, of course. Because of the way I acted, I was "good child" as far as he was concerned; one evening he opined that I should call finally call him "Pop". But I refused, and told him, in these exact words: "You can kiss my ass." An expression that I never used, but felt it was justified under the circumstances. He started yelling instantly and my mother actually took his side, so I had to go to my room.
That's when the hate started. I was only eight years old but felt pure hatred in my heart. So I decided he would be punished. Really punished. In our kitchen we had as seating a padded corner bench; there was always a small box stuffed with toothpicks on the table. Revenge would be easy, since I knew that the fat carpenter, without looking, would let himself fall onto the seat. My mother was fixing supper; I pretended to play with the toothpicks, but took one and stuck in the middle of the corner seat's padding, exactly on the hated guy's spot. I put the other toothpicks back in the box, went to my room and waited. My mother called us to the evening meal; I stayed in my room, listening. There was a fairly loud crack, followed instantly by a roaring yell. As you might expect from a kid, I had wanted the toothpick to stab him right in his butthole. But it missed. He had drilled a hole into his right testicle instead. He bled a lot, and my mother called the emergency medic.
He swore a blue streak and immediately accused me, but he couldn't do anything because of the pain. My two sisters couldn't wipe the grins off their faces anymore, and from that day on I was their hero. The right testicle was removed in the hospital.
I never saw this man again. I know it wasn't the right thing to do but, to this day, I'm not sorry about it. He deserved it. I never again in my life was violent or caused any other human being harm; but I'm convinced to this day that he was a bad person, and I'm glad that as s child of eight I found a way to let him know what I thought of him.