P.S. Only one time in my life did I get into bare-knuckle fisticuffs with an assailant; the whole hill, the whole nine yards. Punching and kicking and wrastlin' arond with the guy on the floor. The year was 1972. The scene was in a friend's apartment in downtown Santiago where a coupla of weird-lookin' smart ass Russkies had come over for some late night drinkies with me and some friends. The assailant, my punch-out partner, was a drunken pudgy Russian in a black suit, white shirt and a narrow dark tie. He was Raul Castro's personal translator it turned out. I had to take the dude down and punch out his lights as he kept trying to knock down the bathroom door with his shoulde to get to my room-mate's terrified girl friend on the other side. I finally put him down after I worked up the nerve to boink him over the head with a bottle of rotgut Russian vodka he had brought over the from the Soviet Embassy. Once he was down, Monika, a visisitng West German cineaste, gave him a few Prussian-grade kicks in the kidneys for good measure. It all felt very cold-warish and very satisfying, I might say.
full: http://marccooper.com/monarchial-socialism/
