Shortly following a viewing of the 1972 film The Mechanic, starring one Charles Bronson as a methodical hit man, I went to bed. While I slumbered, I had perhaps the best dream of my life...
In this dream, I was in a horseshoe-shaped, multi-level, semi-abandoned building. Within the confines of this building were thugs, street toughs, and ruffians who were under orders to finish me, obviously from some criminal mastermind of great import. Now, I had nothing but my cunning and my brutish strength to protect myself against these hoods, but they were armed with clubs and bats and pipes and whatnot. No knives. No guns. But they still had an advantage.
Obviously, I was able to disarm these men with my many skills in combat, after which I had no choice but to bludgeon them to death, so as to not face one more than once.
Then I caught wind of a friend coming to the rescue. The odd part here was that this friend is an old friend of mine who I've more or less lost touch with because he's got a family now, and I'm mostly a motivationally-challenged malcontent who would much rather do nothing than fail at something I care about. I will be seeing this friend in a month for the first time in about three years, at which point I will have to thank him, because I totally helped me kick some big time thug ass in what was the best dream of my life, until I got a call from a friend wanting me to wake up and go to the gym 'cause it was noon or some such shit. Now this was the friend who I was watching The Mechanic with the night before, so when I told him the next day what had happened, he apologized for bringing to an abrupt end such a badass dream, so all is good.
The moral of this story, of course, is that in both dreams and real life men's men bludgeon muthafuckas to death when they have to, be it for self-preservation or coming to the rescue of a pal.