I continue my recollection of an event from a few years ago, where a group of drunken men has approached the table at which I and my then-girlfriend Tabitha, my intimate partner primary source, sit. They had earlier caused me to believe that there was a threat to my control as a consequence of an unheard comment, a leer and a pointed finger. This followed their attendance, turning up and all as a group coming towards our table. To understand my response to this you must first understand the machinery of my mind. I am not driven by fear nor in situations such as this am I clouded by anger. I can be given to rage, but it is extremely rare that it makes an appearance. Instead, my cold detachment of my psychopathy serves me well in the cold clinical logical assessment of what I am dealing with. I am not governed by an emotional response. I am governed by a logical one. In some instances, that might determine that I should depart the scene and leave the matters to others, for that would be what would best serve my interests. In others, an alternative response would be required.
Whilst I recognize there is a threat to my control, it does not leave me shaking. It does not leave me tremulous of voice. It does not generate a sensation of weakness that I have heard others experience when faced by threat. Instead I see the opportunity to assert dominance, an opportunity to harvest fuel, the most satisfying opportunity to dismantle my opponents with the precision of a watchmaker. In situations such as this my psychopathy is very much a superpower, a lack of empathy that frees me to behave without remorse, a heightened awareness that reads every micro-expression, every shift in posture, every tremor of doubt.
I am alive to these things, and I am the conductor. This group of fools that stands before me is the orchestra completely unaware that they are about to play my tune. Alpha speaks first. His voice is a gravelly taunt.
“Nice lady you got there mate, mind if we join you?” His tone is not one of a compliment, but is laced with mockery. He fixes his gaze with mine, and I recognise that he’s challenging me to react. Beta chuckles, leaning closer. I can detect the whiskey souring his breath. The others hover. Their laughter, however, denotes a nervous undercurrent. They’re waiting for the alpha to set the tempo. It may be the case that they are not entirely comfortable with the way that he behaves, or, it may be the case, that they have looked upon me and noticed that I have not responded in the way that typically those that the alpha seeks to bully do.
I have not put up my hands in way of a disarming gesture.I have not shrunk back from them. I have not sought to move. Instead, I have simply sat there, meeting each and every one of their gaze. I am regarding them, watching, waiting. I then decide a smile is called for, and I tilt my head, my smile unwavering, the calm before the strike.
“Gentlemen,” I reply, my voice smooth, my baritone distinct, my stentorian tones commanding,
“I’m afraid this table is reserved for those with a modicum of refinement. Perhaps you’d find the bar downstairs more suited to your exuberance.”
I can see the initial disappointment of the alpha whereby I have not come out physically swinging. He is itching of course for the fight. The words are a precise scalpel cutting at their egos. Even though words such as modicum, refinement and exuberance might be at the outer limits of their understanding, I can tell by the response that they do understand. The alpha’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening, a tell-tale sign of wounded pride.
The Beta’s smirk falters, his confidence shaken by my refusal to cower. The followers shift uncomfortably, sensing the clear shift in power. I am not merely responding, I am seizing control. It is for I to dictate the terms of this engagement.
My first move is to disarm them. I have already decided that it is necessary for me to lull them into a false sense of security. The chameleon that I am, adept at mirroring the emotions that others expect, I lean back, my posture relaxed, my smile warm, but lace with condescension. Surely you’re not here to cause a scene, I say, my tone almost playful. This is a place for civilised conversation.
“Why don’t you tell me what brings you out tonight? A celebration perhaps,” I ask. I am confident, unruffled. The question, of course, is designed to shift their focus from aggression to explanation to catch them off guard.
Alpha hesitates, my composure befuddling him.
“Just having a laugh,” he mutters, but his voice lacks conviction. I note that. Beta, eager to reclaim ground, interjects,
“We saw your lady here, thought she might want some real company. ”
Tabitha tenses at her being involved in the conversation once again but I give her hand a gentle squeeze, signalling for her to not respond. My laughter is low, but hollow. It’s controlled, a sound that disarms and unnerves.
“Real company,” I repeat, my eyes locking onto those of the Beta. “I assure you she’s quite satisfied with the company she has, but now I’m intrigued. What makes you think you qualify?” I challenge him. At this the followers chuckle nervously which causes the Beta to round on them hissing at them. I am pleased already I have struck a note of dissension amongst the group. They are unsure whether to align with what Alpha and Beta have to say or if they would be better served, demonstrating some form of allegiance to me as a consequence of my unexpected confidence. I can see that the Alpha is getting angrier. His face has started to redden. His ego is certainly bruised, but I know that he’s not ready to back down. I decide that it is necessary for me to then provoke matters further. I’ve appeared to be friendly, to be charming, but now I’m going to alter my plan. I stand up. I’m taller than Alpha, by a good couple of inches. Although he is broader than me, I’m confident that I’d be able to take him in a physical fight. I get into his face and speak in a low tone.
“You talk a big game, pretty boy, ” I said. He doesn’t quite know how to take this compliment, for, to him, is it compliment or is it insult? He tries to speak, but the words aren’t forthcoming. “Confused are we? Do you not know what pretty means?” I say, mocking him. There is another peal oflaughter which is quickly stifled from one of the group. Beta again, acting as lieutenant to Alpha, rounding on them to keep them in line. But this is not a cohesive group and, what is quite clearto me, that it is now time to dismantle it. It is time to strike.