This is a true story. My father grew up on San Antonio's Southeast Side. He attended Highlands High School. In 1969, he had gotten out of the military after two tours of duty in Vietnam ('67 & '68). He had been staying at his parents house for about a week when he and a friend went into Downtown San Antonio to see a concert at La Villita during Fiesta week. His buddy took off with a girl and left him with out a ride home. He didn't have enough money for cab fare so he decided to run home, which was no more than five miles. He had to pass through a couple of rough areas as he left downtown, including the infamous Victoria Courts Housing Project. He wasn't thinking much about it, but he noticed that there were five teenaged Latinos hanging out drinking quarts of cerveza maybe ten yards from where he was jogging. About the time he was passing them they all gave chase shouting at him in Spanish. Most of the words were profane which he understood. You know... they were the usual drunken nasty words that a punk might say to whomever he wants to spew hot air toward. Anyways, he kicked it in to a higher gear and within a quarter mile three guys stopped their pursuit, but two (presumably they were not as intoxicated) kept after him. After another quartermile the fourth guy vanished from the chase. The fifth guy, however was very determined to catch up. My father was a sprinter in high school and for two years in college, plus he was completely sober, so he decided to toy with this last guy. He decided to let this guy catch up and as soon as he would get about a yard from him he would put in a kick and run away again. Much to my fathers surprise this game did not deter this guy at all. He said the guy continued to chase him for more than ten minutes, through city streets and residential neighborhoods going into the city's Southeast side. Just about the time my father was tired of playing the game and debating on rather to intentionally lose the guy or stop and kick his a**, the guy collapsed and fell to the street. My father initially thought about going back to him and kicking the living crap out of him. But he had a new thought when he heard the guy crying that he was thirsty. I know that is an awful thought, but pretty darn funny under those circumstances. He walked back over to the guy and said, "You want a drink?", the guy nodded "yes". He told him I'll see if I can find a garden hose near by. He wandered away for a few seconds and located a hose as the guy's body went into total cramp overload. He began to scream in pain and grab at his legs as he struggled to catch his breath. My father again approached the guy with a hose now in hand, which he held just below his waste. He said here drink this and the guy turned toward him and trustingly opened his mouth while he closed his eyes. But it was not water that he got a taste of, but instead something warm and YELLOW! When he was done, he zipped it up, pulled out his wallet and took out the single dollar he had left, he layed it on the guy's piss soaked face, who was by now crying like a baby. He told him, "here.. have it, I know it's what you were after, I hope it was worth it to you" and jogged the rest of they way home. The end.