For Matt the day started out as routine and as typical as the day before, and as the day before that. And as, just about, every day for the past 10 or 15 years.  Get up at 5:30, eat breakfast, fix his lunch, read a little of the morning paper with a cup of coffee, and then out the door at 6:30 to be at work by 7.

            And just about everyday at work was just about the same.  Pick up his order sheets, load his truck, and then drive all over town delivering them. 

            Matt worked for a small warehouse and trucking company. No big rigs, no out-of-town deliveries, just a small-potatoes company.  Just the way Matt liked it. He was pretty much is own boss, as long as he did his work and none of the customers complained, which they rarely did. 

            He was a loner, mostly.  He would make small talk at each stop, but never made any real friends. He didn't have any social life to speak of.  After work he would go home, finish reading the paper, eat supper, and either read or  watch TV or go to an occasional movie.  He  had no girl friend.  He got along with women, but just wasn't the type to be tied to any one of them for long.

            On this particular day, which was typically routine, his last delivery took him to a part of town not noted for its higher class of citizen.

            That, in itself wouldn't be any problem, he'd delivered in bad neighborhoods before, but was always careful not to stop too long.  But today he had a bit of bad luck -- a flat tire.

            He had a spare, and just hoped he could get it changed pretty quickly without attracting the wrong kind of people.

            He wasn't that lucky.

            He had the flat tire off and was putting on the good one when he noticed  4 or 5 young men slowly forming a half circle around him.  He had only 2 of the lug nuts on when one of the men "accidentally" kneed him in the back as he walked past Matt.  This knocked Matt off balance and to his hands and knees.

            He heard several of them making comments, but as he tried to stand up he was pushed back down with someone's foot.  Then he felt others kicking him, cursing at him and making threatening noises.

            Matt tried rolling away and covering his head but this just enraged the crowd.  The more he tried to get away the worse the beating got.

            "Cut the Motherfucker!"  He heard someone yell. And somehow caught the glimpse of shiny metal, like the blade of a knife. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the knife moving  and then felt the burn of the cut as he still tried to roll away.

            "Kill the honky Mother fucker!" he heard someone else yell. "Cut his mother fuckin' heart out!"

            And as the realization dawned that he just may die, a strange thing happened.    

            Somewhere in his mind he sensed some part of himself "sit back" and watch  as another part of him, his subconscious, self-protection part of him took over.

            Now, instead of rolling to escape, he was rolling to get himself in position to strike out.  He first kicked out and dislocated the knee of the man with the knife, and as he fell, the knife found its way into Matt's hand.

            Twice more he kicked; one more knee was disabled and one man had is balls shoved up into his lower belly.

            Matt got to one knee and with the knife held with the dull edge lying against his outer forearm started slashing upwards.  One man had his belly ripped open. Another had the knife buried in his throat.

            More men came out of nowhere, but the knife, and Matt's speed left them bloody, and lying on the pavement dead or dying.

            Somewhere, somehow, Matt heard the solid clank of an automatic pistol being cocked. As he saw the gun being pointed his way, he dived, rolled and pulled one of his prior victims over him, the bullets hitting, and killing his shield. 

            Freeing his right hand, Matt threw the knife. It lazily spun and before it even hit, Matt was diving and rolling toward the gunman.  The knife stuck in the gunman's right shoulder, and before he could react, Matt kicked his legs out from under him, catching the pistol as it fell. Before the man had hit the ground Matt put a bullet in his head.

            Matt saw two more men with guns approach. He fired at the first man, aiming at the center of his chest. The bullet went a little high and to the left, and without consciously adjusting for it, correctly aimed and shot the man between the eyes, just above the brow line.

            As the second man fired, Matt rolled to his left and when he was back to his stomach fired again, hitting this one in the same place: between the eyes, above the brow line.

            Matt felt a bullet burn his side, breaking a couple of ribs, but glancing off and away.  A half a block away some one was shooting wildly at him. The one bullet was just a lucky shot, but more were hitting around him.        

             But before the shooter, a young woman, got lucky again, Matt fired  a fourth time, killing the woman with a bullet in the forehead.

            Suddenly things were quiet and still.  Matt moved the pistol in an even arc, aiming at everything and at nothing; watching for  unfriendly movements.

            Most of the people had fled.  The few who were still around didn't move, frozen with the fear that this man might shoot if they did.

            In the distance sirens could be heard, getting closer, and louder.

            When the police arrived, Matt was on one knee, his back against a building, still scanning the crowd, the pistol still threatening.

            The police had to yell 2 or 3 times for him to drop the pistol before he realized where he was and what was going on.

            As Matt was spread-eagle on the sidewalk, he could hear the cops remarking about the carnage, hardly believing the crowd as they told about this crazy white man who got out of his truck and just opened fire on the innocent bystanders.

            Matt was cuffed and put in a police car and hustled away before the crowd, realizing that he was no longer armed, went after him.

            On the roof across the street, a photographer from the local television  station  was  sitting  by his camera, not believing the footage he had just beamed to the station.

            He had been on the roof to video tape file footage for an upcoming piece on the deterioration of the neighborhood.  But when he saw the crowd gathering around Matt, he had started beaming the  action directly to the station.  So he had a video tape of it and the station had their own copy.

            When the police finally noticed him on the roof, and discovered his equipment and that he was an eyewitness, with videotape, everything was impounded for evidence.

            As Matt sat in jail, the video tape was viewed first by the assigned homicide detective, who then had his captain look at, who then had the Sheriff and several DAs watch it. And finally several circuit court judges looked at it.

            They really wanted the tape kept secret until some kind of determination on Matt's status could be decided. Until they had some kind of idea of who he was and where he had been and what he'd been doing. Was he some kind of mass murderer? A hit man?

              In the meantime, the local TV station edited the raw footage for airing for a special exclusive news report, and sent a feed to their national affiliate in New York.

            The entire incident didn't last more than 10 minutes, with 5 of those minutes occurring between the time of the last shot and ending with the arrival of the police.

              When the Special Bulletin went on the air, the police were scrambling, trying to find out how they had gotten hold of the tape.

             By the time they realized the TV station had the same footage they had, the police tried to get an injunction against them from showing it again, but the national news service had it sent all over the nation, and eventually across the seas.

            In a little over 24 hours, the footage of "Rambo's Big Brother," as he was being called, was nationwide.

              After he'd had his injuries taken care of, Matt was left in a holding cell while his immediate fate was being mulled over by the authorities. And while so incarcerated, Matt was letting his mind slowly drift back. Back to the jungles of Viet Nam. Back to the Tunnels. Back to a time he thought, and had hoped, he had left behind.

              He wasn't too concerned at the moment about being locked up, he knew it was self defense, and it would be just a matter of time before he was released.

            There was no one at home to be concerned about, no pets to be tended to, and no one to worry about him, so he spent his time lost in thought. Reliving memories he had kept buried of the Viet Nam war.

            The more he thought about it, the more he remembered: The draft, boot Camp, the firing range, hand to hand combat training, jungle warfare training.

            His perfect scores with the M-16 rifle and the .45 automatic pistol.

            His impressive  mastery of martial arts and jungle warfare.

            He recalled that his First Sergeant had said that very few soldiers were naturals - born to be soldiers.  Matt was one of the best he'd ever seen.

            But even back then Matt was a loner. He could march and train and cooperate with the men, but he never made any close friends.  He rarely went to town on furlough with anyone. He preferred staying on base.

            Occasionally  Matt would be talked to by his court appointed lawyer, or one detective or another, but mostly he was left alone in his cell.  They were afraid to put him in with the general population because of threats from some of the black prisoners.

            But Matt didn't mind, he preferred to be by himself.

            His remembered his arrival in Da Nang, Viet Nam, opening a floodgate of recollections.

            From Da Nang he was sent to some obscure Firebase near the Cambodian border.  Even though he had been the best his squadron had produced, he was still a Newbie. He didn't know the country; he didn't know the enemy.

            But being the soldier he was, he learned fast, very fast. He knew who to watch, and learned from everyone in his squad -- to keep his eyes and ears open, and to ask when he didn't know.

            His only problem was with his lieutenant.  Matt thought it was stupid to fire his M-16 if he couldn't see anyone. The LT told him it didn't matter, the more clips he shot up, the more likely he was to hit something.  More than once Matt had his ass chewed for not shooting.

            He had been in Viet Nam 2 months when his sergeant and LT realized Matt's true worth.          

            They had been on patrol for several days when they got pinned down by two, maybe three snipers.  Three GIs had been killed and 4 others were wounded.

            The Sgt tried sending a couple of the more experienced soldiers after the snipers, but they ended up shot.

            Matt volunteered and even though the Sgt was reluctant to let him go, Matt melted into the jungle before he could say yes or no.

            Five minutes later a single shot rang out, an M-16.  Ten minutes later another. And five minutes after that, a third shot. 

            Minutes later Matt appeared back with the men, no one had seen him return.  He led them to the three snipers, all three laid out, all three  shot between the eyes, just above the brow line.   Shot in the head "Just to make sure."

              Matt seemed to lead a charmed life in Viet Nam. As many snipers as he took out; as many firefights he was in (still only firing one shot at a time); as many tunnels he went in, he was never seriously wounded.

            He was awarded several medals for bravery but turned them down.  He was there to do a job, nothing more, nothing less. He didn't care about medals, only doing the best he could, for his country, and for himself.

            It took almost 2 weeks before the DA decided that there was no reason to keep Matt locked up. He was clearly defending himself, although there were those who believed that Matt had the potential to become a terrible menace to society.

            Matt was released at 9 o'clock in the morning. He was given a shirt because his had been torn up pretty bad.  Since he had no family, or friends to speak of, no one had brought him anything. He had to buy his toilet articles from the county jail PX.

            Detectives had gone thru his apartment during their investigation, but never bothered to get anything for him and his Public Defender was too busy.

            When he left the jail, he ended up taking the city bus to get home. His truck had gone back to the company's yard and he didn't have enough cash for a taxi.

            While on the bus a few people looked at him strangely, recognizing him as "Rambo's Big Brother."

            As soon as he got home he called to see if he still had his job.  He did, but the dispatcher said all the trucks had drivers at the present, but they'd call him if one became available.

            But Matt didn't realize just how famous he'd become. Some of the furor had died down while he was in jail, but when he was released he became news again.   

            He was badgered by TV and newspaper  reporters constantly.  He finally had to have his phone number changed to an unlisted one. And several times he had to call the police to have the reporters removed from his front porch.

             Finally, his landlord told Matt that he would have to move.  All the reporters and curious rubber-neckers were ruining the lawn and  the property in general. 

             It took a couple of weeks, but Matt was able to find a small place that he could afford, providing he was able to get back to work  before  too many more weeks went by.