Imagine getting your personal army of cunts to harass and stalk every one of my posts to rate it. You're derranged.
Unless you think the five years I spent living on the street in New York is something I made up (two independent literary sources over the years describing me by name there placing me at the scene) you should know that somebody like me is just not comprehensible to someone like you.
You're not a streetfighter because you pick fights you think you can win.
You're a real streetfighter if you repeatedly pick fights you know you are going to lose. That's the ones you really need to fear. The ones that don't care anymore.
So if you were me and you could see some of these beatings, you'd think nobody could have survived that. The guy got jumped by a dozen brothers and lost so much blood it was running into the gutter. They were walking me and hit me with a two by four every time I tried to get up. After fifteen minutes of savage beating that would have killed 999 out of a 1000 men, I got real quiet so they turned and said "That's enough for that fucker. He gimme the creeps. Something wrong with that fucking white boy." They'd get down as far as the corner (59th street bridge underpass, look it up on Google) and like a revenant I would stand back up. Bloodsoaked from head to toe. Rising, the Neanderthal. Indomitable. Indestructible. The man of steel. There's always a lot of blood but unlike everybody else, our bodies seem to replace it very rapidly.
"Fellas, you have to forgive me, I got to daydreaming and wasn't paying attention. I didn't catch what that was all about. It didn't help that you pussies can barely land a punch. Come back here and explain it to me again."
So after you have taken dozens of beatings like that, people become very scared of you on the street in New York. When they see you fully recovered a day later from a beating that would have put them into rehab the rest of their life if not killed them, even the slowest people begin to develop an almost supernatural fear of you. "That dude not from this world. Not like any white man I have ever seen." If you then come back and get each and every single member of the mob who beat you to a pulp they are going to be very, very afraid. You start to look like the High Plains Drifter. A living ghost in their midst.
Your worst terror, of being injured in a fisticuffs engagement, doesn't mean anything at all to me. It's like throwing Brer Rabbit into the Briar Patch. It's his natural element. Things don't feel right until outnumbered and receiving severe unlimited beating. That's when you die and I get my second wind.
Plenty of witnesses to all these things and to this day people in New York who can remember it and would tell you about it if you ask in the right places. My fellow employees at Street News asked what happened to my face - I'd wear sunglasses to hide it and sometime by noon the bruises would start to vanish while you watched.
My experience of pain is very different from your world. As the anthropologists say universally - "the Neanderthals experienced pain differently from the way the rest of us do."