Maybe the budding little gangsta learned a valuable lesson.  You just never know what can happen when you fuck with someone, even a chubby ho.

Fuck mace. You wanna do someone? You do it right. Yesterday, someone yelled, "You're gay!" (interestingly, not "You're fucking gay," or "You faggot") out of their Escalade-ish truck thing, or whatever it was. I was on a phone call. I excused myself, muted the phone, and shouted back, "And I'm not the one sitting in the dick replacement, next to my boyfriend." As I already explained to others, the only difference between Phoenix and NYC was a convenient piece of rebar.

Someone maces me on a NYC subway, I can still find them, blind. I would never resort to using it on someone else. Tasers are interesting (Did you know their headquarters were here?), but inexplicably bulky. You might as well have a .38 or similar, for that size. Sadly, I moved to a place of concealed-carry permits, from a place where they were far more needed.

Still I would have flattened his tires without having to mute my conversation. Annoying. I won't recount what I had to do in so-called drag at the door of various East Village clubs. Let's put it this way: Like the internet, mace wasn't really a big hand-out.