He deserved the ground and pound that I gave him!
The story is as follows.
In 1975 (ish) I, having returned to Florida from an extended stay in L.A., happened to notice several deep blisters all in a row on my four year old son's upper arm.
"What happened?" I asked my beautiful boy.
"Joe burned me with his cigarette!" he replied softly.
"Joe" was a man who my ex-wife, my son's mother, had taken up with while I had been away.
I took Joe to task for it at a local playground shortly afterward.
Eventually, my outrage won out over his feeble attempts at self-justification and after first disarming him (he was brandishing a church-key/bottle opener) I found myself astraddle of him with his arms pinned beneath my knees and proceeded to pound his face left and right while he, impotent, spat his blood at me till my tee-shirt was soaked with his blood and my sweat.
When I couldn't lift my arms anymore and considering that I didn't want my son to grow up without me, I left Joe there still alive.
My ex knew of our meeting and was waiting for me at my parent's home on my return.
When I entered the house she was aghast and sharply inhaled her breath at the sight of me.
I said, "Don't worry! None of it (referring to the blood) is mine!"
She rushed out, presumably to go see to Joe.
I moved back to L.A. (well, the O.C. anyway) soon afterward and years later learned from my ex that Joe had eventually died when his mother's house where he was living went up in flames after he passed out drunk and his cigarette started the fire.
Sometimes people need to be, and should be, pounded.
Then God can finish it in His own sweet time.