The first submission to the "Guest Stories" section comes
from a former/fellow student of my current martial arts instructor, [Super Asskicker]. I've retooled it according to
what us literary folks call, third person omnipresent point of view; but keep in mind that my artistic
intervention is NOT because the protagonist can't write. It's more because I'm an egomaniac, and because I arrogantly
think I can make even an event I did not witness, funny.
As such, allow me to introduce you to Gary Stuber.
I first met Little Gary in 1997 when he was still a teenager.
I refer to him as "Little Gary" not because of his stature or his age, but because his father also trained with us, and since
they were junior and senior with respect to the family nomenclature they shared, they've always been "Little Gary" and "Big
Gary" in my mind.
Starting out as an old school kung fu man, "Big Gary" is one
hell of a boxer, and I would defy any self-proclaimed toughguy to do anything more than throw a jab before Big Gary ruins
your shit. Big Gary still lives in Asheville, and having reacquainted myself with him a mere month ago over a couple
of beers, I can personally testify to his continuing status as a "Whipper of Ass".
The apple didn't fall far from the tree in that family, and Little
Gary grew to be a weapon of mass destruction under [Super Asskicker's] tutelage. Despite my limited training
time with Little Gary, I can nonetheless attest to his skill, and he was and is a formidable opponent with respect to
both striking and grappling. I remember that he would always wear the same kind of black, lycro-spandex pants that
I often wear now, thus allowing his long, anaconda-like legs to slip in an out of his opponent's defenses.
While Little Gary doesn't need such deceptions, one of his
greatest attributes is being underestimated. I can't say what he looks like now, but back in 1997, he was about five
foot ten, a hundred and sixty pounds. Added to this, he's good looking; in fact, I heard he did some modeling work out in
California, (where he now lives). I've dealt with the "pretty boy" stigma myself, and lemme' tell ya... looks can be
deceiving.
Without putting too fine a point on it, the "Little Gary"
I knew would hand you your own ass, and since he was still young enough back then to be an unwitting player
in the High School game, he had none of the "adult" qualms that burdened the rest of us. To clarify, Little
Gary suffered no fools, and- from his emails- I have a sneaking suspicion that he STILL doesn't.
Regardless, the "Guest Story" I'm about to tell happened many
years ago, and the antagonist, Roger Jones, is on my shit list for reasons I'll expound upon later. "Master" Jones was
and is an Asheville-based martial arts instructor that teaches a style called, Karaikido, which I assume is a mixture
of Karate and Aikido.
Anyway, one day Little Gary is working out in a gym where
Roger Jones is teaching a martial arts class, and knowing quite a bit about such things himself, Gary makes his way over
to watch the stupidity unfold. Eventually, Master Jones takes notice, and invites Gary to join in.
I'm gonna shut up now and let Gary's email tell the rest of
the story:
So he pulled me into his private class where he was teaching
five or six of his black belt students. They were doing the basic shit, like you throw a slow motion punch at me so
I can grab your wrist and twist it and keep twisting it even while your tapping so I can look powerful in front of my brainwashed
students. Now, since I'd dealt with wrist injuries most of my life due to Jiu-Jitsu, I wasn't about to let Roger Jones
overdo it on a wrist lock.
I warned him to take it easy on my wrists. He didn't
listen.
This prompted me to verbally express my true opinion of his
horseshit, even though his students chimed in to tell me that I really shouldn't question "Master Jones", and that he
could kill me with a body punch. Ignoring them, I explained to Roger that the moves he was demonstrating wouldn't
work in a real fight, and that he could never catch my hand if I were throwing a strike to his face. He laughed
at me with his big, stupid-ass smile and said, "You wanna bet?"
"Sure," I replied, "How about I try to slap you in the face,
and you try to grab my wrist and twist it?"
He agreed, and his students gathered 'round to watch their
master work.
The really funny part was that he got into a deep stance
with most of his weight on his back foot, and actually PUT HIS HANDS BY HIS SIDE!!!
Now, I'd played the telegraphing game many times at [Super
Asskicker's], and I knew this guy was in for it.
(Note: The "telegraphing game" is a training drill wherein
one guy holds a focus mitt, and the other guy tries to hit it with whatever technique he's working on before the holder can
move it out of the way. Unless you throw a non-telegraphic technique, i.e., you don't clinch your fists, or cock your
arm, or flinch, etc., the holder is gonna read your intent and move the mitt, thus causing you to miss.)
No shit, I let this guy have it! I must have smacked
him in the face a good 15 to 20 times. And I'm talking HARD smacks! He never once had a chance to react or attempt
a block- let alone catch my wrist and twist it. After being on the receiving end of numerous bitch slaps, Roger
got frustrated and charged me. Naturally, I circled off and Thai kicked the ever loving piss outta him right in
the leg.
His students laughed and told me that if Roger had gotten
a hold of me, he would've killed me. Roger himself took it a step further and bragged that if I'd tried to kick him
in a real fight, he would've grabbed my leg and elbowed me in my thigh.
Once again, I called him out.
"Well, let's do it!" I said, and he resumed his traditional
stance.
WHAM!!! I hit him with a half power lead leg round kick
flush as shit on the side of his thigh. Now, the lead leg round is easily my best weapon and favorite kick, so half
power or not, it messed him up pretty good. My next kick brought him to his knees, and I swear to Christ he just smiled
up at me in barely masked fear while his eyes watered over.
I guess he picked the wrong guy to try to humiliate,
and I got my revenge that day in front of his black belts.
(Note: The "revenge" Gary is talking about refers to a traditional
martial arts tournament he participated in when he was thirteen. Roger Jones was a judge at said tournament, and
after a sparring match where Gary clearly beat one of Roger's students, Roger gave the victory to the other guy.)
Okay, so here we see a great example of martial skill versus
martial art. Though Gary was and is far smaller than Roger, Gary effectively demonstrated the difference between what
works on a willing (brainwashed?) opponent, and what works on a guy that isn't gonna just stand there and let you play Steven
Segal.
Earlier, I mentioned that Roger Jones is on my shit list,
and the reason for this is that years later, my roommate/training partner/best friend Kyle had a similar experience.
Lemme' just start by saying that Kyle is an eternal student of martial arts, and that even though he knows the difference
between effectiveness and quackery, he's willing to listen to anybody's take on fighting. As such, Kyle played along
with Roger when he was put in the same situation, (not unlike I myself played along to a lesser degree with Turd
Ferguson in the story, "Holy Statutory Rape, Batman!!!")
Despite the fact that Kyle could've humiliated Roger like
Gary did, he remained respectful and pliant and open-minded. But, like the prick he is, Roger took advantage of Kyle's
generosity, thus demonstrating a barrage of wrist locks and take downs at full speed and applying unnecessary force even after
Kyle obligingly "tapped out".
I didn't witness this, nor have I actually met Roger, but
that kind of assholeishness really pisses me off, and given the martial arts community in Asheville, I have a feeling I'm
gonna run into this guy sooner or later. Unless I'm drunk, or accidentally slip and fall in a pool of my own piss,
I hope to post my own Roger Jones story sometime in the near future.
Rest assured, I'm subject to my own brand of assholeishness,
and my tale will end in a certain someone's shit getting ruined.
So let it be prophesied...
