German Guest Story

The following is a new “guest story” written by a fan in Vienna Austria, (yes, people all over the world think I’m badass). It’s kind of choppy, (since it was translated from German), but I’ll try and see if I can make something cool out of it.

Here goes:

***

Hi Mike!

I thought about writing one of my own experiences with a fight situation… this is the best I could do… If you don’t like it, try writing a story in GERMAN!!! ;)

Greets,

-Mike

(His name is apparently “Mike” as well).

P.S. If you come to Vienna/Austria sometime, send me an email and I will buy you a beer or three.

(If you’re gonna hang out with me, you car-making son of a bitch, it’ll have to be whiskey… and a whole lot more than three).

P.S.S. You can write around in my story as you like. There will be lots of errors and mistakes in there. Feel free to correct as you like.

(Oh, no kidding?!? I was afraid I was gonna have to post this jumbled piece of dog shit AS IS. Thanks, man).

***

Okay, you have this section on your website called, “Guest Stories”, so I thought to myself, “Let him witness real Ninja power!” First, of course: what you have to know about me is that I’m from Austria- Vienna, to be precise- so if my English syntax sucks, or my vocabulary is somewhat lacking, feel free to correct me. I don’t give a rat’s ass.

IF your English syntax sucks?!? IF your vocabulary is somewhat lacking?!? Motherfucker, I’ve defecated more coherent emails than this! I could take a watery bourbon dump on a piece of Egyptian papyrus and have it make more sense. Seriously. I’m amazed that you can even READ my site, since I’m having to literally rewrite your entire message. Luckily, I’m the best writer that ever lived, so I will find a way to turn your marble-mouthed babbling into a work of modern art. Behold…

I am no teenager anymore, (for a long time now). As a matter of fact, I’m not even a twenty-something. Still, I’ve studied and taught Jujitsu for quite some time now.

I’m not even a “twenty-something” either, still, I’ve studied and taught TITS for a long time now, and I find them delicious. Those things are good. I wanna be friends with ‘em…

First, I’m gonna say something about Jujitsu in Austria, (or, the “Gentle Art”… Yeah, whatever!).

Of course, we all know that Austria is the birthplace of modern Jujitsu. Invented by Helio Freud, (older brother of famous psychiatrist Sigmund Freud), at the turn of the previous century, it has since evolved into a fighting art the likes of which my testicles have never seen.

Jujitsu has a long tradition here. It was brought to Austria by some Japanese guy everybody called “Little Hercules”, and he promoted it as a kind of “Moving Wrestling Show”. The advertisements said that anyone who beat his ass would get [insert random number of coins].

I had to paraphrase the above paragraph because it was so astonishingly cluster fucked, but, the part about the coins caught my attention. It brought me back to a time when the civilized nations of the world traded in gold sovereigns and wolf skins.

Of course, he RAPED everybody who accepted his challenge, and thus some Austrian learned his art… an ASSBEATING art!!!

Lemme clue ya in on a little sliver of info, Seinfeld. Incorporating words like “rape” and “assbeating” don’t make you funny. Leave the vulgar comedy to me.

There’s also another “style” of jujitsu taught in Austria, but it’s all about kata… and punching air… and doing fancy shit.

Yeah, it’s called Aikido. And Aikido is for hippies and pussies, (which- I realize- is redundant). Still, a lot of hot chicks take Aikido, so it still retains a good measure of merit.

However, MY teacher- not a very big man, but relatively “huge”, as in, not really slim- could, like you say, RUIN YOUR SHIT with a smile on his face.

I have no idea what the above sentence means, and I actually “doctored” it up. The original- word for word- was this:

Well however.... My teacher, a not
                  very big, but relatively

"huge"
                  guy (huge like in not really slim) could, like you say

"ruin
                  your shit" faster as you say "ruin my shit" - always with

a smile on his face...

HUH?!?  I wish I spoke German…

He taught us a lot- nice grabs and
                  wristlocks and things

you
                  would never use in a real fistfight- but he always told us

about being “good for defense” or “not good for defense”,
                  and we always trained on punching bags… with gloves on or off… for the real stuff. 
                  We also did lots of grappling and ground work, (both Judo-like, and Street-like).

Yeah, Austrian Mike.  I get ya.  I’ve trained in lots of schools

like that. 
                  My only problem with ‘em is, if you’re gonna

study a “martial” discipline, why do it both ways?

You’re either there to learn martial art, or martial skill.

You’re either there to indulge a physically beneficiary

hobby, or to sculpt yourself into a weapon
                  of mass

destruction.

From my perspective, it takes
                  a very, very long time to become a skilled street fighter, and since I have only a limited amount of hours in the day to train,
                  why would I waste my time learning techniques I will never use?

That’s my BASE philosophy,
                  anyway.  My reality is

admittedly closer to yours.  I co-teach
                  a Jujitsu class on

Saturdays
                  with this traditional Kung Fu instructor whom

I’m very fond of.  This morning, he was showing us some

third party intervention techniques which
                  rely on pressure

points.

For example, if a guy grabs
                  your girlfriend, you come up

behind him and do a double karate chop on either side of

his neck, or use your fingers to apply pressure to the duel

carotid plexus, or stick your knuckle in
                  a sensitive spot

right
                  below his earlobe.  The THEORY of such techniques

is to cause a “neural disruption”,
                  which renders your

opponent
                  temporarily incapacitated- and by “temporary”,

I mean long enough for you to get your loved out of the way.

Cool, right? Neat, right? Wrong…

While the specifics of this morning’s exercise in futility were new to me, I’m well versed in general pressure point striking, and I’d have to say that it’s useless. What you have to understand is that the biological neurology of a “fight or flight” human being is very different from that of a willing, relaxed human being, and that things you can do in a dojo- while seemingly effective- simply WILL NOT WORK on the street.

Even when you’re attacking from behind to defend another person, and you have the element of surprise, your opponent is already in a predatory status, (nobody’s made of wood), which means the neural pathways that govern his actions/reactions do not adhere to the same rules.

Blood flow moves away from the surface of the skin, (where the “target” nerves of pressure point strikes typically reside), and into the primary muscle tissue. Higher cognitive processes give way to gross motor function, and the body’s ability to process non-structurally-detrimental pain, fades to nothing.

Keeping with this third party intervention scenario, you- as the surprise attacker- succumb to the same certainties; making a precise strike against a one millimeter target difficult if not impossible to pull off- not that it would make a difference even if you kept a cool enough head to do it.

Actual combat is just too chaotic, and on both sides.

Citing an “experienced” solution to coming up behind an attacker as they’re accosting someone you feel the need to protect, (for whatever reason), a simple rear naked choke will render them unconscious, (with no permanent damage), in a matter of seconds. Augment it with a kick to the back of the knee if they’re tall. Ya know, to bring ‘em down.

Or, if you’re dead set on trying some kind of pressure point strike, how ‘bout a fucking elbow delivered to the bend between shoulder and neck at a downward angle? The significantly greater force of such a blow- coupled with the blanketing contact area- will do the same thing to the same nervous system, without all the hubbub.

I’ve really gotten off on a tangent here, but the point is that the simple stuff is what works. Sure, having twenty four cool-as-fuck wristlock takedowns is great for demonstrations, but I’d rather have one or two that I can fight with, than two dozen that fight me.

As I’ve said in other posts, it takes years to ingrain the gross motor skills required for technical action in real combat. Even the most seasoned martial artist succumbs to what nature has cultivated for millions of years, and my fight from the “Adventures in Greenville, Part 5” story, is a perfect example.

I used the throw I did for no other reason than I’d been working on it at [Super Asskicker’s] for the last few months. It was foremost in my repertoire against THAT PARTICULAR attack, and while I would’ve preferred to have done something cooler, (because that would’ve made for a better story), my gross motor skills took over.

I was taken totally off guard, and my instinctual computer responded with something that was number one on its “hard drive”.

Ya see what I’m saying? What am I saying. I DON’T KNOW!!!

Back to Austrian Mike:

***

Okay, was that enough about me? No, of course not… What do I look like? (Not for you wankers out there; just to picture the situation. I have enough groupies, thanks!)

Yeah, well, I don’t have enough. Please, Descado groupies, send a 5 x 7 glossy of your naked breasts and/or ass to my email address immediately!!! All submissions are guaranteed a reply, the most exquisite of which will also warrant my phone number and pimplair address.

I am not a big guy: 178 cm, 75 kg.

(Let’s see, that’s about five foot ten, one hundred and sixty five pounds)

So, that’s enough… Now to the story:

What follows is a bit of a background for the shit that unfolded. My girlfriend left me. She left me because my huge member hurt her too much, and she whimpered/cried/bled profusely.

That’s pretty funny, Austrian Mike. I wish I had that problem. Most chicks leave me because I’m an alcoholic and romantically unavailable.

No, she left me because… well, I don’t know why she left me, (and I don’t care). But it’s important because since SHE left ME, (and not the other way around), I was rendered emotionally numb.

Ya know, Austrian Mike. It’s okay to lie. I HAVE to tell the truth because it’s MY site, and people I KNOW read it. But that doesn’t apply to you.

Hmmm… Okay! From now on, when you tell this story, YOU left HER because she had a dirty, whorish mouth… and too much pubic hair. Sound good?

In fact, I was so numb that I walked out of my class that night, (remember, I taught people to avoid/block combined attacks, like a grab and punch, or something like that).

Yeah, we get it. You’re a Jujitsu instructor. I’m a fornication instructor. Move on.

Well, I went home after class. Or, at least I wanted to go home. I own my own car, but I go back and forth from class on the subway, (which is called a U-Bahn in Vienna), so I had to go to the terminal first.

Now, I can catch the subway at one of TWO stations, both of ‘em equally distant from my dojo. My choice that particular evening, was the wrong one.

As I reached the station, I saw a guy barking at random people. He was taller than me, (no surprise there)…

Apparently, everyone in Vienna is a giant.

...and he was wearing some kind of N.A.T.O. style military jacket. This guy looked like he’d just crawled out of some nasty, dark place; like the hell of bad-haircut-guys-with-bodily-dysfunction, or something like that.

Dude, seriously, leave the humor to me. If you’re gonna say he looked like he’d crawled out of some place shitty, say it was “David Hasselhoff’s butthole”. Geeze!!!

He asked me something as soon as I got near to him… or told me something… I can’t remember because my thoughts were on my ex-girlfriend.

(You probably know that mindnumbness… If not, you’re lucky.)

Actually, I DON’T know the mind numbing funk that comes with losing a girl. But then, I don’t have a soul.

I think he was talking about drugs, but I don’t know if he wanted some, or he wanted to sell me some. Whatever it was, I mumbled incoherently, (because I don’t care about drugs), and walked on by.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by my left shoulder and spun me around.

Mr. Elbow, meet Mr. Face!

I nailed the guy. There was a crunching sound, and then blood shot out of his nose- and not like a nosebleed either. I shit you not, it shot out like one of those horror movies with an axe murderer and some severed arms or legs or something.

Blood sprayed all over my coat… but I didn’t care because it was a black coat… and it was HIS blood… I didn’t even know what he wanted from me. In fact, at that moment, I didn’t even know what had happened.

Okay, the above paragraph is my best “doctoring” job yet. The original email read like this:

It sprayed all over my coat…
                  I was happy it was a black coat… of course it was that guy and I didn't even know what he wanted from me.  I even didn’t know exactly what happened that moment…

Welcome to the translational HELL that is my fan base. Still, I’m gonna cut Austrian Mike some slack because elbowing people in the face is cool.

I am not a violent guy… Okay, I had one or another fight, but I am not a violent guy. Still, at that moment, I felt nothing.

Good, you sausage eatin’ motherfucker! You’re not SUPPOSED to feel anything if you’ve put in the time to respond as you should. There’s a situation, there’s a stimulus, and you react without philosophy. Someone grabs you, BAM!!! They get hit.

That’s the highest level of martial mastery…

The guy stumbled away holding his face, and then he sat down, blood running out over his fingers.

As for me, I took a couple of steps back and then made for the subway. I still didn’t feel anything. Strange, isn’t it? No adrenaline, nothing.

Again, no, it’s not strange. You did what you trained to do. Emotion is the great enemy. Never regret its absence.

The adrenaline part came a half an hour later. My heart starting beating faster than the guys from Stomp, and I couldn’t settle down. Thanks to some good Austrian beer, (beer is no drug, NO WAY!!!), I managed to get to sleep later that night.

Not that nice of a story, is it?

No, not nice, but it’s not that bad either. You could’ve spiced it up with some ninjas and perhaps a cameo by Jessica Alba, but…

It’s not even good written.

Yeah, no shit. What’s “good” written? Is that anything like “well” written, Corky?

Maybe you can, I don’t know, cast the spell of goodstoryness on it or something?

Doing my best, Bub…

But, well, it’s not even done now.

Huh?

Exactly one week later, I was still numb, (yeah, I was a sissy little girliegirl after that relationship. Won’t happen again, though!), and I had completely forgotten about the thing that happened with N.A.T.O. Drug Guy at the subway.

Well, it was right after class… I went home. I chose the wrong station again. There he was, the same guy, same jacket, and he still needed a haircut. He had his back to me, (which was a good thing), and I decided to use my own ninja powers to sneak into the terminal without him seeing me.

Unfortunately, I stepped on a twig… and it snapped… and then I misstepped on a dog’s tail… and its bark was louder than hell!

No, just kidding. N.A.T.O. Drug Guy just happened to turn around at the wrong moment, his face still swollen, (after a whole week), like a green, blue, and violet pumpkin with tape on its nose.

He recognized me instantly, and reached into his jacket.

That was the moment… A real nasty moment… For the baddest sound I have ever heard would soon be heard…

I think that sentence contains a double infinitive, or some hyperbole, or something weird like that.

I made a quick step towards him, and- while securing his right/reaching hand with my left- I punched him dead in the face… hard.

Same bat time, same bat station.

The sound I heard was straight from “Hit Me” Hell. I mean, I’m pretty sure I broke his nose the first time, but this time adrenaline was surging through my veins like a steam train.

Veins? Trains? That kinda rhymes...

He dropped fast this time, and I went with him, my left hand still pinning his right. I punched again… yes, again on his nose. I think I hit even harder the second time.

I was running then, as fast as I could. I got to the train and went home. Hello, beer!

End of story:

Or, “El Fin”, as we say in the business.

Make of my story what you want.

Thanks. I will.

My previous experiences about fights were always: it starts as a fistfight, but eventually ends in some grappling. Been there, done that. This time though, I came to a few conclusions.

You have to practice it all; fists, leg strikes, elbows, knees… You have to practice wristlocks; even if it’s just to show other guys that they don’t work in a real situation… You have to practice throws, (which are really good for self defense, in my experience)… And, you have to practice grappling, because, it if works, use it.


				*The Chronicles of Descado* *German Guest Story*



	Home \| My New Years Eve \| The War of Marigold, Part 1 \| The War of Marigold, Part 2 \| Why all cats should die horribly... \| Headbutts good... Whiskey bad... \| If at first you don't succeed... \| JKD vs. Ninjitsu \| Things I hate that begin with "T" and end in "aekwondo" \| Adventures in Tae Kwon Do \| Battle at Zaxby's \| Fighting Alcoholic \| Don't send me chain letters!!! \| Descado for President \| The Asskicking Diary that never went anywhere... \| Jail... \| New "Rewritten" Chain Email \| Viva Las Gaygas \| Saturday Night Brawl \| My shit don't stink... but yours does!!! \| Night of the Black Mountain Nutriders \| The Parting of Ways... (newly re-added) \| John's Story... \| Tank and me: A heterosexual love story... \| The Worst Beating Ever \| Only the Booty Crickets know... \| Phil's Wedding \| Adventures in Greenville, Part 1 \| Adventures in Greenville, Part 2 \| Adventures in Greenville, Part 3 \| Adventures in Greenville, Part 4 \| Adventures in Greenville, Part 5 \| Love, and the soul... Part 1 \| Love, and the soul... Part 2 \| God DAMN, this story is long!!! \| Celebrity Bitches I Hate: Anna Nicole \| Irish Luck = World Domination \| The Long Awaited Party at Wild Bill's \| 3 clichés that piss me off \| Everybody was kung fu fighting... \| Going out






		I apologize in advance for the fucked up spacing on this story. Apparently, something about German email messes with my site builder. I tried to fix it, but I'm drunk. Make due, Bitches! The following is a new “guest story” written by a fan in Vienna Austria, (yes, people all over the world think I’m badass). It’s kind of choppy, (since it was translated from German), but I’ll try and see if I can make something cool out of it. Here goes: * Hi Mike! I thought about writing one of my own experiences with a fight situation… this is the best I could do… If you don’t like it, try writing a story in GERMAN!!! ;) Greets, -Mike (His name is apparently “Mike” as well). P.S. If you come to Vienna/Austria sometime, send me an email and I will buy you a beer or three. (If you’re gonna hang out with me, you car-making son of a bitch, it’ll have to be whiskey… and a whole lot more than three). P.S.S. You can write around in my story as you like. There will be lots of errors and mistakes in there. Feel free to correct as you like. (Oh, no kidding?!? I was afraid I was gonna have to post this jumbled piece of dog shit AS IS. Thanks, man). * Okay, you have this section on your website called, “Guest Stories”, so I thought to myself, “Let him witness real Ninja power!” First, of course: what you have to know about me is that I’m from Austria- Vienna, to be precise- so if my English syntax sucks, or my vocabulary is somewhat lacking, feel free to correct me. I don’t give a rat’s ass. IF your English syntax sucks?!? IF your vocabulary is somewhat lacking?!? Motherfucker, I’ve defecated more coherent emails than this! I could take a watery bourbon dump on a piece of Egyptian papyrus and have it make more sense. Seriously. I’m amazed that you can even READ my site, since I’m having to literally rewrite your entire message. Luckily, I’m the best writer that ever lived, so I will find a way to turn your marble-mouthed babbling into a work of modern art. Behold… I am no teenager anymore, (for a long time now). As a matter of fact, I’m not even a twenty-something. Still, I’ve studied and taught Jujitsu for quite some time now. I’m not even a “twenty-something” either, still, I’ve studied and taught TITS for a long time now, and I find them delicious. Those things are good. I wanna be friends with ‘em… First, I’m gonna say something about Jujitsu in Austria, (or, the “Gentle Art”… Yeah, whatever!). Of course, we all know that Austria is the birthplace of modern Jujitsu. Invented by Helio Freud, (older brother of famous psychiatrist Sigmund Freud), at the turn of the previous century, it has since evolved into a fighting art the likes of which my testicles have never seen. Jujitsu has a long tradition here. It was brought to Austria by some Japanese guy everybody called “Little Hercules”, and he promoted it as a kind of “Moving Wrestling Show”. The advertisements said that anyone who beat his ass would get [insert random number of coins]. I had to paraphrase the above paragraph because it was so astonishingly cluster fucked, but, the part about the coins caught my attention. It brought me back to a time when the civilized nations of the world traded in gold sovereigns and wolf skins. Of course, he RAPED everybody who accepted his challenge, and thus some Austrian learned his art… an ASSBEATING art!!! Lemme clue ya in on a little sliver of info, Seinfeld. Incorporating words like “rape” and “assbeating” don’t make you funny. Leave the vulgar comedy to me. There’s also another “style” of jujitsu taught in Austria, but it’s all about kata… and punching air… and doing fancy shit. Yeah, it’s called Aikido. And Aikido is for hippies and pussies, (which- I realize- is redundant). Still, a lot of hot chicks take Aikido, so it still retains a good measure of merit. However, MY teacher- not a very big man, but relatively “huge”, as in, not really slim- could, like you say, RUIN YOUR SHIT with a smile on his face. I have no idea what the above sentence means, and I actually “doctored” it up. The original- word for word- was this: Well however.... My teacher, a not very big, but relatively "huge" guy (huge like in not really slim) could, like you say "ruin your shit" faster as you say "ruin my shit" - always with a smile on his face... HUH?!? I wish I spoke German… He taught us a lot- nice grabs and wristlocks and things you would never use in a real fistfight- but he always told us about being “good for defense” or “not good for defense”, and we always trained on punching bags… with gloves on or off… for the real stuff. We also did lots of grappling and ground work, (both Judo-like, and Street-like). Yeah, Austrian Mike. I get ya. I’ve trained in lots of schools like that. My only problem with ‘em is, if you’re gonna study a “martial” discipline, why do it both ways? You’re either there to learn martial art, or martial skill. You’re either there to indulge a physically beneficiary hobby, or to sculpt yourself into a weapon of mass destruction. From my perspective, it takes a very, very long time to become a skilled street fighter, and since I have only a limited amount of hours in the day to train, why would I waste my time learning techniques I will never use? That’s my BASE philosophy, anyway. My reality is admittedly closer to yours. I co-teach a Jujitsu class on Saturdays with this traditional Kung Fu instructor whom I’m very fond of. This morning, he was showing us some third party intervention techniques which rely on pressure points. For example, if a guy grabs your girlfriend, you come up behind him and do a double karate chop on either side of his neck, or use your fingers to apply pressure to the duel carotid plexus, or stick your knuckle in a sensitive spot right below his earlobe. The THEORY of such techniques is to cause a “neural disruption”, which renders your opponent temporarily incapacitated- and by “temporary”, I mean long enough for you to get your loved out of the way. Cool, right? Neat, right? Wrong… While the specifics of this morning’s exercise in futility were new to me, I’m well versed in general pressure point striking, and I’d have to say that it’s useless. What you have to understand is that the biological neurology of a “fight or flight” human being is very different from that of a willing, relaxed human being, and that things you can do in a dojo- while seemingly effective- simply WILL NOT WORK on the street. Even when you’re attacking from behind to defend another person, and you have the element of surprise, your opponent is already in a predatory status, (nobody’s made of wood), which means the neural pathways that govern his actions/reactions do not adhere to the same rules. Blood flow moves away from the surface of the skin, (where the “target” nerves of pressure point strikes typically reside), and into the primary muscle tissue. Higher cognitive processes give way to gross motor function, and the body’s ability to process non-structurally-detrimental pain, fades to nothing. Keeping with this third party intervention scenario, you- as the surprise attacker- succumb to the same certainties; making a precise strike against a one millimeter target difficult if not impossible to pull off- not that it would make a difference even if you kept a cool enough head to do it. Actual combat is just too chaotic, and on both sides. Citing an “experienced” solution to coming up behind an attacker as they’re accosting someone you feel the need to protect, (for whatever reason), a simple rear naked choke will render them unconscious, (with no permanent damage), in a matter of seconds. Augment it with a kick to the back of the knee if they’re tall. Ya know, to bring ‘em down. Or, if you’re dead set on trying some kind of pressure point strike, how ‘bout a fucking elbow delivered to the bend between shoulder and neck at a downward angle? The significantly greater force of such a blow- coupled with the blanketing contact area- will do the same thing to the same nervous system, without all the hubbub. I’ve really gotten off on a tangent here, but the point is that the simple stuff is what works. Sure, having twenty four cool-as-fuck wristlock takedowns is great for demonstrations, but I’d rather have one or two that I can fight with, than two dozen that fight me. As I’ve said in other posts, it takes years to ingrain the gross motor skills required for technical action in real combat. Even the most seasoned martial artist succumbs to what nature has cultivated for millions of years, and my fight from the “Adventures in Greenville, Part 5” story, is a perfect example. I used the throw I did for no other reason than I’d been working on it at [Super Asskicker’s] for the last few months. It was foremost in my repertoire against THAT PARTICULAR attack, and while I would’ve preferred to have done something cooler, (because that would’ve made for a better story), my gross motor skills took over. I was taken totally off guard, and my instinctual computer responded with something that was number one on its “hard drive”. Ya see what I’m saying? What am I saying. I DON’T KNOW!!! Back to Austrian Mike: *** Okay, was that enough about me? No, of course not… What do I look like? (Not for you wankers out there; just to picture the situation. I have enough groupies, thanks!) Yeah, well, I don’t have enough. Please, Descado groupies, send a 5 x 7 glossy of your naked breasts and/or ass to my email address immediately!!! All submissions are guaranteed a reply, the most exquisite of which will also warrant my phone number and pimplair address. I am not a big guy: 178 cm, 75 kg. (Let’s see, that’s about five foot ten, one hundred and sixty five pounds) So, that’s enough… Now to the story: What follows is a bit of a background for the shit that unfolded. My girlfriend left me. She left me because my huge member hurt her too much, and she whimpered/cried/bled profusely. That’s pretty funny, Austrian Mike. I wish I had that problem. Most chicks leave me because I’m an alcoholic and romantically unavailable. No, she left me because… well, I don’t know why she left me, (and I don’t care). But it’s important because since SHE left ME, (and not the other way around), I was rendered emotionally numb. Ya know, Austrian Mike. It’s okay to lie. I HAVE to tell the truth because it’s MY site, and people I KNOW read it. But that doesn’t apply to you. Hmmm… Okay! From now on, when you tell this story, YOU left HER because she had a dirty, whorish mouth… and too much pubic hair. Sound good? In fact, I was so numb that I walked out of my class that night, (remember, I taught people to avoid/block combined attacks, like a grab and punch, or something like that). Yeah, we get it. You’re a Jujitsu instructor. I’m a fornication instructor. Move on. Well, I went home after class. Or, at least I wanted to go home. I own my own car, but I go back and forth from class on the subway, (which is called a U-Bahn in Vienna), so I had to go to the terminal first. Now, I can catch the subway at one of TWO stations, both of ‘em equally distant from my dojo. My choice that particular evening, was the wrong one. As I reached the station, I saw a guy barking at random people. He was taller than me, (no surprise there)… Apparently, everyone in Vienna is a giant. ...and he was wearing some kind of N.A.T.O. style military jacket. This guy looked like he’d just crawled out of some nasty, dark place; like the hell of bad-haircut-guys-with-bodily-dysfunction, or something like that. Dude, seriously, leave the humor to me. If you’re gonna say he looked like he’d crawled out of some place shitty, say it was “David Hasselhoff’s butthole”. Geeze!!! He asked me something as soon as I got near to him… or told me something… I can’t remember because my thoughts were on my ex-girlfriend. (You probably know that mindnumbness… If not, you’re lucky.) Actually, I DON’T know the mind numbing funk that comes with losing a girl. But then, I don’t have a soul. I think he was talking about drugs, but I don’t know if he wanted some, or he wanted to sell me some. Whatever it was, I mumbled incoherently, (because I don’t care about drugs), and walked on by. Suddenly, he grabbed me by my left shoulder and spun me around. Mr. Elbow, meet Mr. Face! I nailed the guy. There was a crunching sound, and then blood shot out of his nose- and not like a nosebleed either. I shit you not, it shot out like one of those horror movies with an axe murderer and some severed arms or legs or something. Blood sprayed all over my coat… but I didn’t care because it was a black coat… and it was HIS blood… I didn’t even know what he wanted from me. In fact, at that moment, I didn’t even know what had happened. Okay, the above paragraph is my best “doctoring” job yet. The original email read like this: It sprayed all over my coat… I was happy it was a black coat… of course it was that guy and I didn't even know what he wanted from me. I even didn’t know exactly what happened that moment… Welcome to the translational HELL that is my fan base. Still, I’m gonna cut Austrian Mike some slack because elbowing people in the face is cool. I am not a violent guy… Okay, I had one or another fight, but I am not a violent guy. Still, at that moment, I felt nothing. Good, you sausage eatin’ motherfucker! You’re not SUPPOSED to feel anything if you’ve put in the time to respond as you should. There’s a situation, there’s a stimulus, and you react without philosophy. Someone grabs you, BAM!!! They get hit. That’s the highest level of martial mastery… The guy stumbled away holding his face, and then he sat down, blood running out over his fingers. As for me, I took a couple of steps back and then made for the subway. I still didn’t feel anything. Strange, isn’t it? No adrenaline, nothing. Again, no, it’s not strange. You did what you trained to do. Emotion is the great enemy. Never regret its absence. The adrenaline part came a half an hour later. My heart starting beating faster than the guys from Stomp, and I couldn’t settle down. Thanks to some good Austrian beer, (beer is no drug, NO WAY!!!), I managed to get to sleep later that night. Not that nice of a story, is it? No, not nice, but it’s not that bad either. You could’ve spiced it up with some ninjas and perhaps a cameo by Jessica Alba, but… It’s not even good written. Yeah, no shit. What’s “good” written? Is that anything like “well” written, Corky? Maybe you can, I don’t know, cast the spell of goodstoryness on it or something? Doing my best, Bub… But, well, it’s not even done now. Huh? Exactly one week later, I was still numb, (yeah, I was a sissy little girliegirl after that relationship. Won’t happen again, though!), and I had completely forgotten about the thing that happened with N.A.T.O. Drug Guy at the subway. Well, it was right after class… I went home. I chose the wrong station again. There he was, the same guy, same jacket, and he still needed a haircut. He had his back to me, (which was a good thing), and I decided to use my own ninja powers to sneak into the terminal without him seeing me. Unfortunately, I stepped on a twig… and it snapped… and then I misstepped on a dog’s tail… and its bark was louder than hell! No, just kidding. N.A.T.O. Drug Guy just happened to turn around at the wrong moment, his face still swollen, (after a whole week), like a green, blue, and violet pumpkin with tape on its nose. He recognized me instantly, and reached into his jacket. That was the moment… A real nasty moment… For the baddest sound I have ever heard would soon be heard… I think that sentence contains a double infinitive, or some hyperbole, or something weird like that. I made a quick step towards him, and- while securing his right/reaching hand with my left- I punched him dead in the face… hard. Same bat time, same bat station. The sound I heard was straight from “Hit Me” Hell. I mean, I’m pretty sure I broke his nose the first time, but this time adrenaline was surging through my veins like a steam train. Veins? Trains? That kinda rhymes... He dropped fast this time, and I went with him, my left hand still pinning his right. I punched again… yes, again on his nose. I think I hit even harder the second time. I was running then, as fast as I could. I got to the train and went home. Hello, beer! End of story: Or, “El Fin”, as we say in the business. Make of my story what you want. Thanks. I will. My previous experiences about fights were always: it starts as a fistfight, but eventually ends in some grappling. Been there, done that. This time though, I came to a few conclusions. You have to practice it all; fists, leg strikes, elbows, knees… You have to practice wristlocks; even if it’s just to show other guys that they don’t work in a real situation… You have to practice throws, (which are really good for self defense, in my experience)… And, you have to practice grappling, because, it if works, use it.