2005-01-22 2:14 p.m. Setting: A Mailboxes Etc. outlet. On the wall, displays of cardboard boxes and envelopes for sale. In the front windows, collectible dolls with curly blonde hair and glass eyes. A bald fifty year old man behind the counter reads a magazine. The bell above the door rings and a younger man of about twenty years of age enters, holding a letter sized envelope. Older Man: Good day, young man. Need a stamp for your letter there. Younger Man: No. I'm hand-delivering it. OM: It's only thirty-seven cents to mail it. Three eight-five to send it Priority, get it there three to five days.. Can get it overnight anywhere in the U.S. for about fifteen dollars, YM: It's for you. It doesn't need to be delivered. The old man takes the letter, opens it, reads. YM: I was told that around here, you're the best. I want to test myself against your style. OM: I don't do a lot of that anymore. YM: Got scared? OM: Got bored. Got tired of winning all the time. YM: Times change. Come out from behind that counter. Let's go. OM: You've heard of the Annual Hands and Feet of Iron and Fire Tournament? Best martial artists from all around the world gather up to beat heck out of each other? Different place each year? YM: Yup. OM: The last year I went, there was this kickboxing fella from Thailand. Nicest kid you ever met outside the ring. I watched him fight the guy who was the champion the year before and it was quite a sight. At the end of the fight, the Thai kid comes flying across, an airborne cluster of knees and elbows, caves in the guys chest. Right along the sternum line. YM: No kidding. OM: Yup. Damndest thing I'd ever seen. Killed him of course. On his back, he looked like a split-top loaf of bread. Looked like a man-sized hot dog bun, just the right size for an ogre to drop a giant sausage in the middle of and gobble it all down. No ogres competing that year, though. So they just buried him secretly, like they usually do. YM: Seriously, get out from behind that counter. OM: The Thai kid got taken out by a Japanese guy who knew judo like nobody's business. Yup. Flipped the kid about twenty times in ten minutes. The kid barely had time to get up off the floor before he was upside down again, traveling back down. The older man folds up the challenge letter and puts it back in its envelope. YM: Show-off bullshit. OM: It is, it is. He didn't do any of that. Just stayed seated, waiting for me. So when I finally rushed him... it was something. YM: What happened? OM: You know what? You really had to have been there. I could give you a catalog of move and counter-move, but the story wouldn't really have even an eighth of the impact of having seen it. Among the injuries suffered were these: I managed to burn the hair off his left leg with a chi-powered burning Shivering Palm. He broke three fingers on my left hand. I stuck a wet finger in his right ear, distracting him long enough for me to deafen his left ear with a Thunder Clap Punch. He countered a Thousand Horses Kick with a deflection that to this day left me unable to enjoy a single incidence of urination without throbbing pain. YM: But you beat him somehow, or you wouldn't be here. Or you wouldn't still be called "the best," despite the fact that you spend all day putting mailing labels on stuff. Verifying addresses and swiping credit cards. OM: It was at that point that I used the ultimate technique, passed down to me from my master. With speed like a king cobra on reptilian amphetimines who has found out that his mate has been cheating on him and that a mongoose had eaten his eggs, I struck. I attacked him with my patented pressure point system I. I shouted out "Do dai hee nai go nye doo HAAA!" With each syllable, I stabbed a different point on his chest in sequence with my unyielding index finger. YM: "Do dai" what? OM: He had a similar reaction. He spoke a bit of English, so while he casually brushed at the front of his shirt, he asked "Is that supposed to be Japanese? Or Chinese? That means nothing!" "In fact," I told him, folding my arms in triumph, "it is my own personal love language with God. I was speaking to him in tongues, in a pure language that I use to adore him. It is a tongue in which I have never lied or sinned. It is pure and YOUR ASS IS KICKED." And at that moment, a giant flaming sword came out of the sky, held somewhere up above the troposphere by the hand of an angel. It split the entire place in two. Dozens were killed and many more had to be dug out of the rubble. Scorched off all my hair, too. I don't recommend standing that close to a quarter mile high flaming sword. If you can help it. Anyway. That's why I am bald to this day. The younger man stands there, eyes narrowed. The older man pushes the challenge letter back across the counter. OM: Sure you don't need any stamps or anything? YM: I don't need any stamps. OM: All right then. Sorry I can't help you. YM: That Japanese man was my father. Now fight me. OM: Really? YM: Are you gonna fight me? OM: No. YM: No. Not really. I'm not Japanese. OM: Go home, kid. Get right with God. YM: Or he'll cut me in half. OM: At the very least. Go. Enjoy your health and your hair. The younger man sticks his challenge letter in his pocket. YM: I'm just going to go ahead and tell my buddies I won. OM: Okay. YM: Because I would have. OM: Okay. YM: You're a terrible liar. OM: Kid. If you're going to lie about the fight, you might want to at least split your lip on the way home. Look a bit disheveled. YM: That's all right. My buddies are online. I'll just be writing them to let them know. OM: Okay. Have a good one, then. YM: Thanks. The door closes behind the younger kid. The older man runs his hand over his bald head. He goes back to reading his magazine. He imagines he can hear, somewhere above the clouds, the sound of a hand releasing its hold in a giant, flaming sword. |
1. today is nice 3. happy yesterdays 8. thanks for hosting 4. doing other things |
(Proof that I am the only one reading.) |