Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything (21 page)

Death often appears as a being wearing a baggy black robe and sporting a skull where his head should be. It seems like a fairly uncomfortable, hot garment. At his level, you’d think he’d opt for something more pleasant and breathable. Maybe a dark linen? Ah, well, who am I to speculate on the fashion habits of such beings? But, I mean, right? C’mon that get-up seems hot even for a skeleton! Honestly, it’s unclear if he actually has a full skeleton body under there. If he does and that’s why he’s wearing the robe, it may be a case of insecurity. He may be sensitive about his weight. Or, he could be trying to give the appearance of a larger and much bulkier foe.

As far as weapons go, he wields a scythe. Not the most practical weapon. It’s heavy, hard to control, and it’s easy to lose your balance if you miss your target with it. But don’t get your hopes up. The only way he’s gonna consent to hand-to-hand combat with you is by some sort of trickery, as he’s an elemental, nearly immortal being … Yeah, I said “nearly.”

You need to approach this one Charlie Daniels-style. No, not while eating a plate of ribs. You need to challenge Death to a contest of some sort, like Charlie Daniels did with the Devil. Or, like when Bill S. Preston, Esquire, and Theodore “Ted” Logan challenged Death in that documentary.

He wants souls, that’s clearly his “big picture” endgame. While you dream about the promotion to Head of Accounts or winning your fantasy league pool, he covets a ginormous cave floor blanketed with the cushy bounce of trapped and suffering human souls … So you could murder a shit-ton of people and use their souls to bargain with him, but, I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how that would work. You’d probably have to have some knowledge of science AND the mystic arts to craft a setup where this’d be a viable option. I’m pretty sure you’d need a
Ghostbusters
-style machine to trap the fleeing souls once you’ve killed their mortal forms, otherwise you’re just butchering people for no reason. I mean, if you have a lot of enemies you could start with them, so if that’s the case and the souls drift off into the ether as you jump and swat at them only to see them waft through your fingers like smoke, leaving you nothing to barter with … hey, at least you killed Gary, the guy who beat you out for the Head of Accounts job, right? Fuck that guy …

The tough part is, we know very little about this dude. In fiction, we’ve seen he often desires to “take a holiday.” Yeah, JOIN THE FUCKING CLUB. Curiously, this seems like a mortal want to me, and could mean he has other mortal wants … and weaknesses.

Wants such as a night with a beautiful woman, absolute dominion over all living things, or possibly the world’s greatest sandwich? Weaknesses such as a vulnerability to pride, maybe? It’s hard to say. Your best bet is probably some variation on the following.

There’s a little known loophole that indicates that if you can challenge him to a particularly humiliating contest, one he’d deem too undignifying too compete in, he’ll just take the loss and give you what you want. You can’t just make shit up, though. You have to convince him that you have a legit hardcore interest in Jell-O wrestling and that you’re serious about challenging him in a giant vat of melting lime and tangerine slop. He can’t know you’re trying to use the loophole or heard about the loophole. Take the technical win, it still goes into the record books. You could always try to fight him again after you’re dead. And you’ll have the 1–0 record going into the rematch. Not bad.

HOW TO BEAT UP A WACKY UNCLE

I’m assuming you already know exactly which uncle I mean. The uncle who dabbles in magic, if palming a coin and pretending to pull it out of your ear counts as magic. The uncle who has probably given you money followed by a conspiratorial, “Don’t tell your mom.” The uncle who insists you view him as “hilarious” and “not like the other adults,” even long after you’ve become an adult yourself. He’s constantly at the ready with a poorly formed, vague reference to sex, or a joke you’ve heard thrice too many times. At some point during your childhood he stayed with you and your family “just until he figured some things out.” The uncle who’d always be sipping from a can of low-rent beer regardless of the time of day. The uncle who would turn up unexpectedly after a six-month absence, to borrow a warm winter coat from your mom. The uncle who almost went to trial for manslaughter, after that old woman died in his car, but then somehow it went away and your dad would get angry when you brought it up and now his gold watch was gone.

I’d suggest beating him up while he’s young, and you’re still a child, if possible. The whole affair gets way too sad if you wait. He’s only gonna get skinnier and more rickety—while somehow still maintaining an ample beer gut—as time goes on. His once charming filthy poems and crude hand gestures will age just slightly better than he does. The years of failed relationships, aborted jobs, and days that end with him weeping will have taken their toll, giving him the weathered quality of a pair of work gloves left in the back of a dusty shed.

He’ll be living out by the highway overpass, sharing a room with: “The guy from work who drives the forklift, the son-of-a-bitch who he called in a favor to get the job for who now thinks he’s too good to pay him that thirty bucks. Thanks a lot, Darren!” When you visit him (Once. Just the one time…), the simple act of sitting on his bed will require him to swipe two magazines, a wrench, a paper cup, and some bent business cards off the comforter. You don’t want to do it now, believe me. You don’t want to try punching an eye that’s already bloodshot and haggard, practically tearing up, just from use with that stare that lasts just a second too long, at an intensity slightly too high—a borderline manic look that says, “If you have some extra cash or a cigarette, I could go for some.” All while he’s slapping you on the back too hard saying: “Good … Good. I’m glad you’re doing well. You always were a smart kid.” You’re not gonna have the heart to do it. Not when you notice a small bookshelf/end table combo out of the corner of your eye and realize it’s the one you had in your bedroom growing up. An old punk band sticker—a band he’s never heard of—partially torn off, is still clinging to the side. A pile of five-year-old car magazines sit forlornly where the books should be. Dear God, don’t do it now.

You want him young and in his prime, where the light of hope still kind of inhabits his eyes. Back when he was “lifting” a little bit … He’s, once again, staying at your house. You come down to breakfast one morning to hear the tail end of some argument. Your mom’s yelling at him about something. He’s taking it like a dog that just ran into traffic takes a newspaper shellacking. He leaves in a huff, supposedly to look for a job, but when you’re riding your bike later you see him stumbling out of a bar. And not even the good one, it’s the one with the concrete blocks set up as a makeshift seating area in front of it. Hmm … No, this doesn’t seem like a great time, either. He’s not exactly lighting the world on fire, you know? His morale doesn’t need that kind of a hit right now.

Maybe when he’s real young? When he’s like twelve, and he falls off the back of the pickup truck, during that joyride through the cornfield and hits his head, and then he started—Or, um, lemme think here … There’s gotta be a humane way to do this, to beat his ass, without it sending him further off the deep end.

Maybe after his second wife left him? It was arguably his lowest moment, so maybe that’s a good time, since he couldn’t fall any further? Although, yeah, I think that was the weekend he fell off the wagon so … Damn. Uh, you know what? Just find him so drunk and passed out he won’t remember shit. Go up to him, slap him around a bit, then put twenty bucks in his shirt pocket and call it a day. He’s got bigger things to worry about than this, and you’ve got far less pathetic people to hit in the face.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

HOW TO BEAT UP A COPYCAT

We’ve all encountered at one time or another, some annoying son-of-a-bitch who decides, out of the clear blue sky to suddenly begin showing off his lack of anything approaching creativity, by repeating your every move and action. Sometimes this involves taking what you initially did and expanding it into a buffoonish, loud-voiced mockery of your actions. For example:

YOU:
“I’m going to run to the kitchen, you need anything?”

HIM:
“I’m going to run to the kitchen, you need anything?”

YOU:
“Seriously, don’t do that.”

HIM:
“Seriously, don’t do that.”

YOU:
“I’m going to murder you in the face.”

HIM:
“I’m going to murder you in the face.”

At this point, a popular defensive tactic involves saying something offensive about the copycat, with the intention of having him repeat it. The novice copycat will usually blink first in this scenario, pausing before replying with something like, “Nice try,” and then wandering off to ruin someone else’s morning. The hard cases won’t even give a moment’s pause before repeating the phrase with unbridled glee. This ain’t their first rodeo. For example, if the copycat’s name is Harry Deluca:

YOU:
“Harry Deluca is a fucking idiot!”

HIM:
“Harry Deluca is a fucking idiot!”

The copycat could be the fresh-from-college guy sitting at the cubicle next to yours, or it could be a robotic doppleganger of you, programmed to mimic your actions for some sinister purpose. Either way, here’s how you handle it. You’re banking on him desiring to ape your physical actions the way he does your verbal ones.

Throw a couple of test shots his way. A few light jabs, and then a right hand. He’ll absorb the shots, then fire back the exact same combination. He’ll be sneering while doing so. Perhaps exaggerating your motions for supposed comedic purposes. (The robot probably would not take this tactic. His emotion chip isn’t sophisticated enough for it, and if it were, the robot would probably have a better sense of humor than the dickbag in the next cubicle.)

Throw another combination and watch him return the volley. This part is tricky … You could continue this way, alternating attacks like some human chess game but it’s not ideal. If you happen to hit harder, have a better chin than he does, and be overall more resistant than your opponent, you could wear him out and stop him in a war of attrition. But you have no way of knowing if you actually have the upper hand in these categories. He could be baiting you, deliberately throwing light punches to get you to forget your defense and stand and trade.

(
Note:
Evander Holyfield once did this to great effect against Michael Moorer, who he brutally KO’d. If we could’ve heard Moorer’s thoughts during that exchange, I imagine they’d have been: “Hey, he doesn’t hit so hard.” Followed by: “Where’d all those lights come from and why am I on my back?”)

If you greatly outweigh your foe and his initial blows seem weak, then give it a shot. You could also see how he responds to your first couple of shots to determine your course of action. If you rock him and he appears to be wobbly or off-balance, it might be worth it. If you’re fighting the robot, you should probably not even bother and just move on to the next paragraph.

Select a spot on your own body that you know is strong, then strike yourself there. Then do it again. The copycat should repeat the move. If you haven’t built up a part of your anatomy to a steel-like consistency, then: A) What are you doing even reading this? and B) Throw the blow at half strength, but react as if it was a regular punch.

If you can do a decent job of this, punching the spot over and over, but actually taking little damage, the copycat will soon be undone. He’ll either give up and walk away, or he’ll take it to the limit, like the pro he is, before eventually collapsing on the ground.

If neither of those things happens, the following is a last resort. Remember the advice given in Chapter 3: Countermeasures and Precautions That Could Save Your Life? The advice I gave was: “Though seemingly drastic at first glance, to truly ensure not even the tiniest chink is left in your armor, I recommend serious combatants cut off their entire junk region, so as to become a eunuch.” Surprisingly, some of the weaker among you found this excessive.

You were all: “Are you fucking kidding me! That is ridiculous and pointless and fucking crazy.” And I said: “Come back to me when you’re serious, and truly ready to learn.” And then you were like: “Not even for a million dollars!” And then I said: “How about a million dollars worth of peace of mind?” I stand by my earlier advice. Look, you could go the rest of your life and it might never come in handy, that is a distinct possibility. However, there’s an extremely small chance that a series of events will transpire allowing a tiny window of opportunity to present itself so as to reveal a moment where not having junk will be a boon, briefly, before the moment passes and you continue on being a guy with no penis. This is just that opportunity. If you’re happy with passing that up, well, good luck to you.

Note:
If the copycat is a small child, DO NOT APPLY THESE TECHNIQUES. Just make a mean face, tell him he’s adopted, then move along.