Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything (23 page)

It’s cool, I guess. I bounced around for a while, got into the online gaming scene, worked in telemarketing … I kind of got back into the idea of killing you a few years ago when that movie Kill Bill came out … but it didn’t stick. I did buy a sword rack, though. It’s got some shirts draped over it right now. Anyway, just wanted to say we’re “cool.” If you want your sword back, the one you placed into my trembling hands all those years ago when you dared me to strike you, meet me on the mountaintop. It kinda sucks having to see it lying around the apartment next to old issues of Us Weekly and shit.

A few days later, when your nemesis rounds the bend in the trail, he will say the following, “Are you the guy who ran the letter?” Say, “Yeah, I’m him.” Then he’ll say, “The letter about revenge?” You’ll say, “Yeah, that’s the one.” He’ll say, “Oh, cool, cool. Just want to be sure.” You’ll reply, “Of course.
Ha,
I mean I could be anybody just walking by—why not take a second to ask, right?” Then he’ll say, “Oh, yeah. You definitely want to be safe in a situation like this.” Then, simultaneously you’ll both say, “Better to be safe than sorry!” Then you’ll both laugh nervously.

When he says, “So, we’re cool?” look him dead in the eyes and say,… “Not cool.” Then, when he’s not expecting it (as soon as you say, “Not cool,” the clock is kind of ticking, so act fast), sever his head using not a knife but a knife-hand chop. Catch his flying head in your hand (having safely turned the knife-hand back into a regular hand). As the light fades from his eyes, say the following, “Oh, yeah, it was a ruse, and everything in the letter was a lie … TOTALLY A SAMURAI, BUDDY.”

With his dying breath, if he still has it, he may say, “You’re … a liar?” Just say right back, “No,
you’re
the liar, liar.” Typically, a childish, nonsensical reply like this doesn’t get you far when dealing with an intelligent person. However, a relatively unknown loophole is, if the guy you’re talking to dies by your hand during the exchange, you absolutely win.

HOW TO BEAT UP A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY

You’re gonna eat this sonavabitch for breakfast. Well, dinner, anyway.

First, you slam that bottle down on the table, hard. You mean business. Unscrew the cap, while making sure to avoid looking at the proof information on the label, it’ll just psych you out.

Do two shots in rapid succession. Growl if you need to, to relieve the gritty sensation boring its way through your innards. Throw some punches in the air, then drop down, and do a few dozen push-ups. Really get that heart pumping. That’s going to allow it to filter the alcohol in your system much faster. Take the bottle and fill a pint glass to the rim with whiskey, grab it, and gulp it rapidly. Keep guzzling for as long as you can. Swallow the whiskey, pushing it down your throat using mini-muscle contractions to speed it along through the pharynx toward your esophagus. Open your esophagus muscles allowing that sweet nectar to pass into your stomach. Absorb the alcohol into the walls of your stomach, but be sure to send some into the small intestine. From there shoot it into the bloodstream, then the heart, and the brain. (Nice right? That part is amazing. Hey, those people look all wavy.
Hahaha!
Fucking idiots.)

At some point, I suppose, you’re going to have to start letting the alcohol into your liver. The liver is the jerk of the body, taking the alcohol from the wonder we know it to be and metabolizing it with an enzyme alcohol dehydrogenase, which fucking turns alcohol into acetaldehyde, and then another stupid enzyme breaks down acetaldehyde into acetate. The acetate is OF COURSE, then metabolized, and leaves your body as carbon dioxide and water. THANKS FOR RUINING THE PARTY, LIVER.

Right about now stuff is getting crazy. The room is swirling. Your friends from ten minutes ago appear to have formed a secret alliance bent on crushing you and your awesome good times tonight, and every woman in the room wants and needs to have sex with you in the worst way. You must block all of that out, and finish the job. You’ve got about half a bottle left. I’m going to let you cheat a little right now, to boost your spirits, and to give you the rush of adrenaline needed to end this thing. Pick up the bottle, pour several gulps into your open mouth, then douse the rest of your face and hair with more whiskey. Scream and fling your head about like a dog in summer:
“Ghhhaah!”
Technically you’re wasting some of the bottle, but drinking isn’t about blame and waste and loss, it’s about having fun and doing your best.

You’re doing great but you’re gonna need a bit more help to get you through. Ideally what you’d need now is what’s called a, “Double-Double,” from the fast-food establishment In-N-Out. If by some chance, the host of the party is awesome and these are available, eat a few. If not, go to the food area of the party and begin shoving anything not plant-based down your throat. Is it already on someone else’s plate? That’s fair game! Take in as much food as you can, it’ll help soak up some up the alcohol and give you the vitamins and nutrients needed to carry on …

Now take your shirt off and run around the room swatting people’s cups out of their hands. Keep moving! They’re not likely to react positively to this latest development. If some outraged person asks you, “What are you doing?!?” Reply quickly with, “What are YOU doing?!?” Go outside and take a lap around the house, kicking at anything that displeases you. You’ve earned this. Now, this isn’t part of your mission, but haven’t you ever wanted to jump up and down on the hood of a car? Denting it with a satisfying
karunch
on each impact? Feeling its buoyant rigidity propel you back skyward, knowing that another enjoyable
karunch
is mere seconds away? That’s all, just wanted to put that in your head. I’ll see you back inside.

Man, these girls at the party REALLY seem to have it bad for you. How did you not notice that earlier? Ah, well, can’t worry about it now. You’ve got about three inches of whiskey left to take in. You can do this. You are close to victory, but perhaps even closer to a dangerous, out-of-nowhere blackout spell, which could prevent you from meeting your goal. March back over to where the food is being served and grab the nearest fork or wine bottle opener. Jab the implement into your thigh. Do it, now! Just break the skin, we’re not looking to embed the thing or send you to the ER. We just want to wake you up a bit for the homestretch. In your current state, that shit won’t even hurt a little.

Now, grab the bottle, triumphantly raise it into the air, and loudly insult the first person you see. Something about how stupid they are. Then guzzle the bottle, stopping just short of finishing it, leaving about a shot or two. That last bit is going to be your secret little hangover weapon when you wake up in twelve hours. For now just recap the bottle, smile to the crowd gathered, let your knees buckle, and give yourself over completely to the sweet, sweet, bliss that is this moment. I’m proud of you …

HOW TO BEAT UP A BULLY

As you probably realize, most of these “How to Beat Up” essays are theoretical guides. They’re created using information gathered about the target, fight science, and similar experiences. The majority of them have yet to be executed in a field situation. This one is different. This one (along with “How to Beat Up The Batman”
(see page 166)
has actually been executed by me. What follows is a blow-by-blow recap.

Jason had been my high school bully for a year. Prior to that he’d been my middle school bully for two years. I’m not sure if that’s the correct designation since he was already in high school during this period, as he was two years older than me. What’s the etiquette on that? Does the victim get to make that call? Let’s just go with neighborhood bully, since he was that, too.

Jason was the typical bully in most ways. Loud, obnoxious, and prone to making jokes that were roughly 20 percent off from what the actual joke should’ve been. They had the rhythm and shouted quality of a joke but, if asked, you’d have been hard pressed to explain exactly what it was that made you laugh. He was big, but not a giant. He was considered fairly tough by whoever decides these things, but I can’t recall any actual fights he’d been in. He was fond of declaring the local police department’s hatred of and inability to capture him, for crimes he never elaborated on. He was also fond of donning an old army jacket before walking around the neighborhood shooting random things with his BB gun. Sometimes he’d mix thing up by shooting things with his BB gun while also making racist comments about me.

In addition to that he’d mocked me in front of large groups of people, shoved me, threatened me, challenged me over and over to fight, shot in my general vicinity with the aforementioned BB gun, and taken and dumped out the contents of my book bag on several occasions. I wasn’t a happy kid and Jason was roughly 50 percent of why.

I’d sort of reached the point where I knew I had to take a stand, but being a skinny, asthmatic kid with glasses I realized that that stand would be short-lived unless some changes were made. So, like every bad and a few good teen comedies from the ’80s, I decided to remake myself. Over the summer I started weight training, got contact lenses, and bought some new, reasonably cool clothes. (The clothes are not at all relevant for this fight story, but a nice detail, I think.) That, and the fact that I’d actually been in several fights years before, had me feeling reasonably confident going into sophomore year. I’d fought other gawky/nerdy/outcast types who were my size, but no one considered a legit tough guy. Still, I was starting to wonder if even that was more actual experience than he’d amassed.

It was the first week of school. I knew, KNEW, that when I crossed paths with Jason, he’d inevitably say or do something. And with my new stance in place, the only option I was giving myself was one in which I fought back.

Two days later I was sitting in the middle of the bus, on the way to school. Jason was in the back. He shot me with a water pistol. Here we go.

I turned to see Jason holding the gun.

“What the fuck?!?” I said.

He came back with the equally original, “Fuck you. What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna fucking kick your ass,” somehow escaped my mouth.

The bus erupted in cheers and yelling. Some more back-and-forth led to us deciding that as soon as the bus pulled up at school, we were fighting. I finished with a nice, “Fuck you, let’s do it. I’m gonna kill you.” And I meant it.

I was pissed and ready to go right there on the spot. Adrenaline was flowing. I had no doubt that I’d made the right decision and that I was going to crush him. Then I turned around and waited out the rest of the fifteen-minute bus ride. Fifteen long minutes …

Then something happened. Over that span of time, ALL THE ADRENALINE DRAINED FROM MY BODY, and I had ample opportunity to reassess things. Not ideal! Things no longer seemed so necessary. We’re all aspiring adults here, right? Surely we can talk this out. Fear and mild nausea showed up soon after. Quick flashes of potential injuries ran through my mind. Broken bone here, smashed cheek there. All this while enduring more heckling from Jason’s pals. I looked around. The eyes on me, all that were present, ran the gamut from concerned to hopeful to Tex Avery’s Wolf, anxious for the impending beat down.

The bus pulled into school. We got up, walked to the front of the bus, and—despite the bus driver’s yells to sit down—yanked the door open. I walked about ten feet, turned around, and we faced off.

I ran to him, catching him off guard, then tackling him around the waist and lifting him into the air. We landed on the ground with me on top and I started throwing hard punches. I expected him to come back at me with something … but nothing ever came. The next thing I recall was getting pulled off him by a teacher, then seeing hundreds of kids hanging out of bus windows, screaming and cheering. Easily the best moment of my life up to that point …

After we were both suspended, Jason called me, to try to set up a “rematch.” I agreed to it, though the logistics of the fight bogged us down.

“I’ll meet you at Stump Pond…”

“No way, that’s too close to your house, you’ll have an advantage. I’m not walking that far.”

“What about by the cul-de-sac?”

“The one at the end of Cedar Ridge?”

“No, on Fox Hollow.”

“Hmm, I don’t know that one. Okay, does this work, we both walk to…”

Somehow this transitioned into an almost friendly conversation, filled with minutiae and logistics. It was ridiculous.

“Oh, by the fence.
Ha,
yeah, I know that spot, That works for me, I’ll meet you there…”

“Cool! Yeah, no problem.”

Fifteen minutes after we agreed to the particulars, Jason showed up at my door. He claimed his mother heard him on the phone and insisted he apologize. I’ve never believed this to be true. We shook hands and actually went on to become good friends.

About five years ago I looked Jason up online. He’d gone on to become a cop. A cop who’d recently been cited for using excessive force during a traffic stop. Sounds about right.

HOW TO BEAT UP PEOPLE WHO SAY, “TELL US HOW YOU REALLY FEEL,” AFTER YOU’VE SAID SOMETHING HONEST AND POSSIBLY DICK-ISH

Seriously, what is wrong with you? Someone makes a truthful, possibly angry statement about something and that’s your response? A sarcastic, “Tell us how you really feel!” As if they didn’t just do that. The joke being, you know … that they, in fact, did just that. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your joke was entirely out of its league. Sarcasm isn’t always enough. Your joke was the equivalent of remarking, as I walk up in a blue T-shirt, “Hey! Nice red T-shirt!”

You’re almost as bad as the guy who says, “That gives new meaning to the word BLANK,” when in fact the example cited falls entirely within the given definition of said word. You’re nearly as bad as the guy I let into traffic who neglected to convey appreciation via an acknowledging hand raise. Not even a head nod? You’re way worse than the guy jaywalking who, when you slow down to let him finish crossing the street, gives you that, “No, you go ahead,” wave. Like he’s got a better, bigger idea for crossing the street later on, that doesn’t include you and your car, or anyone else obeying the laws of the road.