Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything (3 page)

For instance, ever fight a guy in a nice suit? He takes his jacket off before the fight starts, folds it delicately, then sets it out of harm’s way, which leaves an opening for a cheap shot. He fights carefully at long range, so as not to ruin his suit. He’s reluctant to follow you into a coal mine, to finish you off, thus providing you an escape route, if need be.

He could be insecure about the rags. Hoping you’re the kind of guy who’d be “cool” even in a fight situation and not call attention to it by mocking him with: “Hey! Nice rags! Ass! Ever hear of clothes! They’re for wearing, you dummy!” That’s the kind of chatter he’s hoping to avoid. That right there could shatter his confidence, and send him running for the hills.

If he is wearing rags, step two is to rip the rags in several key spots, so they fall away, leaving the man undressed. A suddenly naked man is not a man who is focused on fighting. While his face reddens from embarrassment, quickly dispatch him using several of the body’s pressure points. These are points on the body, which when struck can disable a man. You can find them in the normally covered-up areas of a man, now suddenly exposed. Little known fact: This area is entirely made of pressure points.

If the man isn’t wearing rags, and the whole “nothing left to lose” thing was mainly figurative, then we’ll need a different technique. Rage might sound like a nice tool in a fight but it can be turned against you. He’s going to be reckless, sloppy, and wide open for counters. He’s going to overcommit on every blow. Wait for him to miss, then strike. When he misses and loses his balance, turn him further out of position, then strike again. Be aware of nearby dangers that can be used against him, such as a runway car he can be shoved into or a bridge he can be flipped off of. As long as he is out of control, you are in control. He won’t last long.

HOW TO BEAT UP A BOXER

The boxer is a dangerous opponent. Not one to be taken lightly. Fortunately, I have the key to beating him up.

Ideally, what you would do to defeat a boxer is immediately begin taking lessons in the art of boxing, and then through much practice become better at boxing than your opponent. That way when you eventually fight your opponent, your superior boxing ability will allow you to beat him up or “win” the boxing contest.

Note:
Do not ask the boxer you will soon be fighting for the lessons. He is liable to become suspicious, eyeing you carefully while scratching his chin, and saying something along the lines of: “Wait a minute … Why do you suddenly want to learn boxing? Does this have anything at all to do with our upcoming fight?” Then he’ll either clobber you in the snoot or sabotage you by teaching you deliberately ineffective, made-up moves like the “light-as-you-can punch” and the “eyes close, chin expose.”

No good at boxing? Well, then, while failing at it you may have observed that hitting your opponent with a baseball bat is currently illegal in boxing. Get yourself a bat or large stick and hit the boxer with it. He will be unprepared to defend such an attack, and will not expect it. Don’t strike the head, just the arms and chest, to the point where his weapons are no longer functioning, and no longer a threat to you. Then, using your arms and fists pummel the boxer at your leisure until he’s sufficiently beaten up. How much? That’s up to you! Have fun.

HOW TO BEAT UP A FATHER-AND-SON TEAM

I think we’d all agree, one of the most beautiful and rewarding relationships life has to offer is that of a father and his son. It will be an honor for you to damage such a union. Let’s begin.

You know that old myth about twins? How, if you hurt one the other will feel pain, and vice versa? (Popularized by, though probably not originating with, G.I. Joe’s evil twins, Tomax and Xamot … that’s right, there’s something curious about those names, isn’t there? Look closely at them. In fact, write one of the names down on a piece of paper, go into your bathroom, and hold the piece of paper up to the mirror. Now look at the person holding the piece of paper. That person is a zero.)

That myth about twins isn’t true, but it kind of applies to fighting father-and-son teams. Because they have feelings for each other, because they care about each other so strongly, hurting one will hurt the other. (I’m not talking like magic or anything. If you break the father’s pinkie, the son won’t feel pain in his pinkie, he’ll merely feel awful overall. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take it.) Use this to your advantage.

Approach the father and slap him as hard as you can. This will freak the shit out of the son. While the son is distracted, quickly slap him, which will likewise freak the shit out of the father. (Unsure about this? Picture some guy slapping your father. Awful, right?) Repeat this until both father and son’s faces are tear soaked, red, and raw as uncooked hamburger, and they’re begging for mercy. This method only works on fathers and sons that get along. If they don’t get along, you’ll need to keep reading.

Now, the father-and-son team who despise each other is a much tougher foe than the happy-household variety above. First of all, hurting one has no effect on the other, and may even make the other one happy. Second, the kid will fight twice as hard in order to earn the grudging respect of the absentee father who never loved him. He’ll be anxious to show off the punch that his mother’s “special friend” taught him as a reward for not making a fuss when he had to crash with them that one time for a couple of weeks while waiting for his bike shop to get off the ground. The dad will also be fighting hard as he’ll be anxious to show his good-for-nothing kid the old man’s “still got it.”

Divide and conquer, that’s how you take out these two. Temporarily incapacitate the dad (Are you regularly carrying a small vial of mysterious powder you can throw into the eyes of your enemy to blind them? You really should be. They’re easily concealable, cheap, and quite effective. Legendary wrestling manager Mr. Fuji built an entire career on this tactic. Don’t tell me you think you’re better than Mr. Fuji?), then concentrate on the son. His shock at seeing his father blinded and fumbling around with his hands out while screaming, “Damn it, Billy, what’s happening?!? You need to be my eyes!” will have him at 85 percent effectiveness. That should be enough of a disadvantage for you to dispatch him, after which you can quickly finish off the father. Conversely, you could blind both of them and then just have fun punching them and turning them in circles, but that hardly seems fair.

HOW TO BEAT UP THE GUY YOU’RE TRAPPED WITH ON A BAMBOO RAFT

The cruise ship you were on has long since sunk to the bottom of the ocean. You’ve been living on an island with this man for months. Surviving together, bonding, keeping each other alive. Foraging for food, shelter, and a reason to keep on going. Eventually, you decide to build a raft. He knows a bit about carpentry and physics, and you like lashing things together with palm fronds. It’s surprisingly soothing and gives you a sense of accomplishment. Not unlike the Zen-like pleasures you’d often found in the simple act of washing dishes. As a boy, you’d never minded getting stuck with that chore, as your sisters ran outside to enjoy one last game of catch before the sun went down on that sleepy New England town you hail from. You were content to watch them from the kitchen window as you went about your task.…

You built a raft made of hope. You built a friendship. Then you built an actual raft made of wood. But at a certain point you realized THIS GUY WAS ANNOYING THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU.

Sure, he found that stash of coconuts—and was able to get them open using sharp rocks after your plan of slicing into them with large blades of grass failed—no one’s saying that wasn’t awesome. But he just keeps going on and on about it. If not that, then his beautiful wife and warm, hug-loving kids, who he expects to greet him with teary eyes at the homecoming he’s just so sure is happening.

He walks around that island acting like he didn’t forget to cover up the rocks you’d been drawing on with burned banana leaves before the rain came. He said he would and then he forgot and the kitty cat picture you’d been laboring over was lost. All he can talk about is “Why weren’t you keeping an eye on the fire?” which seemed to be THE ONLY THING he was concerned with, once the rain came. Well, we all have to sleep sometimes, right? The rain makes you sleepy—the way it makes
plunking
sounds on the top of the tree canopy—and he knew this. Him and his dumb, loving family and his ability to create tools and find a way off the island. Fuck him and his rock mural-ruining ass. You spent eleven hours using moss and coconut shavings to craft that hilarious Scary Island Monster costume and what did he have to say about it?
Thanks for livening up the island? I appreciate your free-spirited approach to keeping morale high?
No. He yelled at you for wasting coconut meat and that edible moss that also heals wounds, which he discovered in that cave. Yes, the one he killed the pig in, the pig that provided dinner for weeks, WHICH HE WON’T SHUT UP ABOUT.

Now you’re four days out into the ocean, water is low, you can’t catch a fish to save your life, which is what you were hoping the catching of the fish would do, actually, and it’s time to show this guy who’s boss. Sure, some would say this isn’t the best time for a physical altercation. Maybe it’s not so wise to eliminate half of your chances for survival over some petty disagreement. No need to act like that scorpion carried by that frog across the river in that parable, right?

Well, I trust your judgment, unlike Johnny-know-it-all. If you say he’s gotta go, I believe you. Here’s how you do it.

Say, “Hey! Is that a ship on the horizon?” He’ll look toward the horizon to see for himself. He’ll turn back, annoyed, and ask, “Where? I don’t see anything.” You’ll then point over his shoulder. When he turns to look again, do not hit him from behind. He’d expect that. He’s ready for it, on some subconscious level even he doesn’t realize.

Wait a moment, then say, “Look! There it is again! The ship.” He’s going to be wary this time, and might frown at you before looking for the ship … shit, you know what? You may have been right, I think you probably should have hit him from behind a second ago. Now it’s just weird. He’s suspicious and definitely going to wonder why you keep telling him to look away. Those of you reading this in advance of your shipwreck, skip what I said about not hitting him when he turns around the first time. THAT IS DEFINITELY THE TIME WINDOW YOU’RE WAITING FOR. Do not dally. Those of you huddled on the end of the raft, reading this book with a hastily thrown-together book cover made from seashells and mango skins, press on. Not much more you can do, I guess. There is definitely an awkward vibe on the raft now, and I feel like it’s at least partially my fault.

When he looks back after once again seeing no ship on the horizon, tell him, uh, you feel sick and clutch your stomach. Tell him you ate some bad fish—NO! Shit, he would be sick, too. Or he’ll think you’ve been hiding fish. Um, say that … you … left something back on the island and need to go back. Yeah! That could work. Tell him you forgot your lucky satellite phone—No, no good! He’ll wonder why you didn’t use it to get help … Okay, tell him you forgot a—no, just … Okay, tell him you see a ship again. Whether he turns around or not, just punch him in the face. Then jump into the water and paddle away as fast as you can, for as long as you can. There’s NO WAY he’ll follow you to punch you back, as leaving that raft and what’s left of the fresh water is certain death. You’ve won! And he will never, ever be able to get revenge on you!

HOW TO BEAT UP A TIME-TRAVELING FUTURE VERSION OF YOURSELF, BACK TO HARASS YOU ABOUT YOUR LIFE CHOICES

You’re just minding your business, hanging out—horizontal on your couch, in nothing but your boxers, watching a repeat of
Burn Notice
at three o’clock in the afternoon, remnants of a burrito on the coffee table—when out of nowhere you hear it. A sonic
whoosh
noise followed by the sound of your own voice: “Seriously? This is what you’re doing? This isn’t some performance art piece celebrating sloth in the twenty-first century?”

You turn to see yourself, standing in your kitchenette. He’s older, wears a closely cropped beard, has a microchip where his left eyebrow should be, and he’s got a purple and silver unitard on. In his left hand is his Mark VI time shifter, which is what got him there.