RAP the Bruiser

I am a calm and harmonious person; like the Buddha, I exude serenity. But occasionally situations arise that demand a forceful response. I have compiled some examples going back a few years, and you can take them for what they are worth.

One time, I was inside a coffee shop sipping some green tea latte and reading a book of poetry by Emily Dickinson. In stepped Bruce Lee—famous for his work in the martial arts and the star of such chop-socky films as The Big Boss, Fist of Fury and his classic, The Way of the Dragon. He made a derogatory comment about my choice of reading material, suggesting that I was less than manly. “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce” I said. “Don’t make such assumptions. Dickinson was a fine poetess.”

Lee wasn’t hearing that, and he suggested we take it outside. I put down the book, wiped the corners of my mouth with a napkin and followed him to the parking lot. After allowing him to insult me one more time, I threw some lightning-fast punches and whirling kicks to his face and solar plexus. He started crying and begged me to stop, so I just I boxed his ears and went back to my reading.

Then there was the time I got into a dust-up with Chuck Norris. He was bragging about how he had a black belt in judo, jiu jitsu and something called “tang soo do.” The Chuckster said he wanted to try a few moves on me, but I urged him not to because he might get hurt. He didn’t take well to that, and I gave him a black eye, some contusions and three broken teeth. I asked him who his daddy was, and he replied meekly, “You are, Sir Richard!”

By sheer coincidence, Jean-Claude van Damme was walking by. Yet another martial artist and star of action films, he thought he would defend the honor of Norris—who was at that moment in an ambulance speeding to the nearest hospital. “Muscles from Brussels” approached me, eager for a bit of mano-a-mano action. I told him to back off, he refused, and I administered the treatment. Game over.

I wish these people would let me live a conflict-free life, but I guess I have developed a reputation of sorts. I was shopping at a grocery store one day, perusing the organic fruits and vegetables and in strode Mitch “Blood” Green. A one-time leader of a New York-based gang named the Black Spades, Green saw me and must have thought he could earn some street cred by roughing me up. “Don’t try it, homey,” I said to him, and yet he completely disregarded my protestations. I was reluctant to do it, but I had no choice. I opened up a can of whoop-ass on him and told him go home.

That reminds me of the time I was sitting outside of a 7-11, consuming a 16-ounce Pepsi and a bag of taco-flavored Doritos. I was minding my own business when a bunch of Hells Angels came roaring up on their Harley-Davidsons. There must have been 25 of them—all hairy and tattooed. They threatened to harm me if I did not kowtow. That was out of the question, so I suggested mortal combat with their leader who went by the name of Cisco. After no more than two minutes, he said he’d had enough. So his number two man, calling himself Pork Chop, bravely volunteered. I busted him up pretty good, too. I looked around and asked, “Who’s next?” but the rest of them politely declined.

A few years ago, I attended a pro basketball game between the Detroit Pistons and the Dallas Mavericks. (Mavs won, 107-93.) Afterward, I saw one of the players about to get into a silver stretch limousine with his entourage. It was Jerry Stackhouse, reputedly the toughest man in the NBA. I asked him for an autograph, which I planned to give to my friend Bo Carter. But he uttered a flippant remark and told me to “go pound sand.” Such unmitigated impudence! Before he knew what had happened, Stackhouse was a mass of bumps and bruises, and he was screaming for mercy.

Or how about the time Ray Lewis—17 years with the Baltimore Ravens and instigator of a late-night brawl in 2000 that left two men dead—and I had a set-to? During an otherwise pleasant convo, I asked him whatever happened to the white suit he was wearing the night of those killings in Atlanta. He evidently did not like being reminded of that incident and the trial in which he snitched on two of his fellow gang-bangers, pled down to a misdemeanor charge of obstruction of justice and paid off the families of the victims. “You got off kind of light, Ray-Ray,” I stated, and he took a swing at me. I grabbed him, threw him up against a wall and beat him to a fare-thee-well.

People say I am a potent combination of Spartacus, Audie Murphy and Genghis Khan, that I have an insatiable taste for blood, that I enjoy causing others pain. They call me a “super-bad man of iron,” but really I am just an ordinary guy who wants a little peace and quiet.

Norris…

Van Damme…

Green…

Angels…

Stackhouse…

Lewis…