Reason for dying.

I am not the type of man to mess with.

I have trained extensively in Muay Thai kickboxing for the last 15 years under Guru Surachai and Kru Mark Dellagrotte.  Before moving to Uganda, where I learned how to streetfight out of necessity, I trained with Renzo Gracie in NYC.  I have a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and am proficient with a variety of killing tools, including stick, machete, and 2×4 (”dos manos” escrima).  Oh, did I mention I can handle an AK-47 with relative ease?

I usually keep my martial arts training a secret, since “dangerous” is not something I like being associated with (I do, after all, make balloon animals for kids in my spare time); however, something happened today that’s made me re-evaluate that.

You see, I had a lab meeting today.  At this lab meeting, where I drank champagne and had ONE chocolate-covered biscuit, I started to get sick (which sucks, because any lab meeting where champagne is served is worth attending).  Naturally, when I left the lab meeting, I decided to go to the UCL toilet to have a bit of alone time… if only to reflect on why I needed to eat that sole biscuit.

After working long days at Fuji Bank, where I was an intern once upon a time, I learned to take catnaps on the toilet, and this evening, post-biscuit and all, seemed like a particularly good time for a momentary rest.

So, I’m in the toilet, paper barrier over seat in place, resting comfortably, when, suddenly, someone crashes against the door in front of me, which annoyed me a bit, momentarily, the way clean laundry taken out and thrown down on a dirty floor annoys its owner.  But what could I do, really?  I let it go…

A couple of minutes later, someone starts kicking my door.  I can see the shadow of his legs moving in the space underneath.  It’s a rapid scissor motion, as if he were a miniature Rockette.

I ignore the first barrage, but upon the second, the kicker calls out to me.

“What!” I answer.

“COME OUT, NOW!  Right this minute!” he scowls back.

“Here comes the party,” I think to myself.

I pull up my jeans and button the top button around my waist.  Belt still undone, I open the door so the yelling can begin.

“What did you chuck over at me?” he growls, repeatedly.

“I didn’t throw anything,” I reply, repeatedly.

I know a fight is brewing, so I start calculating.  His face is just far enough in the stall for me to smash it with the open door.  (Why he would move in towards a pot full of shit is beyond me.)  So I do.  And miss.

I miss spectacularly; the deafening slam causes the door to break along with all its metallic trimming, confusing everyone in the crowded bathroom for a few moments — precisely enough time to adjust my jeans above my waist.

With jeans properly buttoned, I open the door… and approach.

By now, he has picked up a metal rod that has broken off from the door, and is standing with knees bent, wild-eyed, threatening to kill me.  I stand in front of him, confident, knowing I have been hit by much larger, heavier things.

Then, hilariously, the guy realizes that he can’t possibly win, so he drops the rod and walks out of the bathroom, mumbling something under his breath.

“Incredible.  A hapless imbecile and yet, so smart,” I think.

To celebrate Uganda’s lack of foresight in attempting to pass legislation against homosexuals, I would like to make a public announcement: from here on out, if you threaten me or those I care for, you must be prepared for the consequences.  I have a skill-set reserved only for specialized military personnel — i.e., people who pay the bills by killing other people.  Thus, if you threaten me with a weapon, I will assume I am in a life-threatening situation, where anything goes.  So, THINK AHEAD OF TIME.  Please.  Especially when I’m on the toilet and I’m thinking of wiping my ass on your broken face.  (Note: Christian asserts ending a fight this way is gay.  Adam and I, however, believe there’s a certain something to wiping your ass on your opponent’s face in victory.  We have all agreed to settle upon a final answer whenever someone decides to threaten me in a bathroom again.)