Friday, September 20, 20XX
Everybody's here today. It's cool to have the whole gang here, it feels like it's been forever.
Of course, Mark and I steered clear from practicing today. It's an unsaid agreement. We're trying to keep things low-key. Who knows what Mr. Kafka would do or say if he found out. I can't imagine the guy being strict, but he is the club supervisor, and we don't want him nor us involved in any unnecessary trouble (especially us). And there's no trouble if nobody finds out ;-).
Foolproof logic! I play a risky game. Danger is not a hobby, it's a lifestyle (as they say). Who are they? I don't know. Probably people related to the ghosts that laugh in between sitcom jokes—an ethereal and taboo bunch.
Anyway, it was foolproof until it wasn't. They found out, plus other trouble. No surprise.
I remember it like it was just today.
It was today, at precisely 30-something-minutes-ago (plus-minus 15 minutes) o-clock, and we were chatting about the summer triangle and the relief following pre-assessments and just about everything pertaining to nothing, when an EXPLOSION happened just outside the room and the door came FLYING IN.
Actually, there were no explosions or flying doors or hidden baddies or crouching morons. I was lying. Instead, we'll have to settle for a few guys in traditional gi knocking in rather respectfully. Mr. Kafka opened the door.
They stepped into a spotlight. Very cooly, they scanned the room and centered on their target. A couple side glances, some ambiguous gesturing, then they walked straight toward Mark.
AND THEN THEY KILLED HIMMMMMM.
WITH A GUN.
A GUNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
But they actually didn't. I was lying, yet again, you fool, when will you learn. The leader stepped forward and confronted him directly. Mark scowled at them. It would've looked a lot more menacing if he weren't post-slurping, but we'll ignore that detail for now. I recognized him. His name is Leandro Mars. I've seen him around. A few of my former club members at x and y club had such and such classes with him, so I would hear about him occasionally as well. The usual described him as serious and mature. Now that I've seen him up close, he confirms those suspicions perfectly. He smiled roughly zero times during the entire exchange.
He wasn't picking a fight, but he wasn't there to have a friendly chat either. My Siamese senses were tingling, and I suspected things were going south real soon. I didn't feel like getting involved this time either, so I slowly edged away, pointing subliminaly towards the non-flying-but-stationary-(as-things-should-be)-door. Claire at one side was easily nervous and alarmed. Mr. Kafka kept whistling for some reason.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Apparantly, they're here because they learned that Mark had been practicing some jiu jitsu here, and they were wondering when he'd give the BJJ club another good ol' friendly visit. Except it was obvious that it wasn't so friendly. When Leandro said this, I thought to myself Crap, how did they find out what are we gonna do. Then I looked at Mr. Kafka nervously and all hell broke loose. Not for me, but for him. He started sweating, and was looking away and around as he was whistling over his obvious guilt. I eyed him down disappointedly.
How did you know? Asked Mark, unhurriedly, stoic-sounding. Leandro pointed at Mr. Kafka, who was sweating buckets by now and whose whistling reached PEAK OBNOXIOUS LEVEL, the final stage of Mr. Kafka's ultimate desperation tactic.
I was trying to play dumb because I thought it would be fun! Sorry about that boyo, I just kinda let it slip! He said, exasperated, flabbergasted, trying to makes excuses for his excuses, until Mark gave him one of the good ol' Stares which prompted him to give up. He joined me by the door, dejected.
Apparantly, Mark used to be in the club. They didn't talk about specfics, except that Mark used to dominate when he was there and Leandro wants a rematch. Mark obviously wasn't having any of it, but the gi groupies stood there, unmovable, like The Great Wall That Separates Palomar High From the Other Places (a beautiful, sturdy fence). As per Mark's style, he didn't do anything except meet their gazes and scoff. Despite his mouth, he doesn't like unnecessary confrontations.
The other two poked fun at him. It was nothing that bad, but I'm starting to really dislike it when people hate on my man Mark for no good reason. He attracts trouble, which is his problem, but as long as it infringes on my peace, it's my problem too.
With that motivation, I thought it was a good idea to walk up to the man and give him a peace of my mind. I put my hand on his shoulder, not particularly aggressively, but his martial arts reflexes probably kicked in nonetheless as he grabbed my hand and swiftly pinned me down.
Or, he tried too. Mark pulled this precise move on me countless times already, and much better. While we only had a few days of practice, I think MY body kicked in, and while I don't have enough strength or technique to counter, I somehow evaded and fell back, on my feet. At that moment, I remember feeling extraordinary, like I was the crouching moron, hidden badass, except much less the former this time. Everyone was surprised, except for Mark.
He started laughing like a certain mad scientist I've seen on television, or maybe like a serial killer? Anyway it was really eerie, and then he stood up finally, pointed at me, then spilled these glorious words on us.
"You dare challenge me? I bet my underling can easily take care of you."
Leandro smiled. He accepted the challenge, and left with his club mates, ignoring the rest of us just as he came.
Except not all of us. Now he eyed me like livestock. Definitely not cool, especially because I heard he's vegan.
Chaos ensued. I looked at Mark like he was crazy (which he is). Claire looked at us with crazy concern (which is appropriate). Mr. Kafka looked like he had seen a ghost (which I hope wasn't true). Mark looked at his cup noodle like it had all the answers to the predicament he placed himself in (which it didn't). And from this day forward, September 20, 20XX, Mr. Kafka and I now suffer from pointing-related post-traumatic stress disorder.
Ah, ah,
It's cool that today everyone's back and we can drink tea together and whatnot. But...
What a way to kick off the weekend. Give me a break.
And that's a sub-spice wrap. Sayonara Despair-Sensei.