Stroking the Ego

“You probably have the advantage.  It’s been years since my secret training with the Grandmaster.”  I drawled in my head to the bogey-man my 33 year old mind conjured for me to beat up like a practice dummy.   I’m a confident person and I have no doubt the tens of thousands of bozos I’ve routed over the years have something to do with it.  They come out of the woodwork in troves sometimes – always to fall to my superior strategy.  It’s been satisfying work.  And I suppose, in a roundabout way, the world is a better place for it since I’m better off for it and I’m a part of the world.

The aggressor looked wary.  It was dawning on him that the easy target he’d thought he’d found was in fact an unknown quantity: the guy could be bullshitting, but damn those eyes were unnerving.  And then there was the heavy way he stood there completely relaxed.  In fact, the guy had seemed to sink into relaxation as a response to things heating up.  “You don’t want to mess with me, man!” He growled, finally.

What to do here?  This particular aggressor is proving himself to be quite boring.  I can’t simply break his neck – he’s not powerful enough to justify that sort of a response.  I’m going to have to educate him.   “You were the one messing with me, don’t you remember?”  I asked in an infuriatingly soothing voice.

“Don’t contradict me!”  He yelled.

I remember someone saying those words to me when I was a child.  It made me mad and sad back then because I had been right.  I knew it.  And, in truth, I had been right.  Pumpkins are green before they’re orange.  I disliked the injustice of it – that instead of learning something from a child an adult had to resort to authority to shut me up.  Often the slights I’ve received in RL are uttered incongruously by the thugs in my natural VR.  “There!  You’re doing it again.”  I said pointing to a place between us to egg him into my space.

It worked!  He sprang into action through a fog of telegraphed intent to smash the left side of my face in with a right hook.  I moved forward into where the punch would be coming from and then like a Ptolemaic planet supported by hips that were actually going elsewhere, I swerved out of the collision path just as his fist flew through.  Because of the positions and directions of our legs this put my opponent in an awkward position.  He was pointed and heading further off in an opposite direction to me – and unbalanced – whereas I was slipping smoothly over the ground directly into his axis of balance.  Should I push him?  Through the wall?  No, I’ll take him to the ground – a little nerve pressure should put him back in the right mindset.

I stepped on his right foot while I snaked my hand up his torso until the two points of my thumb and 4 fingers reached the sides of his neck beyond his lymph nodes and I pushed slightly upwards feeling around for some squiggly bundles – the widening of his eyes confirmed what my fingers were telling me.  Here they are.  Into the sky just like an uppercut, arcing backwards like Brad Pitt in Snatch but stuck to the ground – I pulled back from the nerves and slid my hand back down to semi-push-punch the gut to round the back out as it came in contact with the floor while also cupping the head and putting my foot underneath to prevent a jarring impact to the brain.  The rest he’d have to figure out on his own – but the pressure I applied to his gut had caused him to exhale, which would be the trail he’d have to follow to controlling his impact.

He was flailing his arms.  I kept his closest elbow under control with my neck and shoulder while I turned him onto his side to pin his other arm behind his back with my knee and then all the way onto his stomach with his elbows pressing together behind him in pregnant pain.  What to say to this moron?  Did I even care, anymore?  There was nothing I could say that would save him.  Only hard work and dedication on his part could do anything for him, and that requires a value to be held firm in the heart.  How does one go about ensconcing something like that?

I decided to leave him there and I walked away.  Perhaps his encounter with something so much bigger than himself could have an impact.  Otherwise, for that one, nothing.

I have nothing more to indicate to these these projections of my shadow-insecurity mutated through fear’s mechanisms into Yoda’s hatred and suffering, except: “Enough.  I get it.”

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