My life was a runaway train. My high stress, work hard, play harder life style was about to go off the rails. I was a middle age attorney with a penchant for fine cigars and single malt scotch. I had just moved my office to an historic downtown entertainment district with plenty of pubs. I was practicing international and immigration law at the time and I was dealing with a few clients overseas, which meant late nights at the office. I wondered, how did my life become an episode of Mad Men?
On this particuar night, i.e. early morning, I was out at the pubs shooting pool waitng for last call, so I could get on the phone when people were just getting to the office overseas. I went into the men's room to relieve myself before walking back to my office, when two guys burts in laughing, racing for the last toliet. While zipping up, I made the mistake of joining in on the witty banter at the expense of the loser of the footrace.
One the guys was fairly well intoxicated and had the gusto to tell me he was "going to kick my ass!." At this point two more of his friends entered this tiny restroom. I was already in motion as they entered, lightly pushing the drunk guy, who pants undone fell into the toilet. OK, now it was a 3 on 1. Guy #2 said "You're really gonna fight him with three of his friends right here?"
I looked around, quickly surmsing the scene. Here I was, surrounded, at close-quarters. I was 42, 5'9", 190lbs, of average athletic ability. These were energetic 21 year old, collge boys from the suburbs, all 5'10" to 6'00" each wieghing between165 to 200lbs. Three on one, with another down, but not out. I had sunken into a low center of gravity stance and squared my shoulders towards the one who had just asked the question. They remained standing high with locked knees, flat footed, centerlines open. A split second analysis, no obvious weapon bulges. I had no need to draw mine.
With my years of Pekiti Tirsia Kali, a so-called "phone booth style," I knew what I had to do to defeat multiple opponents, not multiple-attackers, as regardless of who throws first, I am always the attacker. Even though it was 4 on 1, I felt like I outnumbered them.
My response was a steely, "Yeah, you boys are soft." Too which guy #2 responeded, "We're soft?" I said, "Yeah, let me show you." And I sidestepped, hitting him in the jaw with a right elbow, followed by a back hand wrist hach, left elbow, right elbow. Down he went. Sidestepped hit guy #3 with a backhand hack to the neck, and down he went, followed by a small right 45 degree step and a left and right elbow to the head of #4 who also hit the floor. Drunk instigator, guy #1, pants solied, now belted, stood back up only to met my sidestep and palm thrut to the nose. Back he fell into the stall.
As the last hit landend, a hipster who resembeled a tall Sam Kineson walked in. I used takeoff footwork, ranging left 135 degrees, floating across the floor like a vampire. "Sorry for the mess," I said in my best Han Solo impersonation and walked out the door. I did not stay for another drink, but walked to my office and callled the Ivory Coast.
As I was dialing I cursed myself. "Damn!" I just remembered, I had forgotten to wash my hands.
