This week I joined a local fencing club. That’s fencing as in, “I’ll run you through with my trusty rapier, you filthy cur!” and not “Psst. Wanna buy a cheap HDTV, motherfucker?” For most of my adult life, I have wanted to swing from the rafters with my sword dangling in the wind while shouting, “Ha haaaa!” without having to patronize a raucous nightclub in “the hip, artsy part of town.” I’ve found my excuse.
The club offered a special eight-week introductory offer for $99, during which it was promised that I would have to purchase no equipment. As an extra enticement, the introductory session culminates in a mock tournament, a feature that definitely appeals to my highly competitive nature. And let me assure you, in two months the only thing that this dashing yet ruthless swordsman will be “mocking” are the bloody, wound-ridden corpses of his many felled opponents.
After registering, I was instructed to show up to the training classes wearing comfortable workout clothing. While that might be perfectly suitable for Jimmy, the awkward, pimply teenager who fancies himself as the future Captain Jack Sparrow and will likely never know the warmth of a woman, I do not have time to fuck around. In 60 days there is an important tournament, an aristocratic cage match, a round-robin duel to the death, and it is never too early to start intimidating opponents.
To maximize my stealth and ninja-like mystique, I arrived at the first class wearing a black sweat suit. Ducking in behind the other attendees, I moved to the nearest wall and dropped into a modified lotus position (modified because I have achy knees), and eyed my future opponents while whispering ominous gibberish and slicing at my throat. Before long, I thought, the Master Swordsman would arrive and begin culling this sad assortment of soccer moms, geeky teens, and misguided middle-aged men, all of whom were so clearly undeserving of his wise and deadly teachings, eventually leaving only me to carry on his noble tradition. My very own Pai Mei.
Instead, what appeared to be his portly stable girl emerged from the back room (Oh, how I desire to see the inner working of that chamber, sit at what is certain to be its ancient round table cut from a prehistoric tree, and trace my finger along the names of the brave knights that have been carved into it). Wielding a cheap clipboard, she began to read off names and pelt the class with wildly unfunny jokes about Douglas Adams and Russian literature. Eventually I heard my name.
“Crunchy Blue Commando?” the sad jester bellowed.
I snapped to my feet, certain that the Master was observing our every move from a secret spy hole in the wall.
“Yes, Censai!”
The giggles that emerged from the gallery were softened by the certain knowledge that they would all soon die by my own swift hand.
Once all the names had been called, the Master’s lackey drew a saber to her side and asked us to line up.
“Cobra Kai!” I yelled, unable to control the instinct, and dashed to the front of the line to begin loosening my shoulders.
More giggles. Their blood will run in rivers so sweet.
The lackey continued.
“My name is (who cares), blah, blah, blah…”
Out of the corner of my eye I searched for our discreet and elusive Master. Surely, I reasoned, this was a serious and hardened man who had defeated evil, who ate danger for breakfast (sprinkled with flax seed to assist with evacuation), and was not so careless as to expose himself unnecessarily to a corpulent band of misfits and wannabes. He would watch and wait, only finally presenting himself to the class when we had been made ready to receive him.
Unless…
Unless he was already among us. Disguised as an inept student, he could disarm us with his bumbling ruse, learning our every weakness and targeting our vital points. Oh, clever Master! You have already won my heart with your wise and judicious ways!
The lackey continued to yap as I redirected my gaze to my classmates with a newfound wonder. Among these imbeciles is the one who will lift me out of my dreary, humble life and send me on the path of adventure and unbridled passion. How silly I was to indirectly challenge them all upon first entering the training facility. How quickly I would have reached an unfortunate end had I unwittingly shoved, noogied, or Indian-burned my incognito Master.
Indeed, I have learned my first lesson, wise one. For letting me live to see another day, I will forever be your dedicated pupil. I will shed my old self like a bad case of psoriasis. My new name shall be Epee Le Pew.
Just then, the stable girl in the dirty t-shirt said something that caught my attention. Surely, I had misunderstood.
“Sorry,” I pleaded, “Can you please repeat that?”
“Sure,” she smiled, as only a stupid and petty servant can. “I was just saying that even though I am the owner and head instructor of the school, please just call me Sue. We like to keep it fun and light here. Did you have a question?”
Yeah. How do I get my $99 back?