I suppose for a lot of heroes, this gets to be routine. But coming from someone who's spent most of his life running a dojo, waking up one morning and deciding to be a hero is a bit, well, unique.
Well, OK, the decision wasn't made one morning over coffee. It was made when the doc told me that "if it hadn't been for your mutated genes, you'd have been a disabled wreck from MS in your thirties."
Me, a mutant? Hardly. I'm just fit. I've been studying Kendo for decades. And yes, my siblings all have various nervous disorders, MS, Parkinson's, etc. But now the doc is saying that MY nervous disorder is actually beneficial, and therefore a mutation?
Whoa. That's some heavy information, man.
I had to listen to a couple of Jerry Garcia albums to get back into my normal laid-back aging ex-hippie mindset.
Then I went to the dojo, and got into some practice matches with a couple of my top students. Then three. Then five. Then seven. At that point, I ran out of students.
And I beat them. No, I didn't just beat them. Those poor kids will have bruises for weeks, all from getting thwacked by ONE bokken sword.
At that point, I decided, enough playacting. I might just be good enough to actually do some difference.
So, what do I do, I stroll down to City Hall, and fill out the requisite forms to become a "Licensed Vigilante". Checked "Mutant" on the form so's everyone would know, yah, I got a wierd neural disorder, it doesn't impair my nerve functions, it improves them.
I'm not kidding. I've got reflexes like a cat. Shoot a gun at me, I can see the bullet coming. Swing at me from behind, I can feel the shockwave of the air off the bat. It's wierd, but when I'm in 'the Zone', all I KNOW is what my opponents are doing, where they are, and to an extent, what they're planning to do. I can't read minds, but I can sense body language and movements, 'tells' that precede an attack.
Once I had the paperwork filled out, the med exams finished, the insurance policy purchased (yeah, they make us buy insurance... 'collateral damage insurance' they call it)... I'm picking up a new gi and belt from the tailor. Always liked the color blue for some reason.
And as soon as I walk out the door with the outfit on, sword in the scabbard across my back, I hear a shout.
"Shut up lady, just give us the purse!"
Hellions. I've had to chase them away from my dojo for years. Some of my students have gotten pretty good at using them as practice targets, but up until now, I've had a live and let live attitude, long as they stay away from my door, I ignore them.
But not today.
"Hey! Yeah you! Leave that woman alone, or perhaps you'd prefer to see how an old hippie can bust your buns over a purse!"
"Shaddup, ya stoner! This is OUR turf."
"Correction. It WAS your turf. Now it's mine. You want it back, perhaps? I'm standing right here."
With that, two of the thugs charged, whipping out hatchets and baseball bats, while the third smirked and pulled out a submachine gun. That meant he was the immediate threat - these other boneheads might get in some decent blows, but a lucky shot from that gun...
I leaped over the heads of the two onrushing goons, landed in front of the gun-toting purse thief, and bashed his nose with the hilt of my now unsheathed katana sword. As he staggered backwards, I laid out two swipes to his midsection. The grating feel of the blade let me know he was wearing Kevlar, so the first cut didn't lay him out... but the next one nicked him in the armpit, and he began to bleed.
"You old &^%#*!! I'll KILL YOU!"
(Whups, you just tagged Moe for first blood, but Larry and Curly are still around... dodge that bat swing, here comes the axe... oh no, he's too close!) I rolled left, taking the shot on the padded shoulder of my gi. The blow would raise a hefty bruise, and I could feel the muscles in my arm tense up, leaving me slower and less able to defend myself on that side, but it wasn't lethal.
The next swipe of the blade nicked the thug on the wrist, sending the gun spinning away, and further enraging the punk. He tried to land a haymaker on my face, but he missed... and a second shot to his forehead with the sword hilt laid him out cold.
"Oops. Looks like your bro's taking a nap, dudes. Care to join him?"
The punk with the bat blanched, and bugged out. The other grinned. He was the one who'd tagged me before. "So what, old man? You ain't invulnerable, just fast. And I can take fast." SWISSH! another axe swing at my ribs, but this time he missed.
"Oh I'm sure you can take fast. But can you take sharp and pointy?" With that, I unleashed a two-hand diagonal slash that sliced the axe handle in two and laid a red bloody line from his ribs to his opposite shoulder. "Oo, we better get you some Bactine for that cut, eh youngster?"
"Haha. Cute. You'd be funnier with your nose missing though." I barely ducked in time to avoid getting bonked on the head by half an axe handle. Wait, what's this? Mister Baseball is back in the game, from behind?? How universally uncool, man. Pivot, slash, follow thru... yes, he now has one less hand operable... those tendons will be work to repair in the prison hospital, not to mention shock from blood loss. Sidestep, feint... dodge the ineffectual swing from the one remaining thug... and tap him upside the head with the flat of the blade, ring his ears good. He drops, moaning and shaking his head.
"Thanks for the workout, boys. Now, here's some nice cops to take you downtown."
I strolled off, after cleaning the sword with a handkerchief and sheathing it, trying hard to ignore the muscle aches and the buzz of adrenaline.
So, this is what being a hero feels like.
TOTALLY righteous, man. Maybe this will work out after all...
"City of Heroes. April 27, 2004 - August 31, 2012. Obliterated not with a weapon of mass destruction, not by an all-powerful supervillain... but by a cold-hearted and cowardly corporate suck-up."
I suppose for a lot of heroes, this gets to be routine. But coming from someone who's spent most of his life running a dojo, waking up one morning and deciding to be a hero is a bit, well, unique.
Well, OK, the decision wasn't made one morning over coffee. It was made when the doc told me that "if it hadn't been for your mutated genes, you'd have been a disabled wreck from MS in your thirties."
Me, a mutant? Hardly. I'm just fit. I've been studying Kendo for decades. And yes, my siblings all have various nervous disorders, MS, Parkinson's, etc. But now the doc is saying that MY nervous disorder is actually beneficial, and therefore a mutation?
Whoa. That's some heavy information, man.
I had to listen to a couple of Jerry Garcia albums to get back into my normal laid-back aging ex-hippie mindset.
Then I went to the dojo, and got into some practice matches with a couple of my top students. Then three. Then five. Then seven. At that point, I ran out of students.
And I beat them. No, I didn't just beat them. Those poor kids will have bruises for weeks, all from getting thwacked by ONE bokken sword.
At that point, I decided, enough playacting. I might just be good enough to actually do some difference.
So, what do I do, I stroll down to City Hall, and fill out the requisite forms to become a "Licensed Vigilante". Checked "Mutant" on the form so's everyone would know, yah, I got a wierd neural disorder, it doesn't impair my nerve functions, it improves them.
I'm not kidding. I've got reflexes like a cat. Shoot a gun at me, I can see the bullet coming. Swing at me from behind, I can feel the shockwave of the air off the bat. It's wierd, but when I'm in 'the Zone', all I KNOW is what my opponents are doing, where they are, and to an extent, what they're planning to do. I can't read minds, but I can sense body language and movements, 'tells' that precede an attack.
Once I had the paperwork filled out, the med exams finished, the insurance policy purchased (yeah, they make us buy insurance... 'collateral damage insurance' they call it)... I'm picking up a new gi and belt from the tailor. Always liked the color blue for some reason.
And as soon as I walk out the door with the outfit on, sword in the scabbard across my back, I hear a shout.
"Shut up lady, just give us the purse!"
Hellions. I've had to chase them away from my dojo for years. Some of my students have gotten pretty good at using them as practice targets, but up until now, I've had a live and let live attitude, long as they stay away from my door, I ignore them.
But not today.
"Hey! Yeah you! Leave that woman alone, or perhaps you'd prefer to see how an old hippie can bust your buns over a purse!"
"Shaddup, ya stoner! This is OUR turf."
"Correction. It WAS your turf. Now it's mine. You want it back, perhaps? I'm standing right here."
With that, two of the thugs charged, whipping out hatchets and baseball bats, while the third smirked and pulled out a submachine gun. That meant he was the immediate threat - these other boneheads might get in some decent blows, but a lucky shot from that gun...
I leaped over the heads of the two onrushing goons, landed in front of the gun-toting purse thief, and bashed his nose with the hilt of my now unsheathed katana sword. As he staggered backwards, I laid out two swipes to his midsection. The grating feel of the blade let me know he was wearing Kevlar, so the first cut didn't lay him out... but the next one nicked him in the armpit, and he began to bleed.
"You old &^%#*!! I'll KILL YOU!"
(Whups, you just tagged Moe for first blood, but Larry and Curly are still around... dodge that bat swing, here comes the axe... oh no, he's too close!) I rolled left, taking the shot on the padded shoulder of my gi. The blow would raise a hefty bruise, and I could feel the muscles in my arm tense up, leaving me slower and less able to defend myself on that side, but it wasn't lethal.
The next swipe of the blade nicked the thug on the wrist, sending the gun spinning away, and further enraging the punk. He tried to land a haymaker on my face, but he missed... and a second shot to his forehead with the sword hilt laid him out cold.
"Oops. Looks like your bro's taking a nap, dudes. Care to join him?"
The punk with the bat blanched, and bugged out. The other grinned. He was the one who'd tagged me before. "So what, old man? You ain't invulnerable, just fast. And I can take fast." SWISSH! another axe swing at my ribs, but this time he missed.
"Oh I'm sure you can take fast. But can you take sharp and pointy?" With that, I unleashed a two-hand diagonal slash that sliced the axe handle in two and laid a red bloody line from his ribs to his opposite shoulder. "Oo, we better get you some Bactine for that cut, eh youngster?"
"Haha. Cute. You'd be funnier with your nose missing though." I barely ducked in time to avoid getting bonked on the head by half an axe handle. Wait, what's this? Mister Baseball is back in the game, from behind?? How universally uncool, man. Pivot, slash, follow thru... yes, he now has one less hand operable... those tendons will be work to repair in the prison hospital, not to mention shock from blood loss. Sidestep, feint... dodge the ineffectual swing from the one remaining thug... and tap him upside the head with the flat of the blade, ring his ears good. He drops, moaning and shaking his head.
"Thanks for the workout, boys. Now, here's some nice cops to take you downtown."
I strolled off, after cleaning the sword with a handkerchief and sheathing it, trying hard to ignore the muscle aches and the buzz of adrenaline.
So, this is what being a hero feels like.
TOTALLY righteous, man. Maybe this will work out after all...
"City of Heroes. April 27, 2004 - August 31, 2012. Obliterated not with a weapon of mass destruction, not by an all-powerful supervillain... but by a cold-hearted and cowardly corporate suck-up."