64 degrees. 12:37 AM. I'm usually still awake at this time, but at least now I have a reason to be.

I'd never had Brennivin before tonight. Then again, I also hadn't ever had a strawberry shandy. But that's just the tradition for me and Gary. Always try something new and unique at a bar during our bi-weekly nights out.

No matter how much I think I know about Gary, his wild and questionable fishing tales always teach me something new. However, for once, it seems like it's the other way around, with Gary and his pals surrounding me in the red leather booth, drowning me in questions.

“Where did ya learn all that stuff anyways, Chris?”

Paul is the oldest of them. WW2 vet, always wears the same dull blue plaid shirt and a black hat that tells you about him being a veteran. I finish my shandy before speaking.

“I've been doing some martial art or another since I was 5. Never really did well at any until Judo when I was 10. Now I'm proficient in 4 martial arts including Goju-Ryu.”

Mike is 42. He's a husky Bostonian who comes to this bar for the free beer snacks. He didn't even get invited by Gary, he was just already at the bar. He victoriously pumps his fist while looking at the Sportscenter results.

“What is that stuff called again?”

“Goju-Ryu. It translates to Hard-Soft Style.”

Dan is around 36, but he’s the richest of the fishermen. Gets all of his money from his father. Surprisingly, he’s not as much of a jerk as you would expect for someone with money like that.

“Hard-Soft? Like, hard and soft strikes?”

I know that I shouldn't expect the average person to know what Goju-Ryu is, but I'm getting so damned tired of talking about it.

“Not exactly. The point of the style is to find a balance between aggression and calm, fire and water…”

Mike pipes up after downing a beer like nothing.

“Yin and yang!”

“Yeah, pretty much like that. When on defense, the body is soft and inhaling. On the attack, hardened and exhaling. Something like a simple palm strike to the chest coexists with things like fish-hooking.”

Gary puts his finger up before taking a last sip of his current beer.

“I taught him that last one of course!”

I glare at Gary and smirk, pissed off at his pun while the table laughs. As they all calm down, Dan swirls his beer with his hand near the bottom of the glass.

“So, has that helped you out?”

My brow furrows in confusion.

“With my wrestling? Yeah, there isn't anyone else in XWF practicing Goju-Ryu and it's Katas.”

“No, I mean like with your condition. I watched Neville Sinclair's promo today. He mentioned your sociopathy. Has that style of fighting helped you maintain balance in your life with your condition?”

Gary quiets down, Paul looks down at the table, and Mike is looking back and forth between me and Dan, who has me locked in an innocently smirking stare.

“...it was never really confirmed that I had sociopathy. It was more like, I showed some signs of it early on. But, I haven't had anything too bad in years. That's part of why I wrestle now and hang out with Gary more. Even the possibility of having that is too much of a risk to me.”

“Ah. So did you just start Goju-Ryu because you heard about it?”

I think I might've been wrong about Dan not being a chode.

“Dan, he doesn't have to answer-”

I cut off Gary.

“Not really. I'm sure that you've also heard that Gary here was my only family for 6 years. Well, that doesn't mean I was with family 6 years ago, and that doesn't mean we had a good relationship during that whole time. I had severe issues with rampant hedonism. I did all sorts of drugs but I was never addicted. I would get into fights just to prove a point. I got back into martial arts training because I didn't want to continue to piss my life away because of my nihilism.”

“I thought you still were a nihilist.”

“I am.”

“But it's a problem?”

“No, but it was.”

“How could it helpful to stay nihilist?”

“It's not, but there's such a thing as a positive nihlist.”


Dan finishes his beer.

“Are you one?”

I look at him emotionlessly, wondering why he could possibly ever want to put me in this position. I'm his friend's nephew, but he just seemed to try to discredit me in front of my Uncle and his inner circle. Like I was a lesser person, even though he was the one who brought up the most about my actual wrestling.

Without saying a word, I stand up in the booth and walk out over Gary and Mike. I seem to hear Gary reprimanding Dan in the background, with Dan dumbfoundedly feigning innocence, but I'm already outside before I hear the end of the conversation. I sit on a bench under a dim streetlight contemplating what exactly just happened in that bar. I enjoyed the questions, I appreciated the honesty, but what in the entire world was that about? I'm not sure whether or not to be angry at Dan. He's always been somewhat nice before. I hear Gary step out of the bar. I can feel his stare.

“You wanna talk about that?”

I shake my head no. He sits next to me on the bench.

“That was entirely uncalled for on Dan’s part. I know how that sort of behavior makes you feel. Who does he think he is and all that.”

“No, Gary, I know who he thinks he is. He thinks he's a successful investor with a rich father who can afford a massive houseboat on the Sound when the rest of his family lives in New York. He's in the position to say what he's said. It's fucked up and morally incorrect, but what can we do about it? Some of us just don't have what others have.”

Gary and I sit there under the light as many other drinkers stumble around the streets of Seattle, drinking to their heart's content until 2:00 AM.

“You're gonna be okay tonight?”

“Fine. You want an Uber?”

“Sure, thanks.”

I press a few virtual buttons on the screen and stand up.

“Should be here in 5-ish minutes.”

“You aren't going too?”

“I'll walk. I may be buzzed, but I can still move my legs. Good night.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

3:26 AM. Now I don't have a reason to be up. I've been walking around, taking in the sights of the city.

I really don't understand how people find Seattle depressing. It's surrounded with water except where it's surrounded by a mountain. It's like it's own beautiful, outlying pocket of Earth. It's not Seattle that's depressing, it's the people. Homeless people just kinda contemplating life and what role do frogs play in our ultimate demise. Lots of starving musicians who fetishize Kurt and Jimi and are really craving bullets with a side of late rent. Hipsters who only care about things they can tweet for virtual hearts that pop with confetti when touched. It's full of young liberal cynics who like the appeal of a place so artistically varied. And that's a great benefit of the place, but it also brings out the worst in people.

I stop in at a little corner store. Someone with a beanie is in the back looking at the absolutely amazing array of different flavors of stale chips. The owner is a gruff, balding Italian who somehow gets Italian television on his tiny CRT box with rabbit ears. I pick up a pack of cheap, shitty beef jerky and grab a canned coffee. Someone else walks in and looks around too. Chip guy is still wondering just how many different flavors of chips are possible in the Universe when I go up and pay. The second guy seems to go up to the register.

I walk about half a block down the sidewalk. I feel a sharp poke in my shoulder.

“Give me all the money on you.”

I stop and turn around. Second guy from the store. He has a knife and a nasty expression.

“What are you, fucking deaf? Give me your money, dipshit!”

“Dude, it's fuckin late, I'm a bit drunk, I'm just trying to get ho-”

The guy lunges on me and tries to wrestle the knife into my lung. I start to try and get him to the bottom, but the alcohol hasn't worn off nearly enough yet. I try more different angles, but none of it works in my favor. But I start to feel hits. Not like I'm being hit, but as if he, on top of me, is being hit by someone else. I manage to wrestle an arm up to start rabbit punching the guy until he rolls off of me. I get up and look at the guy on the ground, but I hear 3 buttons on a phone being pushed and I turn to see the person who helped.

He's a 6’0, skinny but muscular black guy in a black and gold suit. He has a utility belt with a bag of peanut butter M&M’s next to a taser. The beanie from before wasn't a beanie at all. It was a rubber mask.

“911? Hey, it's Phoenix. We have an attempted robbery.”

“...aww, come the fuck on!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sit and stare a hole into the water with the sound of raucous laughter right next to me.

“Phoenix Jones!? Like, the fake superhero Phoenix Jones!?”

“Yeah, also the one who's a mixed martial artist.”

“Oh, great! I heard that Spiderman wanted a challenger for his Welterweight title!”

More raucous laughter as Gary nearly loses his pole in the water.

“Aww, come on, I'm just givin’ ya a hard time. You know you could've taken the mugger down.”

“It's just so invalidating when you have to be saved by someone in a suit after being called lesser by some rich guy on a houseboat.”

“Oh yeah, Dan said he apologizes. He had too much to drink.”

“So does Mike, constantly. It just makes him more like Da Bears guy with each sip. He doesn't try to mentally pick you apart in front of friends.”

“I dunno, he might be going through some family stuff. At least you know that you've got a few new viewers for Saturday.”

“I guess. I'm going to go back and get my car from that parking lot.”

I get off the houseboat and walk back to the street above. I could've died at the hands of someone who just isn't willing to work, but I was saved by a dude in a suit. A tough one that has helped plenty of others in the past, but while still in a suit.

But why am I so angered about this? Phoenix Jones is a local Seattle legend. I've watched videos of him doing his thing before, but all of a sudden, I'm mad at him for helping me out?

Who do I think I am?