Miami Beach in the mid 90’s: a chaotic whirlwind of decadence, vice, and casual encounters with Hollywood stars. I was in my element. At aged 25 and a lean 270lbs, I was an irrepressible mix of sexual energy and reckless courage. A god-blessed combination of brains and brawn had ensured that I had already made a name for myself as a much sought-after bodyguard for the celebrity elite, and as I strolled on up to the most expensive nightclub in town, I caught a glance of my reflection in a car window and afforded myself a moment of immodesty to appreciate the way in which my fitted white Armani T-shirt wrapped around my chiselled arms.
A sharp whistle broke the ambience and snapped me back to reality. It was Carlos, the head doorman. ‘ Yo! Where the hell you been, brother?’ He asked, as he waved me up past the queue and leaned in for a hug-handshake combo. ‘You know me, man’ I said, laughing. ‘I can’t keep track of what day it is with all these girls after me!’ He put his hands on my shoulders and shook me lightly. ‘Please, mayne; you gotta fuckin teach me the ways! Show me how to get that prime pussy I always be seeing you with!’ I muttered something about promising to teach him every trick in the book as I made my way past him to the club’s inner doors. ‘Fucking b-eaner’, I thought to myself. ‘If I’ve got greasy hand prints on the back of my T-shirt now, I’ll take his nose off with a pair of pliers’.
As I made my way through the club and up to the bar I caught a figure out of the corner of my eye waving at me and trying to get my attention. It was Cameron Diaz and I was in no mood to have to listen to more of her shit. I hadn’t bothered to return her calls all last week, and I knew she wanted answers, but I wasn’t about to break her heart and tell her that she had an odour problem ‘downstairs’. She was far enough away for me to act like I hadn’t seen her, and I quickly shielded myself amongst the intermingling mass of bodies that had congregated on the dance floor to arrive at the bar unnoticed. I squeezed up next to a rather portly figure with a ponytail who was trying to get the barmaid’s attention by impatiently waving a $50 around, and noticed the team of bodyguards in close proximity to him, trying hard to look professional with their folded arms and earpieces. ‘Must be fucking amateur-hour’ I laughed to myself. The barmaid resembled a young Jennifer Aniston; my eyes fixated on her small but perfectly shaped breasts as they teasingly jiggled up and down in time with each step she took towards me. She smiled as she realised where my gaze was cast, and brushed past the outstretched arm with the $50 in it to lean in close to me. ‘What can I get you, baby?’ she asked. I could hear the rotund gentleman next to me curse in annoyance, and as I turned to face him I realised exactly who it was: plastic tough-guy and Z-list actor Steven Seagal. I was no fan of his shitty movies but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt in case he ever decided to hire a real bodyguard. ‘It’s ok, babe; you can serve this guy first’, I answered back. She gave me a wink and turned to face him. ‘How much is that?’ he snapped, pointing up to the bottle of 1946 Macallan on the top shelf. She hesitated as she observed him impatiently rifling through his wallet, trying to count up his fifties. ‘It’s...It’s 500 bucks a glass, sir’, she said nervously, as she picked it up. He froze. ‘How fucking much?’ He replied, as his body tensed up and nostrils flared. ‘uuuh...500, sir’. He glared at her as he stood motionless for what seemed like an age. He breathed a sigh of capitulation as he bowed his head in shame. ‘Get me a Heineken’, he muttered, dejectedly. His attitude towards the young beauty had irked me, and as she reached up to put the bottle back on the top shelf I called out: ‘Wait...I’ll take two’. ‘You sure?’ she giggled, as she turned to me, regaining her upbeat demeanour. ‘Absolutely, babe. One for me, one for you’. She leaned in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek before skipping across the bar to fetch two glasses.
‘What the fuck is your problem, buddy?’ he barked, as he turned to fix me with a look of apoplectic rage. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who you are, but I ain’t got no problem’, I replied. ‘In fact, I got the opposite of a problem...I’ve got a wallet filled with hundred dollar bills and I’m gonna take that girl home with me later and give her a hot beef injection’. His face flushed with fury as he suddenly lost all composure and cried out ‘Oh Yeah? Well, she’s a fucking slut! I’ve fucked a thousand girls better-looking than her...Do you know who the fuck I am?’ the rest of the bar had stepped away from us by now, realising that it might not be the best of ideas to get trapped between a young muscle-hunk and an angry fat guy dressed up like a ninja. His entourage circled around us. ‘Take a hike, bozo’s’, I said calmly. They knew who I was and reluctantly backed off. I leaned in so that I was now face-to-face with him and whispered: ‘ I think you better apologise to her, sir, or I might just have to punch your tits over your shoulders’. He looked startled, aware that he had inadvertently backed himself into a corner he didn’t want to be in. All eyes were now on the both of us. ‘D...do you know what the Japanese is for “way of the harmonious spirit”?’ He spluttered. ‘It’s Aikido…and I was taught it by a grandmaster...over in Japan, so how about we both just cool it, ok? I know how to take a man down using only my chi’. I could see the nervousness in him and decided to push him further. ‘I don’t give a shit about your stupid Japanese grandmaster’, I said. ‘Their flag is actually a pie chart about how many of them are scared of Godzilla, and I’ll quite happily let you know what a nuclear bomb feels like before you fuck off back there again with a broken jaw’. As soon as the words had escaped my mouth he lashed out and grabbed me by the T-shirt as hard as he could. ‘TAKE THAT BACK’, he snarled. ‘Fuckin take it back or I’ll kill you!’ I laughed out loud. ‘Schoolboy error’ I said. ‘I MEAN IT! TAKE IT BACK WHAT YOU SAID ABOUT THE JA’…. Before the words were even out of his mouth I’d reached across to grab him by the hand and immediately bent his fingers back far enough to force him to relinquish his grip and let out a shrill cry of pain. ‘How does it feel to have to play the role of the bad guy for once in one of your own stupid films?’ I asked. ‘Not as much fun when it’s your fingers being broke, is it?’
He struggled to fight the pain and keep composed. Through gritted teeth he answered back: ‘Ok...Ok, look...I’m sorry, just let me go’. On another night I may have obliged, but not this time. Not after having had to sit through Under Siege 2: Dark Territory. This fat fuck was getting it. ‘Apologise to the young lady and the rest of the bar’ I called out authoritatively. ‘C’mon, please, I won’t do it’, he whispered. ‘I’m Steven fuckin Seagal, man; just let me go’. Enough was enough. I bent his fingers back as far as they would go, and directed him onto his knees as he let out a cry of pain so loud that the music stopped. You could hear a pin drop. ‘AAAAAAHHH, OK, I’M FUCKING SORRY! I’M FUCKING SORRY, MAN! I DIDN’T MEAN IT’, he screamed. ‘Tell the nightclub you’re an overweight pervert and you’re sorry for making Under Siege 2’, I demanded. ‘IT’S TRUE! IT’S FUCKIN TRUE, OK! I CAN’T STOP STUFFING MY FACE AND MY MOVIES ARE DOGSHIT’. The entire club broke out in laughter and I released my vice-like grip on his fingers. ‘THERE’S YOUR HERO’, I called out to the crowd, pointing at the broken man I now stood over. I leaned over to disrespectfully ruffle his slicked-back hair, then held up my now blackened hand to the crowd. ‘Boot polish!’ I shouted out in disgust. ‘I knew it all along’. I turned my back on the applauding audience as the bodyguards rushed over to drag the defeated fraudster away. ‘Now, how about another drink?’ I asked the barmaid. ‘You got it’, she replied as she rushed on over into my arms. ‘You can have anything you want... Anything’. The night was only just beginning.
