Seven years ago, Christmas Day.
Or Christmas Night, rather. Because it was night time.
My annual Christmas tradition is going to the cinema. Something I want to see always opens on or around the big day, and I'm a movie whore, so it's a no-brainer. 11 years running, dammit!
Anyway, I'm at the cinema with two of my dear friends, and we're holding our tickets, waiting in line for... I can't remember the name of the movie, but that's not important.
I don't remember the day (or night) because of the scintillating motion picture I experienced that Christmas, it was because I met Ken Shamrock.
That's right. Ken Mother-Fucking Shamrock. Perhaps some of you haters of The Sport Of Kings don't know who he is. Google his name, you infidels.
Right. I'm telling a story.
So there he is, right? Ken Shamrock, himself, walking out of some movie with this little entourage, looking pissed-the-fuck-off.
You know that look. Like he's about to punch through a brick wall with his bare fucking hands.
THAT look.
But I know this may be my only opportunity to meet the man (I don't get out much). So I stumble out of line, and make a beeline for Kenny.
I step in front of him. We lock eyes. And I wonder briefly if I've made a huge mistake. Perhaps my weak flesh will become the stand-in for that sturdy brick wall, tonight.
I reach into my pocket with an unsteady hand and pull out my trusty Sharpee. I always carry a Sharpee when I leave the house. I have a strong compulsion to share my thoughts with complete strangers via hastily scribbled messages on public bathroom walls. It's kind of my thing.
I hold the Sharpee up to Ken Shamrock, and squeak out "I'm a huge fan, Mr. Shamrock. Could you sign my shirt?" He stares at the Sharpee for what seems like an eternity, then right into my face for another eternity. I feel my brain boiling under his stare.
Then he snatches the Sharpee out of my hand. He bites the cap off and spits it into the line of staring moviegoers. One of them took it home as a lucky souvenir, I'm sure. Maybe they intended to clone Shamrock with the saliva on the cap. No matter.
He proceeds to sign my shirt in the most violent way I could ever imagine. He basically raped my torso with my own Sharpee. I remember it hurting quite a bit, at the time. The painful jabs, the aching strokes...
When he finished this "signing", he briefly held the Sharpee up to his nose, inhaling the magic marker fumes, combined with the smell of my fear-sweat.
The he jammed my Sharpee into his shirt pocket, which I remembered thinking was quite stupid, because without a cap, it would surely bleed into the material.
He grinned, barked out a quick "Merry Christmas", then disappeared into the night.
I rejoined the line with my friends, and we all looked at the scribblings on my shirt.
It said: Fuck You, Ken Shamrock.
That's what the man scrawled on my shirt. His violent assault on my chest had actually broken the skin, so a small blood stain had joined the signature, like some kind of twisted punctuation. It looks like an umlaut over the word "Fuck".
After the movie, I went home, removed the shirt, and put a bandage on my bruised and battered chest. I had the shirt professionally framed. It hangs over the computer on which I type.
Sometimes I lean back in my chair and stare at the blood-stained memorabilia, remembering that magical night.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
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