That fateful day in London!
3am, Brixton, London. A fine mist of rain fell from the sky and streetlights lit the road a sickening yellow hew. Shallow puddles reflected the moonlight with a murky haze and the only sounds were my own footsteps as I marched, steadily down Coldharbour Lane.

Something metallic clattered behind me, I turned and saw nothing. I resumed my stride with renewed caution. Something ahead caught my eye, a flash of gleaming metal from the darkness of a side ally. I paused, 3 hooded figures clothed in black emerged silently from the gloom.

My heart raced, I swiftly about-faced and resumed my stride in the opposite direction without looking back. Two more figures appeared in front on me, they closed in. I looked left and right for escape but I was trapped. The 5 figures drew closer walking with a casual stroll. I feared the worse, these were professionals.

They halted; I could make out five stern faces steering at me, the tallest of the men stepped forward and stood directly in front of me, we were face to face, eye to eye.

He spoke: “Do you….” and paused

I took a deep breath and calmed myself.

He resumed “Know the way to the High Street?”

I was shocked, directions?! They wanted simple directions? I saw red and I felt a supernova of adrenaline surge through me. With lightning speed I lunged forward and grabbed the man by the both ears pulling his head towards my knee with all my strength. I felt the impact and satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage. The reaming four exchanged glanced and leapt in the fray. I dodged left and right and brought my mighty Yang Chong Low super Kung Fu roundhouse kick to bear, the impact knocked two of my assailants across the street, their helpless bodies falling limp on the cold cobblestone floor.

One of the remaining two grabbed me from behind and attempted to establish a rudimentary headlock, I shrugged it off and with my Foo Ling Mong Uppercut I punched the mans head clean off, it flew virtually and came to a crashing thump down on the ground directly in front of the remaining man, dead eyes staring upwards. The last man clutched has his chest, had a heart attack and died instantly. I resumed my walk, whistling as I went.*

*may not be entirely true… I can’t whistle.
(Minty Hit, Fri 16 Jun 2006, 12:21, Reply)