# Chapter 3: The Authentic Warrior

Boby set down the spatula and looked at his watch. Nearly three o'clock. He'd been absent from work for over two hours now. Margaret would be furious. He needed a good excuse, something believable.

Family emergency? No, Margaret knew he had no family in town. Medical issue? Too easy to disprove. He couldn't exactly tell her he'd faceplanted into dog poop while trying to perform kung-fu on teenagers.

He picked up his phone and dialed the office.

"Penderson & Wicks Accounting, this is Margaret speaking," his supervisor answered.

"Margaret, it's... Boby," he said, remembering his new identity.

A pause. "Robert? Where are you? The Johnson audit is due in an hour!"

"I had a... personal emergency," he said, trying to sound appropriately distressed. "Something with my... aunt. She fell."

"Your aunt? You told me last Christmas you don't have any living relatives."

Boby winced. Why did Margaret have to remember everything?

"Second cousin," he amended quickly. "Twice removed. Elderly. Very frail. Fell down."

Margaret sighed. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you today, but I need that audit finished. Can you come back and complete it?"

Boby looked at himself in the mirror. His face was red from scrubbing, but at least he was clean now. He supposed he could go back and finish the workday.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he promised.

"Good. And Robert?"

"Boby," he corrected automatically.

Another sigh. "Whatever. Just... act normal when you get here, okay? Mr. Penderson is visiting the floor today."

Boby agreed and hung up. He dressed in his emergency backup work clothes—khakis and a white button-up that was slightly too tight around the middle. Not his best look, but it would have to do.

On the bus ride back to the office, Boby mentally rehearsed how he'd explain his strange behavior and sudden departure. A migraine, perhaps? Food poisoning? The more he thought about it, the more he realized nobody would believe any of his excuses. His best bet was to minimize conversation and get through the rest of the day.

When he arrived at the office building, the security guard gave him a strange look.

"You're back," Steve said, sounding surprised. "And you smell better."

Boby frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Something strange going on downtown today," Steve said, shaking his head. "First you rush out looking green around the gills, then there's that weird video everyone's watching—"

"Video?" Boby froze. "What video?"

Steve shrugged. "Something about a crazy guy face-planting in dog poop while trying to do kung-fu. Pretty hilarious, actually. Some of the folks from your floor were showing it to me earlier. Said the guy looked familiar."

Boby's stomach dropped. No. It couldn't have spread that quickly, could it?

"Anyway," Steve continued, oblivious to Boby's dismay, "hope your day gets better, Bob."

"It's Boby," he corrected weakly, heading for the elevator.

As the elevator doors opened on the fourteenth floor, Boby immediately noticed something was off. The usual typing and phone conversations had been replaced by clusters of people huddled around computer screens, laughing together.

He took a deep breath and stepped onto the floor. Nobody noticed him at first. He made it halfway to his cubicle before he heard someone whisper, "That's him!"

Heads turned in his direction. Eyes widened. A few people hurriedly minimized windows on their computer screens. Others didn't bother hiding their amusement.

Boby kept walking, chin up, trying to project dignity despite the hollow feeling in his chest. He could hear snippets of conversation as he passed.

"...face right in the..." "...Flying Justice Kick..." "...completely lost it..."

He reached his cubicle and sat down heavily in his chair. His computer screen showed the Johnson audit where he'd left it, waiting to be completed. Boby stared at the spreadsheet, trying to focus on the numbers, but they swam before his eyes.

"Robert?" Margaret appeared at his cubicle entrance, her expression a mixture of concern and annoyance. "Can I speak with you for a moment? In my office?"

Boby nodded and followed her to the small glass-walled office at the corner of the floor. Through the transparent walls, he could see coworkers glancing at him and whispering.

Margaret closed the door and sat behind her desk. "Robert—"

"Boby," he corrected automatically.

Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Boby. Would you care to explain what's going on? And don't give me that story about your fictitious aunt again."

Boby shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What exactly are you referring to?"

Margaret turned her computer monitor so he could see it. There, frozen on the screen, was an image of him, mid-fall, his face contorted in surprise as he plummeted toward Mrs. Abernathy's lawn. The video title read "KUNG-POO MASTER GETS CRAPPY ENDING" and already had over twenty thousand views.

"Oh," Boby said, his voice small.

"Oh is right," Margaret said, turning the monitor back. "Robert, you've been with us for five years. You've always been reliable, if a bit... dull." She paused. "No offense."

"None taken," Boby mumbled.

"But today you come in talking about your spirit burning with the fire of a thousand suns, you insist on being called 'Boby,' and now there's this video of you..." She waved her hand at the computer.

Boby straightened in his chair. Maybe this was an opportunity. Great heroes revealed themselves in moments of adversity, didn't they?

"I'm not having a breakdown," he said firmly. "I'm developing a new crime-fighting technique."

Margaret blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Crime-fighting," Boby repeated with growing confidence. "I'm bringing justice to our community. The video only shows my initial trial run. I've already identified several flaws in my approach that I'll be correcting."

Margaret stared at him for a long moment. "Robert—"

"Boby."

"—do you need to talk to someone? We have resources. The company health plan covers therapy sessions."

"I don't need therapy," Boby insisted. "I need better equipment. That's why my initial attempt failed."

Margaret leaned forward, her voice softening. "Robert, I've known you for five years. You're a good accountant. A bit quiet, maybe a bit lonely, but good at your job. Whatever this is..." she gestured vaguely at all of him, "it's not you."

"But it is me," Boby said earnestly. "The real me. Robert Pickleman was just the shell containing the warrior within."

Margaret sighed deeply. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. You're going to finish the Johnson audit. You're going to act professionally for the rest of the day. Then you're going to take tomorrow off—paid personal day—and think very hard about whether this is really the direction you want your life to take."

Boby opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He needed this job. Kung-fu vigilantes still had to pay rent.

"I'll finish the audit," he agreed. "But I'm not giving up my mission."

"Whatever you say," Margaret said, clearly just wanting the conversation to end. "Just... no more kung-fu at lunch, okay?"

Boby nodded and returned to his cubicle, aware of the eyes following him. As he settled in to work on the Johnson audit, he could hear coworkers snickering nearby. Someone made a kung-fu sound effect as he passed.

Boby tried to focus on the spreadsheet before him. Numbers. Numbers were simple. Numbers didn't laugh at you or upload videos of your failures to the internet.

For the next few hours, he immersed himself in accounting, letting the familiar rhythm of calculation soothe his wounded pride. By five o'clock, he had completed the Johnson audit and sent it to Margaret, who acknowledged receipt with a curt email that ended with "Feel better."

As people began packing up to leave, Boby kept his head down, waiting for the office to clear out. He didn't want to ride the elevator with coworkers who had spent the afternoon laughing at his humiliation.

When most people had left, he finally gathered his things and headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, he caught a snippet of conversation from two departing coworkers.

"...complete mental breakdown..." "...always the quiet ones..."

Boby leaned against the elevator wall, exhaustion washing over him. Today had not gone as planned. Not at all.

But he wasn't defeated. This was just a setback, a learning experience. All heroes faced mockery before rising to greatness. In "The Drunken Master Returns" (movie #481), the protagonist had been laughed out of town before returning to defeat all his enemies.

Boby just needed to adapt his approach. He needed proper equipment, proper training. Kitchen utensils wouldn't cut it. He needed authentic warrior gear.

Instead of heading home, Boby took the bus to the other side of town, where he remembered seeing a martial arts supply store. Golden Dragon Martial Arts Emporium had been in business for decades, its faded storefront nestled between a laundromat and a convenience store.

A small bell jingled as Boby pushed open the door. The interior smelled of incense and some kind of oil. Display cases lined the walls, filled with an array of weapons and equipment. Uniforms hung on racks, their bright colors standing out against the shop's dim lighting.

Behind the counter stood an elderly Asian man with wire-rimmed glasses, reading a newspaper. He looked up as Boby entered.

"Welcome to Golden Dragon," the man said in perfect English with no discernible accent. "How can I help you?"

Boby approached the counter, excitement building in his chest. This was it. This was where his true journey would begin.

"I need equipment," he said, trying to sound knowledgeable. "For kung-fu. Real kung-fu."

The old man regarded him through his glasses. "What style do you practice?"

Style? Boby hadn't considered this. In his mind, kung-fu was kung-fu. But now that he thought about it, his movies had mentioned many different styles. Wing Chun? Shaolin? Drunken Fist?

"A mixture," he improvised. "I'm... eclectic in my approach."

The old man raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Beginner level?"

Boby wanted to protest that he was advanced—after all, he'd watched a thousand movies—but his recent failure suggested otherwise.

"Let's say intermediate," he compromised. "I'm looking to expand my equipment collection."

The old man nodded and came out from behind the counter. "Training weapons first, then we can look at uniforms."

For the next hour, Boby followed the shopkeeper around the store, examining various items. He tried not to show his excitement as he handled practice swords, staffs, and nunchucks. The old man explained each weapon's purpose and proper use, though Boby only half-listened, too busy imagining himself wielding them against evildoers.

"These are training weapons," the old man emphasized repeatedly. "Not for actual combat."

"Of course, of course," Boby nodded, though in his mind he was already planning how he'd use them on his next mission.

By the time they finished, Boby had selected a practice sword with a wooden blade (which the old man called a bokken, though Boby was pretty sure that was Japanese rather than Chinese), a collapsible staff that could fit in a backpack, and a pair of nunchucks that he immediately smacked against his own elbow when trying to spin them.

"Perhaps start with the staff," the old man suggested kindly after Boby's third failed attempt to handle the nunchucks without injuring himself.

Next came uniforms. Boby had envisioned something dramatic in black with red accents, perhaps with a dragon embroidered on the back. The old man showed him several options, most in simple black or white.

"What about something more... distinctive?" Boby asked, disappointed by the plain offerings.

The old man disappeared into a back room and returned with a red and gold uniform that looked like it had been sitting in storage since the 1970s. "Special order that was never picked up," he explained. "Size might work for you."

Boby's eyes widened. The uniform was perfect—vibrant red with golden dragons spiraling up the sides and across the chest. It even had a matching headband.

"I'll take it," he said immediately.

The old man named a price that made Boby wince. Between the weapons and the uniform, he was looking at spending nearly half his monthly paycheck. But authentic equipment was worth the investment, he reminded himself. You couldn't put a price on justice.

As the old man rang up his purchases, Boby noticed a display case he hadn't examined yet. Inside were what appeared to be medallions or talismans of some kind.

"What are those?" he asked, pointing.

"Protection amulets," the old man said. "Traditional designs. Some people believe they offer spiritual protection during training."

Boby nodded sagely. Spiritual protection sounded exactly like what he needed. "I'll take one of those too."

The old man selected a medallion on a red cord and added it to Boby's growing pile of purchases. "This one is for courage and wisdom. Good choice for a beginner."

Boby didn't correct him about the "beginner" part again. His recent face-plant suggested the old man might be right.

With his credit card significantly lighter and his arms full of bags, Boby thanked the shopkeeper and headed for the door.

"One more thing," the old man called after him. "True kung-fu is not about the equipment. It's about discipline, respect, and years of practice."

Boby nodded. "Of course," he agreed, though inwardly he felt certain that his new gear would make all the difference.

Back in his apartment, Boby spread his purchases across the living room floor. The weapons gleamed under his apartment lights, the uniform's red fabric vivid against his beige carpet. This was more like it. This was warrior equipment.

Carefully, he put on the uniform. It was a bit tight around the middle—clearly meant for someone more physically fit—but otherwise fit well enough. He tied the headband around his forehead and stood before the mirror.

The transformation was remarkable. Gone was Robert Pickleman, mild-mannered accountant. In his place stood Boby, kung-fu vigilante, resplendent in red and gold, the protection amulet hanging around his neck.

He struck a pose, trying to look menacing. Much better than the bathrobe, he had to admit. Now no one would laugh at him. Now they would take him seriously.

Boby spent the next several hours practicing with his new weapons. The staff was easiest to handle, though he kept hitting his ceiling lamp when he tried to spin it. The sword felt natural in his grip, though he had no idea how to use it properly. The nunchucks remained challenging—he'd have several bruises tomorrow from his attempts to master them.

Around midnight, sweaty and tired but exhilarated, Boby decided he needed structure. Great warriors didn't just practice randomly; they had regimens, schedules, disciplines.

He found a notepad and pen and sat at his kitchen table, creating what he called "The Warrior's Path to Justice." It was a daily schedule that included:

5:00 AM - Rise with the sun (or apartment lights) 5:15 AM - Morning meditation 5:30 AM - Weapon practice (15 minutes each weapon) 6:15 AM - Breakfast of champions (probably cereal) 7:00 AM - Leave for work as Robert 5:30 PM - Return home, become Boby 5:45 PM - Evening weapon practice 7:00 PM - Patrol neighborhood for evil 10:00 PM - Review the day's justice 10:30 PM - Warrior's rest

Boby reviewed his schedule with satisfaction. This was how he would transform himself from a man who watched kung-fu to a man who lived it.

He pinned the schedule to his refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a slice of pizza—a remnant from his pre-warrior days. Tomorrow, he would begin following it rigorously. With Margaret giving him the day off, he could dedicate the entire day to training.

Too excited to sleep, Boby decided to practice a bit more with his new staff. He had watched countless staff fights in his movies and felt certain he could replicate at least some of the basic movements.

He stood in the center of his living room, staff in hand. He closed his eyes, trying to channel the focus and concentration he'd seen in "The 36th Chamber of Shaolin" (movie #129).

Boby began moving the staff in slow, deliberate motions, mimicking what he remembered from the films. He spun it (carefully, mindful of the ceiling lamp), thrust it forward at imaginary opponents, swept it low as if to knock their feet out from under them.

In his mind, he was graceful, powerful, deadly. In reality, he was an overweight accountant swinging a stick around his apartment at midnight.

A tap on the wall interrupted his flow.

"Keep it down in there!" called his neighbor, Mr. Jenkins. "Some of us work early!"

"Sorry!" Boby called back, lowering his staff.

Perhaps it was time for the warrior's rest after all. Tomorrow would be a full day of training, and he needed his strength.

Boby carefully stored his new weapons in his coat closet, lovingly placing each one on the shelf. He hung his uniform on a special hanger, positioning it so it would be the first thing he saw when he opened his closet tomorrow.

As he prepared for bed, brushing his teeth and washing his face, Boby couldn't help but feel optimistic despite the day's humiliations. He had the proper equipment now. He had a training schedule. He was on his way to becoming a true warrior of justice.

He climbed into bed, setting his alarm for 5:00 AM. The protection amulet lay on his nightstand, its red cord coiled like a tiny dragon.

Boby closed his eyes, drifting toward sleep with visions of heroic deeds dancing in his head. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, Boby's true journey would begin.

He was just on the edge of sleep when a loud crash jolted him fully awake.

Boby sat up, blinking in confusion. The sound had come from outside, somewhere behind his building. He got out of bed and went to his window, which overlooked the alley below.

In the dim light of the single alley lamp, he could make out an overturned trashcan, its contents spilled across the pavement. Movement caught his eye—a shadowy figure darting between the dumpsters.

Boby's heart raced. This was it. A real crime in progress—perhaps a burglar or vandal stalking the neighborhood under cover of darkness.

He glanced at his closet, where his new uniform and weapons waited. This was no drill, no practice run. This was a real opportunity to bring justice to the world.