Barcaninja

After being American and participating in my first pub crawl (?), I had yet another somewhat romanticized encounter with a Pakistani crackhead. However, this particular Pakistani crackhead, proved much more forward and valiant in his approach to getting in my pants. A colleague and I were leaving Bar Manolo around three in the morning, when a masked man came at me in an awkwardly homoerotic and aggressive fashion. I am not sure if it is my likeness to an all-American farm-boi from the midwest or my usual scent (beers and tears) that attracted this thief to me.

In my inconspicuous stupor, I looked up from the grimy La Rambla alleyway to witness this pocket-checking boy-rapist slurring Spanish and prematurely frisking me with his tourist and hard drug stained hands. Apparently he was unaware of the ninja-stealth most pick-pocketers practice. Regardless, I was afraid, but drunk, confused, and strangely smiling as well. I considered three different but flawless plans of action:

1. - A quick head-butt to his nose piece.

2. - Pai Mei's Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique.

3. - Run.

I disregarded Option 1 for, at the time, I did not have the desire to bathe my face in some poor street chump's blood. Two would have been sort of a cop out, and I did not want to take my hands out of my pockets mainly because I was tired, but also so the poor street chump didn't have any chance at the little money I had in them. So I opted for the third plan.

After a little stutter step and one failed attempt at breaking through, I juked the kook to the right, threw some high knees, and Barry Sander'd my way out of the alley to ensure me and my colleague's "successful" return home. Wu-Tang.