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Secret Weapon

By Mike Straw

          Miguel Del Pax is in his early thirties, a glorious age, with unbounded energy and unlimited prospects. He believes in the philosophy of relativism and it’s kept him in good stead. Keeping to Robert Heinlein’s quote in his novel “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress,” TANSTAAFL,” or, There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch,” Miguel had boldly set out to create his own success, and on the way, his rightful pursuit of happiness. It wasn’t easy. He isn’t tall, he’s black-haired and brown eyed, but he’s handsome -of course, he’ll never admit it -but he’s naturally muscular, aided by his predilection for morning runs and weight-lifting.

          A chess player and gambler, he doesn’t waste time or money on get-rich-quick schemes -it seems the more research and preparation he engages in, the luckier he is -he’s wary of all things by his nature, and by his training. Not content with success in endeavors such as football and track, wrestling and gymnastics, in his teens he started on a program of martial arts -and, like Bruce Lee, was bitterly disappointed by the hype and the hypocritical nature of its proponents. By accident, he stumbled across Jeet Kune Do, the Way of the Intercepting Fist, a discipline first refined by the legendary Lee, himself only five feet six inches and one hundred twenty-eight pounds. Miguel’s the type of person who, never having set eyes on him in your life, you’d just naturally buy him a drink, introduce him to your sister, tell him your life story and promise him undying friendship. He’d look stoically over the drink, praise your sister, nod at the appropriate moments in your story, and reach across the table very firmly shaking your hand with all those muscular fingers as he looked squarely into your eyes, and tell you that whatever you needed, he’d be there for you. It made you proud, it made him friends, and it didn’t do his business any harm, either.

          I’ve been on the receiving end of one of his phone calls, where he completely re-arranges his schedule for the next three days over the phone because a friend had asked him for help. He calls it triage: sorting priorities -if you bitched about it, he’d tell you, no, it’s not life or death, but it’s more important than what we planned, and when you need it, he’ll do the same for you, ‘cause that’s what friends do. When he stands, he naturally leans forward with his neck forward of his large, muscular shoulders. Some say they fear him because, not knowing him, they thought he looked intimidating, although they didn’t phrase it that way, but they were intimidated, and so frightened by him.

          It’s the mindset he always carries: trust no one. What about all those friends? In the words of President Reagan, “Trust, but verify.” It had made him enemies of those insulted not to have a knife and be invited to stand behind him, but those who had the poor sense to mouth off and challenge him were introduced to a new relationship between their joints and the ground. The drunks were gently directed out the door with a simple arm bar, the more belligerent were dealt with by a lightning quick series of moves starting with a stunning palm heel strike to the chin or a steel-like finger strike to the clavicle notch and ending with them on the outside looking in. If you wanted to wait in the shadows for him to pass by on his way home, that was just fine too. One former acquaintance, who chose to break off his friendship by means of a flashing blade, discovered that it could be taken right out of his hand and used against him -Miguel still says he doesn’t regret not killing him. Another gentleman had not a knife, but a pistol -a very expensive one at that -taken from his hand as he tried using it. Ask Miguel to see it -he still has it.

          Now, I don’t mean that he went looking for a fight, or that he’d even engage in one if it were right in front of him, but if he couldn’t avoid one, Miguel wasn’t the one who was going to lose. I tell you these stories not to show you how impressive Miguel is, but to show you only that he doesn’t get angry, nor does he run away. He does have a marvelous sense of humor, specializing in puns, collects cookbooks, of all things, has nothing but 1978 Olds Cutlasses -twenty of them, he says it’s a hobby that took off with him -enjoys a wide and eclectic selection of music, everything from Mikis Theodorakis to the Gipsy Kings- and he reads. Oh, does he read. Even those cookbooks he collects. He says it’s how he meets people from other places and times. He reads science fiction from Robert Heinlein to L. Neil Smith and history from Leonidas to Gary Gordon.

          Miguel isn’t your average manager. Although he did manage a very profitable restaurant for a large national chain, it was only very profitable because Miguel did things his way -not to imply that he cut corners, just the opposite -he gave away the store. Portions were just a little bigger, service was quicker and friendlier, even the base pay of his hardworking, loyal employees was slightly higher that other units of the same chain. This is what invariably brought in more customers, who stayed longer, came back more often, and left better tips. Miguel was everywhere, overseeing every detail, often arriving early and staying late to improve some little item, like personally making some sauce that the chain shipped in canned, the homey details that the customers loved.

          But Miguel was different in other regards, too. One of the further reasons he was always greeting customers at the door was to observe them: their appearance, demeanor, and attitudes, to discover early who was a possible threat. You see, Miguel had the only restaurant in the entire chain that had never been robbed, not even once, not even a penny. The employees were content, they weren’t going to give him up or knock off the place themselves, the customers were friendly and looked out for each other, and Miguel had constantly drilled every employee about proper safety procedures.

          Access to the kitchen is always locked; nobody gets in without verified ID, constant money drops from the register to minimize loss, video surveillance, Miguel had even installed magnetic locks on the waitresses’ swinging doors (steel fire doors) to the kitchen that locked them when the silent alarm was triggered -and any employee could trigger it from the unobtrusive key fob each carried. Miguel tended to cultivate an unusual crop of employees: for instance, most went to the same gym as he did, attending Jeet Kune Do classes, and just coincidentally, every single employee (and, confidentially, most customers) had a carry permit, many going far beyond the state requirement, thanks to Miguel’s generous time-off policy, attending such prestigious institutions as Gunsite Academy, Thunder Ranch, Lethal Force Institute and SIGArms Academy. Of course, that was only one aspect of their training: in the discipline of Jeet Kune Do, those employees who had not yet attended classes from Paul Vunak, Chris Clugston, Tom Proctor and Kelly Warden were anxious to get there.

          Even the scattered items plastered to the walls in the restaurant, unnoticed and unrecognized by patrons, had significance to Miguel -and he explained them all to his interested employees: tattered, yellowed parchments: the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and Bill of Rights; a teenager in a military uniform, weighed down by a mass of medals, including a blue ribbon with a gold star hanging around his neck: Audie Murphy; a faded photograph of camouflaged men proudly gathered around a helicopter: two of the men are Medal of Honor recipients Gary Gordon and Randy Shughart, who literally gave away their lives saving Mike Durant; a yellowing photo of president Teddy Roosevelt, the hero of San Juan Hill, who habitually carried a pistol at all times said, “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena… who strives valiantly, who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, and spends himself in a worthy cause. Who, at best knows the triumph of high achievement and who, at worst if he fails, fails while daring greatly so his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat. We should establish shooting galleries in all the large public and military schools, should maintain national target ranges in different parts of the country, and should in every way encourage the formation of rifle clubs throughout all parts of the land. The little republic of Switzerland offers us an excellent example in all matters connected with building up an efficient soldiery… we should encourage rifle practice among schoolboys, and indeed among all classes, as well as in the military services, by every means in our power. Thus, and not otherwise, may we be able to assist in preserving the peace of the world. Unprepared, and therefore unfit, we must sit dumb and helpless to defend ourselves, protect others, or preserve peace. No greater wrong can ever be done than to put a good man at the mercy of a bad, while telling him not to defend himself or his fellows; in no way can the success of evil be made surer or quicker. Speak softly and carry a big stick!”

          Even his cousin Eleanor agreed: “There are no victims, only volunteers.” Yes, she carried a pistol, too. In her book, “You Learn by Living,” she taught, “you gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face… you must do the thing which you think you cannot do.” The story is often told, with awe, about the 1958 civil rights speech she gave, at age seventy-four, at the Highlander Folk School in Tennessee. Targeted by the Klan, a twenty-five thousand dollar bounty was placed on her head. The all-seeing, omnipotent FBI told her, true to form, “we can’t protect you.” Well, that much was true. The intrepid former First Lady’s reply? “I didn’t ask for your protection. I have a commitment. I’m going.” She drove through dangerous Klan territory at night with a loaded pistol on the seat next to her. She delivered that speech, a workshop on civil disobedience, unmolested.

          Miguel had to juggle madly to satisfy the insufferable louts the corporation sent out. Company policy, you see, was an enlightened one: “just give them what they want!” backed up by a Draconian “no legal defensive arms on the premises” unilateral extremist victim disarmament policy guaranteeing no lawsuits against the corporation, because as we all know, dead employees can’t tell tales. Unfortunately, it only applied to predatory criminals, and not to Miguel -every time he asked the corporation for something, the answer was a surly “no!” and a promise to re-evaluate his “contribution” to the corporation’s profit structure. They even complained about the “hunting” décor, threatening not to renew his contract if he didn’t get rid of a deer head over the entrance that had caused local tree-huggers to picket the place, garnering the corporation undue negative publicity. Just one big happy family, and yet, the inevitable must one day occur.

          It was a gloomy night in late November when it happened. It had been miserable all day, what with a biting, frigid wind out of a rushing steel-gray sky driving piercing sleet across the constantly freezing windshields of drivers who skidded across slushy roads, wishing they were already where they wanted to go -or that they had never left. Traffic was down, and the few who stopped in didn’t stay long. Miguel kindly offered to allow any employee worried about it to go home -with pay. His line cook asked, “you stayin’?”

          That was as far as it got.

          Around closing time, a nondescript pair bundled to the gills wandered in, plopping themselves front and center at the counter. “Coffee?” asked the waitress, as cheerful as on a good day. One of the pair nodded from under a black watch cap as the other headed for the men’s room. The coffee cups clicked onto the counter just as the other partner emerged from the men’s room. Suddenly, his coat flapped open as he brought up a wicked-looking shotgun, pointing it directly at Miguel’s face. The man at the counter, almost as if by magic, produced a pistol, sticking it in the startled waitress’s face. The man with the shotgun, stating the obvious, roared, “This is a stickup!” The man at the counter tersely ordered everyone into the kitchen, gesturing with the pistol. As Miguel unobtrusively triggered the silent alarm by simply pressing his key fob in his pocket, he spoke soothingly to the leader, the man with the pistol: “Nobody move.” He’d recognized the pair as the desperadoes that made a living from targeting this particular chain of restaurants due to the corporation’s murderous “just give them what they want!” policy, which had already resulted on over a dozen dead and scores injured -these guys weren’t gentle.

          Looking intently at the man with the pistol, Miguel calmly explained to him, “I’m the only one with the combination to the safe. If you kill me, you go home broke. They stay here -you don’t need them, and besides, they won’t all fit. One of you watches them, the other can watch me to make sure I don’t do anything stupid, and believe me, I won’t. You know the rules -I’m going to give you the money, but if anyone hears a shot, that means he killed me -run for the door -he can’t get all of you.”

          After some threatening and bluster, the chastised leader, with no better option, basically agreed to Miguel’s reasonable conditions, demonstrating his authority by sticking the pistol painfully into Miguel’s back and rudely shoving him into the kitchen.

          An eternity passed as Miguel’s loyal employees stared worriedly at each other, sweating over their beloved boss’s fate.

          Suddenly, “pop-pop!”

          The man with the shotgun ran for the kitchen.

          A moment of silence, then, “pop-pop!”

          A moment later, Miguel slide-stepped out of the kitchen, a partially-emptied box magazine protruding from his left-front pants pocket, his smoking pistol in the weapon-retention position, snugged against his right pectoral muscle, canted out to clear the ejection port, finger safely indexed along the frame, well out of the trigger guard, his non-dominant arm triangulated against his forehead. “Everybody O. K.?” And indeed, they were, only because, like the predatory criminals, Miguel hadn’t played by the rulers either.

          The bad news isn’t the two dead robbers -it’s that the kindly corporation didn’t even wait for Miguel’s contract to expire -they immediately fired him “for violation of company policy,” and every one of Miguel’s loyal employees quit too. That restaurant still stands empty today. The good news is that most of Miguel’s employees now run their own restaurants, teaching Miguel’s style of management to their loyal employees, thanks to Miguel’s inspired leadership. And Miguel? He bought the land across the street and built the famous local landmark, The Robber’s Roost, -and that’s why the corporation can’t rent the old place! How would you sum up Miguel’s philosophy? “MOLON LABE!” (Mo-lone lah-vey) is the reply that boldly echoes to us out of the mists of antiquity of the Spartan general-king Leonidas to the son of legendary King Darius, Xerxes, the Persian emperor who came in 480 B. C. with six hundred thousand of the fiercest fighting troops in the world to invade and conquer little Greece, birthplace and then the center of civilization as we know it.

          Leonidas marched with three hundred hand-picked, steadfast troops, forever after to be gloriously known as “the immortals,” to wind-swept Thermopylae on the northern coast of Greece. Thermopylae was the best of three possible defensive areas in which Xerxes' invading army had to advance. This mountain gap along the coast was only about sixty feet wide, and was the best location for a blocking action. When ferocious Xerxes civilly offered to spare the lives of Leonidas, his personal bodyguards, a handful of Thebans and others who had selflessly volunteered to stalwartly defend their country, if they’d simply lay down their arms, Leonidas boldly shouted back these defiant words: “MOLON LABE!” They mean, “COME AND TAKE THEM!” The valiant Spartans died under such a hail of arrows that it blotted out the sun, but not before inflicting damages on the Persians that allowed the Greeks to rally and ultimately defeat the Asiatic threat.

The pillar commemorating the gallant Spartans' last stand which remains at that location today contains these words attributed to fierce and resolute King Leonidas, "Go tell the Spartans, travelers passing by, that here, obedient to their laws we lie."

          It signifies our determination to not strike the first blow, but also to not stand mute and allow our loved ones, and all that we believe in and stand for, to be trampled by evil men who would deprive us of our God-given rights to suit their own malicious ends.

          From the days of the painful birth of our great nation, the stirring

words of that great American patriot, Thomas Paine, “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered: yet we have this consolation within us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly... it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.”

          Similar sentiment still exists today in courageous patriots like sixty-one year old farmer Elmer Wade, who boldly wrote to the bloody ATF: “I am writing this letter so you won’t have any surprises. Through no fault of my own, I am being put upon. I’ve had all I can stand of you in the front, and I do not plan to roll over. So when you send your collector, have that Woman [murdering Janet Reno] send your WACO KILLERS with them. They will need them. Living is not very much fun with you standing on my neck.”

          Make no mistake: at some point in life, not of your choosing, every man most assuredly will be tested. Whether you stand up or fall down is determined solely by your personal choice at that moment: which will it be?

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