At a smoky biker tavern off Route 40 in Tennessee, a 290-pound diesel mechanic named Tank was destroying everyone at arm wrestling on a notched oak table. He slammed his sixth consecutive challenger's knuckles onto the wood, looked across the bar at me quietly sipping a Diet Dr Pepper, and grinned: "Hey Ninja. You got any steel in those chopsticks?" A samurai does not decline a public challenge of strength when honor has been formally named. "I accept the duel," I said, setting my glass on a cardboard coaster. I sat across from him. His right forearm looked like a hickory-smoked country ham wrapped in Harley-Davidson tattoos. I gripped his colossal hand, centered my breathing into my lower abdomen, dug my work boots into the pine floorboards, and focused completely on the ancient internal equilibrium of my ancestors. The referee yelled: "READY... GO!" Tank slammed my knuckles into the oak table in 0.38 seconds flat. The kinetic shock rattled every neon beer sign on the wall. My right shoulder blade momentarily transcended into another spiritual realm. I did not flinch. I did not blink. I kept my face entirely frozen like a wooden Noh mask, leaned back with deliberate elegance, and smoothed my shirt collar. "An admirable display of wrist snap." Tank stared at me. The jukebox seemed to stop playing. Then Tank slammed his open hand on the table and roared to the ceiling: "He didn't make a sound! His arm nearly snapped in half and he stared straight through my soul like a contract killer! Somebody buy this lethal bastard a double bourbon!" Twenty-five bikers pounded their fists on the bar until the glasses danced. I drank the double bourbon with my left hand because my right arm had completely severed all diplomatic and neurological relations with the rest of my body. I have never been more respected. I have never needed orthopedic surgery and a sling more.