Prison Gang Leader Bullies New Inmate — Unaware He’s a Wing Chun Grandmaster
The prison yard was loud that afternoon. Weights clanged, men shouted, dust hung in the air. That’s when the new inmate walked onto the concrete. No swagger, no scanning for threats, just a quiet man moving straight across the yard, eyes forward, hands relaxed at his sides. The gang leader noticed immediately.
“You!” he barked, stepping into the man’s path. “New guys don’t walk through my yard.” The circle formed fast, boots scraping, shadows closing in. “Look at him.” Someone laughed. “Skinny, soft. You sure you’re in the right prison?” The gang leader shoved him, hard. The new inmate didn’t fall. He didn’t even step back.
His feet stayed planted, his elbows tucked in, his spine straightened just slightly. A guard watching from the tower narrowed his eyes. That posture wasn’t instinct. It was training. “Move!” the gang leader snarled, grabbing the man’s shirt and pulling him close. “You going to fight or you going to beg?” The new inmate finally spoke.
“You’re standing on my line.” The words were calm, almost polite. Then, without winding up, without stepping away, his forearm snapped forward. Not a punch, a short, sharp strike straight down the center. The gang leader gasped. Hands flew to his chest, his legs buckled. Silence ripped through the yard because what just happened wasn’t luck, wasn’t strength, wasn’t rage. It was Wing Chun.
Centerline control, economy of motion, ending a fight before it began. And in that moment, everyone in the yard realized they hadn’t challenged a weak new inmate. They had tested a grandmaster. Stay with me until the end because what this man does next inside that prison yard will permanently shift the balance of power.
The name on his intake papers read David Chen, age 58, conviction for tax fraud, sentence 3 years minimum security. But the paperwork didn’t mention the 40 years he’d spent teaching Wing Chun in a small school above a restaurant in San Francisco’s Chinatown.
It didn’t describe the countless hours perfecting movements passed down through generations, and it certainly didn’t explain why a man who could destroy an opponent in seconds had chosen to live his life dedicated to peace. David had built his reputation not on violence, but on restraint. His students came to him broken, angry young men looking for a way to channel their rage.
Older folks seeking confidence, children needing discipline. He taught them that true strength came from understanding when not to fight, that the highest level of martial arts wasn’t defeating your enemy, but never having to prove yourself at all. The system had other plans. The gang leader writhing on the concrete was Marcus “Tank” Rodriguez, 6’3″, 250 lbs of pure intimidation.
Tank had ruled Riverside Correctional for 8 years through a simple philosophy: establish dominance early, maintain it through fear, and never let anyone question your authority. His crew controlled everything that mattered, commissary access, protection rackets, even which guards could be trusted to look the other way.
Tank had built his empire on reading people. Fresh inmates walked into his domain in one of three ways. The scared ones kept their heads down and paid tribute without being asked. The angry ones tried to make a reputation by challenging him directly. The smart ones waited, watched, and eventually found their place in his hierarchy.
But David Chen was something Tank had never encountered. A man who moved with purpose but showed no aggression, who spoke softly but commanded attention, who absorbed a shove that should have sent him sprawling and somehow remained perfectly balanced. As Tank struggled to his feet, gasping for air, David simply stepped aside.
No victory dance, no trash talk, no attempt to press his advantage. He just moved calmly toward the weight bench where he’d been heading before the confrontation began. The yard remained frozen. Conversations had stopped mid-sentence. Even the guards had paused their rounds to stare at the impossible scene unfolding below.
Snake Williams, Tank’s lieutenant, was the first to break the spell. “Lucky shot!” he called out, his voice carrying across the concrete. “Old man got lucky.” But Snake’s words sounded hollow even to himself. He’d been watching fights in this yard for 6 years. He knew the difference between luck and skill.
What he’d just witnessed wasn’t a wild swing connecting by chance. It was precision, technique, the kind of movement that spoke of decades of training. David settled onto the weight bench and began his workout. Not the chaotic, ego-driven lifting that dominated most prison yards, but controlled movements with perfect form.
Each repetition deliberate, each breath measured. The weights he chose were modest, but his technique was flawless. Tank’s crew gathered around their fallen leader, helping him to a concrete table where he could sit and recover his breathing. The strike had hit a pressure point most people didn’t even know existed. Tank felt like someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed his lungs.
The pain was unlike anything he’d experienced. Not the sharp agony of a broken bone or the dull ache of a bruised muscle, but something deeper, something that spoke to nerves and energy pathways he didn’t understand. “What the hell was that?” Tank wheezed to Snake, his voice still strained. Snake shook his head. “Never seen anything like it.
Dude didn’t even wind up, just bam! Straight line.” Across the yard, other inmates were having similar conversations. The old-timers who’d seen everything during their decades behind bars found themselves questioning what they’d witnessed. The younger inmates pulled out their phones, recording videos they’d never be allowed to post but couldn’t resist capturing.
David finished his workout and moved to the pull-up bars. His form here was equally impressive. Slow, controlled movements that demonstrated a strength that went beyond simple muscle mass. He was lean, almost wiry, but every fiber seemed perfectly coordinated. A small crowd began to gather at a respectful distance.
Not the hostile circle that had formed during the confrontation, but curious observers drawn by something they couldn’t quite define. David’s presence had a strange effect on the usual chaos of the yard. The shouting died down, the aggressive posturing seemed to fade, even the ambient noise of clanking weights took on a more rhythmic, almost meditative quality.
Tank watched from his table, his breathing finally returning to normal, but his pride still shattered. 8 years of absolute authority had been undermined in 30 seconds. He knew that word of this incident would spread through every cell block by evening. His reputation, the foundation of his power, had been cracked wide open. But Tank hadn’t survived this long by accepting defeat.
He’d built his empire through calculated brutality and strategic thinking. One setback, even a humiliating one, wasn’t going to end his reign. If anything, it made the stakes higher. He needed to respond decisively, overwhelmingly, in a way that would erase any doubt about who controlled this prison. The question was how. David Chen had demonstrated abilities that Tank didn’t understand.
A direct confrontation had already failed spectacularly, but Tank had resources beyond his own fists. He had connections throughout the prison system, favors he could call in, and men who owed him debts that needed paying. As the afternoon wore on, Tank’s mind began working through possibilities.
The old man might be skilled, but he was still just one person in a facility housing 800 violent criminals. There were ways to handle problems like this, quiet ways, permanent ways. David finished his workout as the sun began casting long shadows across the yard. He moved through a brief stretching routine, each position held with perfect balance.
Then he walked toward the building entrance, his path taking him directly past Tank’s table. For a moment, their eyes met. Tank saw something there that made him pause. Not fear or aggression, but a kind of sad understanding, as if David knew exactly what Tank was planning and felt genuinely sorry for the choices that were about to be made.
David’s footsteps echoed through the corridor as he made his way back to his cell. Word traveled fast in places like this. By dinnertime, every inmate in the facility would know what happened in the yard. Some would see opportunity, others would see threat. All would be watching to see what came next.
Cell block C was quieter than usual when David arrived. Conversations stopped mid-sentence as he passed. Eyes followed his movement down the narrow walkway lined with steel doors and concrete walls. His cellmate, a young man named Rico, serving time for armed robbery, looked up from his bunk with barely concealed awe.
“Man,” Rico whispered, “is it true what they’re saying about you and Tank?” David sat on his thin mattress and opened the worn paperback he’d been reading. “People say many things in places like this. Most of it isn’t worth repeating.” But Rico couldn’t let it go. “They’re saying you dropped him with one move.
That you’re some kind of martial arts master or something.” David’s fingers traced the edge of his book. “I’m a teacher who made some poor financial decisions. Nothing more.” The lights went out at 10:00 sharp, plunging the cell block into the kind of darkness that made every sound seem amplified.
David lay on his back, listening to the familiar symphony of prison night sounds, snoring from nearby cells, the distant clank of pipes, footsteps of guards making their rounds. But tonight, there were other sounds, too. Hushed conversations that carried further than they should, the scrape of something being dragged across concrete floors, the kind of subtle activity that spoke of plans being made.
Three cells down, Tank was having a very different kind of night. His chest still ached from David’s strike, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the damage to his reputation. Snake sat on the edge of Tank’s bunk, speaking in whispers that barely carried beyond the cell walls. “Word’s already spread to B block,” Snake reported.
“Even the guards are talking about it. You know what this means?” Tank knew exactly what it meant. In prison hierarchies, weakness was like blood in the water. Other gangs would start testing boundaries. His own crew would begin questioning orders. The delicate balance of fear and respect that kept him in power was starting to crumble.
“We handle this tomorrow,” Tank said, his voice still rough from the afternoon’s encounter. “But not in the yard. Too many eyes. Too many cameras.” Snake nodded. “The showers?” “The showers. Early morning, before the first shift change. Get Carlos and Miguel. Tell them it’s time to earn their protection money.”
What Tank didn’t know was that David had spent 40 years learning to read the subtle signs of impending violence, the shift in energy, the way conversations changed when dangerous decisions were being made, the almost imperceptible tension that preceded action. David had felt it building all evening. The next morning came with the mechanical clang of cell doors opening for the 6:00 a.m. count.
David rose before the sound, as had been his habit for decades. He folded his blanket with military precision and prepared for what he knew would be a decisive day. The shower block was a tile-covered room with 12 heads and no privacy. Most inmates avoided it during the early morning hours, preferring to wait until later when there was safety in numbers.
But David had always preferred solitude for his morning routine. He gathered his toiletries and a clean set of clothes, moving through the corridors with the same calm purpose he’d shown since arriving at Riverside. Other inmates watched him go, some shaking their heads at what they assumed was either incredible bravery or stunning stupidity.
The shower room was empty when David entered, just as he’d expected. Steam rose from the hot water as he adjusted the temperature and began his morning routine. But his awareness remained absolute. Every sound echoed differently in the tiled space. Every footstep in the corridor outside registered in his consciousness. That’s when he heard them coming.
Three sets of footsteps moving with coordinated purpose. The slight pause outside the entrance as they gathered themselves for what was about to happen. Tank entered first, followed by Carlos and Miguel. Both were seasoned enforcers with reputations for brutal efficiency. Carlos carried a shiv fashioned from a sharpened piece of metal.
Miguel had wrapped his knuckles with torn strips of sheet, creating makeshift brass knuckles that could shatter bone. “Morning, teacher,” Tank said, the word dripping with contempt. “Time for your real education to begin.” David continued washing, seemingly oblivious to the three men positioning themselves between him and the only exit.
When he finally turned around, water streaming down his face, his expression showed no surprise, no fear, just the same calm awareness he’d displayed since the moment he’d walked into this place. “You don’t have to do this,” David said simply. “There’s still time to walk away.” Tank’s laugh echoed off the shower walls. “Walk away? After what you did to me yesterday? Every inmate in this place is watching to see how I handle disrespect.
You humiliated me, old man. Now I’m going to return the favor.” Carlos stepped forward, the shiv glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Should’ve minded your own business, grandpa. Should’ve paid your taxes.” What happened next unfolded with the kind of fluid precision that seemed to slow time itself.
Carlos lunged forward with the blade, aiming for David’s midsection. But David’s body moved like water around stone, shifting just enough to let the weapon pass harmlessly by. His wet hand snapped out, striking Carlos’s wrist with surgical accuracy. The shiv clattered across the wet tiles as Carlos screamed and clutched his suddenly useless arm.
Miguel charged from the side, his wrapped fists cutting through the air toward David’s head. David ducked low, his leg sweeping out in a perfect circle that caught Miguel’s ankles and sent him crashing into the concrete wall. The sound of his skull hitting tile echoed through the shower room like a gunshot.
Tank found himself facing the same impossible situation he’d experienced in the yard, but this time with nowhere to run and no audience to impress. David stood between the steaming shower heads, water streaming off his lean frame, looking more like a statue carved from stone than a man in his late 50s. “Your turn,” David said quietly.
Tank had built his reputation on size and brutality. He’d never faced an opponent who could neutralize his advantages so completely. But backing down now would mean the end of everything he’d built over eight years. He charged forward with all the desperate fury of a man fighting for his survival.
David’s response was a masterpiece of Wing Chun application. Tank’s wild swing met empty air as David stepped inside the arc of the punch. His elbow drove upward into Tank’s solar plexus with precisely the right amount of force. Not enough to cause permanent damage, but more than sufficient to drop the gang leader to his knees on the wet shower floor.
The fight was over in less than 30 seconds. Carlos writhed on the ground, clutching his broken wrist. Miguel lay motionless against the wall, unconscious but breathing. Tank knelt in the center of the shower room, gasping for air and finally understanding that he’d miscalculated everything about the quiet man he’d tried to intimidate.
David turned back to the shower head and continued washing as if nothing had happened. The hot water washed away the sweat and tension of the brief encounter, leaving him as calm and centered as he’d been when he’d entered the room. “The guards will be here soon,” David said without turning around. “You’ll want to have your story ready.”
Tank struggled to his feet, his face flushed with pain and humiliation. “This isn’t over.” David finally looked at him, and Tank saw something in those eyes that made his blood run cold. Not anger or triumph, but a kind of infinite patience. The look of a man who had faced every kind of challenge and emerged unchanged.
“Yes,” David said simply. “It is. It is.” Tank’s breathing gradually returned to normal, but his mind was spinning in directions he’d never experienced before. Eight years of absolute control had been shattered twice in less than 24 hours. The mathematical certainty of his position, the careful calculations of fear and respect that kept 800 violent men in line, had suddenly become unreliable.
Word of the shower incident spread through the prison like wildfire. By lunchtime, even the guards were whispering about the old man who’d taken down Tank’s best enforcers without breaking a sweat. The story grew with each telling. Some said David had moved so fast, he’d seemed to disappear.
Others claimed he’d used pressure points that could stop a man’s heart. The truth was impressive enough, but prison mythology had a way of turning impressive into legendary. David ate his meal in the same corner table he’d chosen since arriving, alone, methodical, seemingly oblivious to the dozens of eyes tracking his every movement.
But his isolation wasn’t born from fear or antisocial tendencies. It was strategic positioning. Back to the wall, clear sight lines to all entrances, close enough to hear conversations, but far enough away to avoid being drawn into conflicts that weren’t his to fight. The prison social ecosystem was shifting in ways that hadn’t been seen in nearly a decade.
Smaller gangs that had operated under Tank’s protection were suddenly testing boundaries. Inmates who’d paid tribute for years were questioning whether those payments were still necessary. Even the guards noticed the change in atmosphere. Conversations were quieter, movements more careful, as if everyone was waiting for something to break.
Warden Patricia Hayes had run Riverside Correctional for 12 years. She’d seen riots, stabbings, and every form of violence that men could inflict on each other. But, the reports crossing her desk about David Chen were unlike anything in her experience. A tax evader who could disable trained fighters with techniques that left no lasting damage.
An elderly inmate who seemed to calm entire sections of the facility simply by being present. “Pull his file,” she told her assistant. “I want to know everything about this man.” What she discovered painted a picture that made the recent incidents even more puzzling. David Chen had operated three martial arts schools in San Francisco for over four decades.
No criminal record beyond the tax charges that had landed him here. Letters of recommendation from former students who’d gone on to become police officers, teachers, and community leaders. A man who dedicated his life to teaching discipline and restraint. The warden made a decision that would prove crucial to everything that followed.
She requested a meeting with David. Not an interrogation or disciplinary action, but a conversation between two people trying to understand an evolving situation. David was escorted to the warden’s office at 3:00 p.m. His hands uncuffed as a gesture of respect that didn’t go unnoticed by the guards.
He sat across from Warden Hayes in the same calm posture he maintained everywhere else. Spine straight, hands relaxed, eyes alert, but not aggressive. “Mr. Chen,” the warden began. “I’ve been hearing some interesting stories about your time here so far.” David nodded slightly. “I imagine you have. Prisons are places where stories tend to grow in the telling.”
“Tell me what really happened in the shower room this morning.” David considered his words carefully. “Three men entered while I was washing. They had weapons and violent intentions. I defended myself using the minimum force necessary to end the threat.” “Minimum force?” The warden glanced at the medical reports. “One man has a broken wrist. Another has a severe concussion.”
“They’ll both recover completely.” “With different techniques, they wouldn’t have.” The simple statement carried implications that made the warden pause. She was looking at a man who could have killed three attackers, but had chosen restraint instead. In a facility where violence typically escalated until blood was spilled, David Chen had somehow managed to end conflicts without permanent damage.
“What do you want from your time here, Mr. Chen?” David’s answer was immediate. “To serve my sentence quietly and return to my life. Nothing more.” “That may not be possible anymore. Your actions have disrupted the entire power structure of this facility. Tank Rodriguez has controlled cell block dynamics for eight years.”
“Now, that control is being questioned.” “I never asked to be anyone’s challenge or symbol. I simply defended myself when attacked.” Warden Hayes studied the man across from her. In 12 years of running this facility, she’d learned to read inmates quickly. The predators, the victims, the manipulators, the genuinely remorseful. They all had tells that experience had taught her to recognize.
David Chen fit none of those categories. He was something entirely different. “I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Chen. Tank Rodriguez won’t let this stand. His reputation is everything in here. He’ll keep coming at you until one of you is dead or transferred. That’s how these situations play out.” David was quiet for a long moment.
“What would you suggest?” “Protective custody. You’d be isolated from the general population for the remainder of your sentence. Safe, but alone. And Tank would claim victory. His reputation would be restored because I ran from the fight he started.” “Yes. But, you’d be alive.” David shook his head slowly.
“Warden, I’ve spent 40 years teaching people that running from bullies doesn’t solve the problem. It just teaches bullies that their methods work. If I hide now, Tank will continue terrorizing others until someone else stands up to him. The cycle continues.” The warden leaned back in her chair. She dealt with tough guys who talked about standing their ground, usually right before they ended up in the infirmary or the morgue.
But, David’s words carried no bravado, no false courage, just the quiet certainty of a man who’d made peace with difficult choices. “You understand the risks?” “I understand that some things matter more than personal safety.” The meeting ended with an unusual arrangement. David would remain in general population, but with increased monitoring.
The warden would personally review any incidents involving him. It was an unprecedented level of attention for a single inmate, but these were unprecedented circumstances. As David was escorted back to his cell, news of the meeting spread through the prison’s informal communication network. Inmates interpreted it in various ways.
Some saw it as special protection for the old man. Others viewed it as a sign that the administration was taking Tank’s situation seriously. A few understood it for what it really was. Acknowledgement that David Chen had become a factor that could no longer be ignored. Tank spent the afternoon in his cell, staring at the concrete ceiling and wrestling with a problem that had no easy solutions.
Direct confrontation had failed twice. His best enforcers had been neutralized. Even bringing weapons into the equation hadn’t shifted the balance in his favor. But, Tank had survived eight years in this environment by understanding that power wasn’t just about physical dominance. It was about psychology, leverage, and knowing which pressure points would break an opponent’s will to resist.
Snake Williams sat on the edge of Tank’s bunk. Both men speaking in whispers that barely carried beyond their cell walls. “We could go after his cellmate,” Snake suggested. “Rico’s just a kid. Make it clear that anyone who associates with the old man becomes a target.” Tank shook his head. “Too obvious. The warden’s watching everything now.”
“We need something that can’t be traced back to us. What about the Aryans? They owe you for that commissary deal last month.” “Maybe. But, they’ll want something in return. Territory, protection money, something we can’t afford to give up.” The conversation continued as shadows lengthened across the cell block.
Tank was learning what many had discovered before him, that defeating a truly skilled opponent required more than just superior numbers or weapons. It required understanding your enemy’s weaknesses and exploiting them in ways they couldn’t anticipate or defend against. David spent the evening in the prison library, a place that had become his sanctuary in this concrete world.
The selection was limited, but he’d found philosophy books that reminded him of teachings from his master decades ago. The same principles that governed martial arts, balance, patience, using an opponent’s force against them, applied to every aspect of life. Mrs. Chen, the elderly librarian, had taken a special interest in David since his arrival.
Something about his quiet dignity reminded her of her father, who’d immigrated from Hong Kong in the 1950s. She approached his table carrying a worn copy of the Tao Te Ching. “I thought you might appreciate this,” she said, setting the book beside his current reading. “It’s one of the few copies we have in the original Chinese.” David looked up with genuine surprise.
“You read Chinese?” “My parents insisted I maintain the language, even after 40 years in America. Sometimes the old wisdom is clearest in its original form.” They spoke quietly in Mandarin for several minutes, their conversation covering philosophy, family, and the strange turns that life could take. For David, it was the first normal human interaction he’d had since arriving at Riverside. For Mrs. Chen, it was confirmation that this unusual inmate was exactly who she’d suspected.
A teacher, a scholar, someone who’d ended up in this place through circumstance rather than character. “You’re in danger here,” she said finally, switching back to English as other inmates entered the library. “I’m aware of that.” “Is there anything I can do?” “I have connections with the administration.” David smiled. The first genuine expression of warmth anyone at Riverside had seen from him.
“Your friendship is gift enough. But, this situation will resolve itself. These things always do.” As evening count approached and inmates returned to their cells, David walked through corridors that felt different than they had that morning. Conversations stopped when he passed, but the quality of silence had changed. Where there had once been curiosity tinged with threat, there was now something approaching respect.
Word had spread about his meeting with the warden, about his refusal to seek protective custody despite the obvious dangers. Rico was waiting in their cell, practically vibrating with nervous energy. “Man, everybody’s talking about you. They’re saying Tank’s planning something big. Something that’s going to settle this whole situation once and for all.” David settled onto his bunk with the Tao Te Ching Mrs. Chen had given him.
“Tank is welcome to plan whatever he feels is necessary. Planning and executing are very different things.” “Aren’t you worried? I mean, the guy’s got connections throughout this whole place. He could come at you from directions you’d never expect.” David opened the book to a passage he’d memorized decades ago, but wanted to read again in its original form.
“Rico, do you know what the most dangerous technique in Wing Chun is called?” “No, what?” “Wu Wei. It means doing by not doing. Sometimes the most powerful action is no action at all. When an opponent commits fully to an attack, their energy becomes predictable. Their momentum becomes their weakness.”
Rico didn’t understand the philosophical implications, but something in David’s calm certainty made him feel safer than he had since Tank’s first threats began circulating. The old man wasn’t just confident. He was prepared for whatever was coming in ways that went beyond physical readiness. Lights out came at 10:00 p.m. sharp, plunging cell block C into the familiar darkness of another prison night.
But tonight felt different. The usual sounds, snoring, whispered conversations, the distant clank of pipes, were underlaid with something else. Attention that spoke of plans being made and counter plans being considered. The kind of electric anticipation that preceded decisive action. David lay on his thin mattress, listening to the symphony of sounds that told him everything he needed to know about the facility’s mood.
Three cells down, Tank and his crew were still awake. Their whispered conversations carrying just far enough for someone with trained hearing to catch fragments. Plans involving the Mexican gang, discussions about commissary trades and favor exchanges, the careful negotiation of alliances that would shift the balance of power decisively in Tank’s direction.
But David had spent 40 years learning that the loudest plans were often the least effective ones. True strategy happened in silence, in the spaces between obvious moves, in the understanding that every action created opportunities for those patient enough to wait for them. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Tank’s response to two humiliating defeats would be calculated to restore his reputation through overwhelming force.
The entire prison would be watching to see how this impossible situation resolved itself. Guards would be on higher alert. Inmates would choose sides or try to stay neutral. And in the middle of it all, David Chen would continue doing exactly what he’d done since arriving at Riverside Correctional, serving his time with quiet dignity, defending himself when necessary, and teaching through example that true strength came from places that most people never learned to access.
The stage was set for a confrontation that would be remembered long after both men had served their sentences and returned to the outside world. But the outcome wouldn’t be determined by the number of allies each side could gather or the weapons they could acquire. It would be decided by the oldest principle in martial arts, that the fighter who understood himself and his opponent would always defeat the one who relied solely on force.
The morning alarm sounded at 6:00 a.m. just like every other day at Riverside Correctional, but this wasn’t going to be just another day. Tank had spent the entire night orchestrating what he believed would be his redemption, a carefully planned assault involving every favor he could call in, every alliance he’d built over eight years of brutal leadership.
The Mexican gang had agreed to participate in exchange for expanded territory rights. The Aryan Brotherhood wanted a piece of the commissary action. Even some of the smaller crews had been promised protection in return for their involvement. Tank had assembled what amounted to a small army, all focused on one elderly man who’d humiliated him twice in less than 48 hours.
David rose before the alarm, as always. He folded his blanket with precise corners and prepared for what he knew would be the day everything came to a head. Rico watched him from the lower bunk, amazed by the old man’s complete calm in the face of what everyone in the facility knew was coming. “30 guys, maybe more,” Rico whispered. “They’re all talking about it. Today’s the day Tank settles this thing once and for all.”
David nodded thoughtfully.
Disclaimer: This story is fictional and created for entertainment purposes only.
Any names, characters, places, or events are fictitious or used fictitiously.
No real person or organization is intended to be portrayed.
