Bruce Lee, Jet Li, and Jackie Chan fight to the Finish!
What many people don’t know is that Bruce Lee, Jet Li, and Jackie Chan got together to decide who was the best martial artist of all time.
I know, you think this is a crock, that Bruce Lee is dead, so this couldn’t happen.
But the truth is that Bruce Lee is actually alive, his death was faked, and he has been living in a government compound with other people who have gone into hiding. This compound houses such entities as Judge Crater, Jimmy Hoffa, Elvis, Jim Morrison, Marylyn Monroe, and so on.
You know, people who have become so big, so iconic, that they pose a threat to the government.
So just last month, because of concerns raised in an article written by Al Case in his FreeMartialArts website, ‘Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Jet Li: Who is the Best Martial Artist?’ Bruce, Jet and Jackie came together to decide, with fists, who was the best Kung Fu fighter.
Mind you, the fact that they were so willing to come together in the first place proves that these three legends have thought about this on their own.
To be honest, they respect each other, this was obvious to this writer, who was the only invited spectator, but they also have a bit of disdain for each other. After all, they have all seen each others movies, and they all have their legion of fans calling them the best, all of which stokes their personal ego
Jet Li arrived first at the Chinatown warehouse selected for this one of a kind Martial Arts tournament. He sauntered in, swathed in sunglasses and a fancy, white scarf. Every inch the movie star, the youngest of the trio, he puffed on a thin cheroot and had a babe on each arm.
Jackie arrived second. He is the second youngest, or oldest, depending on whether you are half empty or half full, and he hobbled in on a pair of crutches with both of his arms in casts.
With a friendly sneer Jet stood up and helped him to a seat.
“Thanks, Jet,” murmured Jackie. “Did you know I have broken every bone in my body? I’ve got so much arthritis I could bottle it.” He struggled to bend his knees and sat down in a chair, wiping his brow and trying to shrug off the pain.
Then he pulled out a quart bottle of whiskey and drank the whole thing. Canadian Mist, I believe.
Then the grand old man, the Little Dragon himself, Bruce Lee was rolled into the room. His chin overlapped another chin, which overlapped another chin, and it was fortunate that he had his own motorized wheel chair, for he couldn’t get up if he had to.
“Hi guys,” He wheeled to a position facing Jet and Jackie. “Elvis has been cooking for me. He makes these great peanut butter and banana and bacon sandwiches. He slathers them with mayo, first, then slices up cubes of butter, and he makes sure he soaks the white bread with the bacon juice. I tell ya, man, nothing goes to waste with E. Sort of makes up for all those years of drinking that stupid vegetable juice i did.”
He moped the sweat off his forehead.
“Okay, so we gonna fight, or what?” asked Jackie, ending the pleasantries.
“I sorta thought we’d talk about it, first,” said Bruce, reaching for an oxygen mask he kept hanging over the back of the wheelchair.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, old man,” snapped Jet.
“Jet, baby, can we go back to the hotel room?” whined one of the babes on his arms.
And, at this point, this writer must point out that it didn’t look like Jet had his arms out for the girls to hold, rather, it looked like they were holding him up by the arms!
“Are you all right?” this concerned and solicitous writer asked Mr. Li.
“Yeah, man. Just a little tired,” he sagged in the girls’ grip, and this writer knew the cause: Jet had been exhausted by the two girls prior to coming to this meeting!
Jackie responded with, “I think we could do without the physicality if we just counted fans, people who have seen our movies, that sort of thing.
“You’ve got more movies!” protested the Little Dragon.
“You’ve had longer for people to see your movies,” countered Jackie.
Jet laughed. “A communist, and he wants to vote!”
“Hey!” protested Jackie. “No need to insult! you got a better idea?”
“You guys could get wheel chairs and we could have a race,” gasped Bruce, then drawing deeply on his oxygen tank.
This writer, observing that these three men were too old, too out of shape to really fight, said, “Maybe we should forget about a fight. I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”
“Don’t be an idiot!” rasped Bruce.
“You idiot!” shouted Jackie.
“Guy’s not very smart,” opined Jet.
“You stupid,” said Bruce with a look of disgust.
Then they began to really insult your faithful correspondent. They called him a dope, said he sat on his brains, and would flunk as a paperweight.
That he was a bad writer and a lousy martial artist.
That he voted for Barack Obama.
And Bruce said, again, “You stupid.”
Finally, outraged all, these three incredible martial artists, Bruce Lee,Jet Li and Jackie Chan, shoved this writer out of the door.
Jet snapped, “We’ll have our own fight, and you aren’t invited!”
Jackie chimed in with, “We’ll let you know who wins!”
And Bruce merely rolled his head back and forth on his huge and blubber laden frame and said, “You stupid.”
The two girls who had escorted Jet into the warehouse held my arms, their lithe but momentous frames immobilizing me, and I could not get free to return to the warehouse. I struggled, I sear I struggled, but they must have known jujitsu, or MMA, or something, for they held me firm, and even giggled as they did so.
And there I stood, outside the door to the secret warehouse, chagrined and disappointed. Held in place by pulchritudinous and bodacious females, one of which whispered in my ear “Wanna go to our hotel room? and who I could smell whiskey on her breath, and the other who chewed and snapped gum and looked bored.
Silence stared back at me, and then, suddenly, sounds exploded from the warehouse.
“AIEEE!” Bruce whooped.
The sound of furniture breaking.
“You fat—“ more furniture, sounding like it wasn’t just breaking, but actually exploding.
“Call me a commie you capitalistic warpig!”
I swear, in my mind, I could see what was happening. Jet turning a somersault, Bruce rolling his wheel chair into Jackie’s chins, Jackie yelling “Ow!”
Bruce doing a straight blast in between pushing on the wheels of his chair, Jet flipping through the air while doing Tai Chi yang long form, Jackie bent double and breathing hard.
Bruce’s JKD lancing into the martial arts defenses of Jet and Jackie.
Jet running up a wall, across he ceiling, and down the other wall, then collapsing before he could strike Bruce in the back of the head.
Jackie rolling across the floor, holding his groin, saying, “Oh, my arthritis hurts!”
For long minutes, at least twenty minutes, the fight went on, the damage must have been incredible, the amount of pain these three warriors could inflict, and take, must have been incredible.
It was a fight that only Wong Jack Man could have survived.
Finally, however, it was over. Whatever had happened had happened, and the damage had been done.
It took a few minutes – this author had to threaten Dim Mak to the bodies of his gorgeous captors – but finally I broke free and pulled open the door to the warehouse.
Every single stick of furniture had been broken. Rugs that had been nailed down were now overturned, and even the paint on the wall was bruised. Doubtless from the massive amounts of secret chi that had been generated by these three superheroes.
Jet sauntered past this writer and into the hallway, my head turned, my eyes wide, to follow him.
A sound from inside the warehouse, and I quickly looked back. Jackie brushed by, quick on his crutches.
My gaze followed him, and Bruce rolled his wheel chair over my toes.
I turned and stared at the three iconic and even legendary martial artists. They stood…well, Bruce sat…and stared at me.
Jet sneered, his arms supported…uh, supporting his babes.
Jackie breathed hard and was bent double and even moaning a little.
Bruce merely looked at my toes and grinned.
“We had our fight,” stated Jet Li.
“And we know who’s best,” said Jackie, straightening up to speak, but immediately bending back over and gasping.
“But we aren’t going to tell you,” said Bruce. And then he added. “You stupid.”
And then they walked…Bruce rolled…away. Into the legends of time, into the myth of history, to hide in government sponsored warehouses to await a time when the world was ready to be influenced by their glory.
And this writer was left with one, and only one, conclusion.
There are two type of people in this world.
First, there are those who think their art is best, and everybody else is a loser; who take umbrage at this article as being disrespectful to the greatest martial artists of all time; who probably didn’t even finish reading the article before mouthing their opinion as the nefarious and scurrilous nature of the author of this piece to the world.
Second, there are those who chuckle and grin; who might even laugh as hard as Bruce, Jet or Jackie would should they read this article; who order courses from Monster Martial Arts to see if the author actually has some substance behind his disrespectful and loathsome thoughts, and to see if there really is some meat behind this matrixing thing.
Which kind of martial artist are you?
Bruce Lee, the Little Dragon, was born on November 27, 1940. He would have been 74 at the time of this article, and he has been missed by EVERY martial artist in the world.
Jet Li was born on April 26th, 1963, and he was 51 at the time of this article.
Jackie Chan was born April 7, 1954, and he was 60 at the time of this article.
Both Jet and Jackie have stated that they were inspired by Bruce Lee.
About the author: Al Case was born in 1948, and was 66 at the time of this article. He never met Bruce Lee, Jet Li, or Jackie Chan. But he did see their movies, and was blessed by that experience. You can read more of his work, inspired by such as Bruce, Jet and Jackie, at MonsterMartialArts.com. You can subscribe to his blog at Matrix Martial Arts (https://alcase.wordpress.com)