In the fall of 1984, an invitation brought me to Tokyo to demonstrate an Aikido seminar at the Tokyo Musha-Shugyo. With a decade-long stint in Alcatraz behind me, I set sail across the Pacific Ocean and was greeted at the docks by two figures cloaked in black Hakamas.
“Master Wild,” the shorter one said, bowing as I disembarked, “Welcome to Japan.”
The rising sun cast long shadows, elongating their silhouettes that fell across my feet as I took my first steps on shore.
“You’re late.” the taller one added impatiently, his words breaking the tranquil stillness of the morning.
I arched an eyebrow, bemused by the audacity of the remark from a Western interloper on the sacred sands of Shirahama Beach.
"Respectfully," I stated firmly, a tinge of steel in my voice, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't slouch. It's rather disrespectful to a sensei who has traveled so far to be here."
Straightening his spine like a reprimanded schoolboy, the taller figure complied, albeit begrudgingly, as if corrections were not unfamiliar to him.
“Tell me,” I pressed on, my voice slicing through the still air, “What is your name?”
He stood there, with his arms folded, looking me up and down.
“It’s Steven,” he replied, a hint of defiance evident in his tone.
"And your last?"
He puffed out his chest again.
"Seagal."
Immediately, his accent gave him away.
"It's a peculiar place to find a Midwesterner, like you," I remarked.
His glare sharpened, as his tough exterior began to fizz and crack. “And what’s it to you?" he snapped.
I said nothing, allowing his words to widen the space between us until his nerve finally broke.
"I'm here as your bodyguard," he continued, "Sensei Nakayama sent me to protect you from somebody taking you out, which, by the look of it, wouldn't be too difficult.”
I drew closer and loomed over him like a storm cloud, my gaze falling upon his greasy ponytail that showed evidence of dandruff and cheap hair dye. In a swift motion, I seized his hand and twisted it, the bones yielding with a sickening snap, which made him howl, sending birds fleeing from their perches by the water’s edge.
“I want you to listen very carefully,” I growled through gritted teeth “if you ever insult me like that again, thinking I’d need you for protection, I’ll break the other hand. Understood?”
I released my grip, and he crumpled to the floor, cradling his injured arm like a wounded bird.
"Tell your friend to leave. But as for you," I added, dropping my bag and kicking it towards him, "there's some laundry for you to busy yourself with."
During my two-day stay, Seagal didn’t say a word to me. At that time, I was oblivious to who he was or the ridiculous aura people would have for him years later.
It was when I left Japan and boarded the Doña Paz en route to Manila, that the rumor of how I was fatally shot down and thrown overboard began circulating. The story was widely believed, and in the following years, Seagal would go on to pass off tales from my life story as if they were his own. Even his outfit and distinctive goatee, which people recognize him for today, were directly stolen to boost his lackluster acting career.
The latest I heard, he had gotten word that I was alive and well, which explains why you rarely hear from him these days. I have not forgotten what he has said about me over the years or the fraud I know him to be. All I can say is that his days are numbered. And when I find him, he will rue the day he ever dared to cross a legendary eighth-degree black belt. This time, I won't hesitate to crush both of his hands.
— Willy Wild