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Sometimes determining who is truly dangerous is not as easy at it looks

 Bad things have a terrible tendency to feel very good

MINDWARP TWENTY-ONE – TIGERS NEVER WEAR FAKE FUR

I met the man with the tiger skin shoes after my friend told me about the “great guy”
who was an important factor in building bridges of peace between warring factions
during the civil war in Sudan. He also just happened to be a commander in a brutal militia
as well, just an Arab one. We met for the first time in his shop where he sold traditional
herbal medicines and other cures for problems as disparate as erectile dysfunction and
banishing annoying poltergeists. I liked him immediately. His bubbly, Homer Simpson
personality stood in stark contrast to his fearsome reputation which I would learn about
in our future meetings. But then again, few psychopaths I met in my life looked the part.
So I left the habit of judging people by looks alone a very long time before our meeting. I
walked around his shop and inquired about the different medicines and the strange
hieroglyphic looking scriptures, amulets and other items he had on display in the
“Deactivated Poltergeist” section.

He happily told me that some of them were tokens taken from the rebel group that
invaded Khartoum a few months prior in a bid to overthrow our beloved dictator, Mr.
Bashir. I perused the wares, then sat down waiting for the customary Sudanese tea:
strong, milky, spicy from cardamom and ginger, violently sweet. The tea was good. The
man with the tiger skin shoes drank his hot tea in one gulp then ask me, “Can you train
my men?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what “men” he was referring to nor was I clear at that point who
exactly he was (other than being a commander of something) but I needed the money, so I
smiled and nodded before inquiring a bit more about the opportunity presented. And any
contract was better than eating bean gruel and white bread everyday as I had been for
weeks already. So, I agreed, and in perfect Homer Simpson form, he leaped up and
dragged me to the door. His white pickup truck with the hand-painted streak on the side
sat waiting for us like a well-beaten dog. He pushed aside his rifle and my friend and I got
into the pickup. The extra clip in between the seat cushion dug into my ass but I played
tough guy and didn’t complain. We arrived at a beat-up looking building somewhere in
Omdurman, just outside Khartoum, about thirty minutes later. I was sure we were in
Omdurman because we crossed the “Bridge of Prayers” as my friend called it. An old
bridge built by the British colonialists, but barely maintained and some say on the verge of
collapse. Hence the prayers each time people crossed it. Inside the dilapidated building, I
found a black man who spoke Arabic with an accent that wasn’t Sudanese, and he
introduced himself as a trainer for “the men who work with the man who wears tiger skin
shoes.” The whole situation was so childishly cloak and dagger I felt like I was dealing with
one of those annoying Disney movie bad guys. The only thing missing was the magic
fucking carpet and Aladdin.

I asked the man with the tiger skin shoes what the point was of bringing me here, but he
remained silent. The trainer answered my question with another question, “Why should
we pay you if you have no ability?” Then he continued and said I “wore the skin of a lion.”
Which is an old Arabic expression that basically means you look amped to fight. He was
right. I was pretty uncomfortable and very ready fight then bolt the fuck out of there. The
trainer pulled out a traditional sleeve dagger and asked me if I was ready. These daggers
are as common as goats in Eastern Africa but I couldn’t see this one too well because of
the low-light conditions in the building. It was probably the size of a butcher knife in the
kitchen. Most of them are. My heart was racing and if I tell you now that I wasn’t a bit
worried I’d be a damn liar. But I’d faced worse attempts on my life than a pre-arranged
duel. So I agreed to the match and we circled each other for a few seconds, each man
sizing up the other. Rambo would have been so proud of me. Before I continue the story, I
should tell you how much I hate this kind of situation and even more how much I hate
training for these types of situations. The chances of getting into a blood duel in the 21st
century is almost zero. And most of the encounters of the combat kind I had faced prior to
that situation were surprise attacks from criminals and miscreants on the street. So this
whole duel to the death nonsense was very foreign to me.
But I’m sure many martial arts practitioners would be fine with it because they train in this
sparring/dueling type of paradigm. I didn’t and I still don’t. And I suggest you don’t either
because it’s mostly a waste of time. Shooting a man in the back is a good odd…one I
prefer to bet on in real life more than the honorable Rambo duel. You have to play to win,
not to fight. Anyway, back to the story. He came fast with slashes and ended with a thrust
to my abdomen, which I caught, smashed my Adidas into his shin and threw him on the
ground while keeping hold of his knife arm. He moved well but he wasn’t the most skilled
bladefighter I ever met. I could never have pulled some shit like that on him if he was a
Kali trainer or Silat trainer. The Southeast Asian blade arts are by far the most superior
close-quarter knife systems I’ve ever encountered. That’s why I teach them. And actually
getting hold of a skilled Silat knife killer…very difficult. I kissed the sky that day that I
hadn’t encountered someone similarly trained as I am for the Rambo duel. There is an old
African saying my dad used to tell me, “When two lions fight, both lose.” I never forgot my
dad’s words. Hence, I’ve tried to shoot lions in the back of the head most of my life and
avoid fighting them in full, frontal combat. 

I dropped my knee on his chest and the game was done. I have a nice stab entry from his
knife tip on my thumb to remember that occasion. It’s not really something one can forget
but memories and details can get foggy over the years. Wounds rarely do. I’m not sure
exactly when in the engagement he stabbed me though: during the takedown or when I s
tepped in on him. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, what’s important is that I could s
tabilize his weapon arm long enough to deliver some action shots and put him on the g
round. I got the contract and the man in the tiger skin shoes showed up at my friend’s h
ouse with an envelope full of money a few days later. I was happy. My family could eat a
nd I got an adrenaline rush I’ll never forget in my life. That was another envelope full of m
oney I got in Sudan that literally paid for my son’s diapers and milk. I also got a good o
pportunity to ask him about the tiger skin shoes called “Merkoob” in Sudan. He told me a
bout the tradition for men of power to wear the skins of tigers and other powerful a
nimals. And that cobras were also very popular but less valuable than tiger shoes. The b
igger animal’s skin being more sought after, harder to acquire and difficult to hunt, also s
kyrocketed the prices on the black market. After the culture lesson and some more tea, h
e said,

“There are two kinds of Merkoob my brother…the authentic one which is bushy and rich in
olor. And the fake one which is shiny orange and makes lots of noise trying to be
uthentic. Mine is the first type, because tigers never wear fake fur.”  
A few months after our meeting I was at the border of Libya with an Intel buddy of mine
who knew the black-market dealers that could get just about anything, from Steyr AUGs
to Giraffe hearts. We went through the dusty market in what seemed like a maze of
Bedouins and stalls selling all types of wares until we reached a shoemaker. He showed
me snake skins from Sudan and Nigeria, the tropical latter being more expensive and
beautiful than the desert snake varieties of Sudan. I politely refused and asked him for the
tiger Merkoob. The first ones he brought out were bright, shiny and had a strong orange
color resembling the famous California fruit you see in advertisements on billboards with
a smiling sunshine next to them. He went onto explain about the quality, leather, and that
they were handmade. Again, I politely refused and asked for the authentic one. There was
one lesson I learned in my life that was strongly reinforced by my two years in Sudan and
all the challenges I faced there. Tigers never wear fake fur.

Immediate Action:

The enemy of adaptability is routine. Training yourself to be adaptable and willing to

take risks is a key factor in sharpening your warrior mind. The way this was done in
traditional Pencak Silat was the concept of “Merantau” which basically means leaving
familiar surroundings to get outside life experience. Choose 5 places that are
interesting and present a challenge to you, not some resort in Cancun. A hike through
the mountains of Nepal or a trek through the desert with a Bedouin tribe in Jordan, or
something similarly challenging. Place the names on strips of paper and in your
pocket as you did in the previous exercise. Pull one out and that will be your
destination for Merantau. You might need to save money, it might take years to plan
and prepare for. But the preparation and the process of getting you there will assist
in shaping your mind and opening it up to new realities. Routine is the enemy. Do
everything in your power to break routines into pieces and set your mind free.  
 Just because you want to help the weak doesn’t mean it's the right thing to do

MINDWARP TWENTY-TWO – THE WORLD AND EVERYTHING

IN IT IS EXPENDABLE EXCEPT YOU
When I spoke about the misery of my first night in the attic against my nemesis, I left out
the story of my son, Izzedeen. I purposely added his name here because I wish to
personalize him in your mind so that this lesson never leaves you. He’s my oldest son and
I love him more than you can imagine unless you have your own children and know the
feeling. It’s a critical lesson that can literally make or break you and the people who
depend on you in dangerous situations. We were stuck in the attic for weeks which felt
like years because the devil-lady had employed her corrupted police force to find me at
any cost, literally any cost. She was a millionaire and put a bounty on my head that
anyone with half a brain in that poor country would jump on if they didn’t have some type
of personal loyalty to me. She even bribed the corruptors with imported liquors to make
them even hungrier for my head. These things made my life hell and I could only rely on a
small group of tribal and Silat brothers to help me.

When I say Pencak Silat Sharaf, my system of combatives, is a brotherhood…I mean it to

the bitter end. You might be wondering why she would go through all this trouble to get
to me and what was the cause of all this pain. I’ll get into that later. The beginning of that
confinement in the attic was the most miserable time I have ever experienced in my life.
Captivity, whether for man or animal, makes the soul cringe in ways few other
experiences can.
You don’t need to be in jail to be captive. Being pursued by hungry wolves is equally as
mentally debilitating. The primary differences are options for what you’re going to do and
the resources you can acquire to do them. But I had few options and even fewer resources
so you can imagine the mental anguish when facing a well-resourced, relentless opponent.
My son lay on the mat, limp and dehydrated from diarrhea and fever that ravaged him for
the past three days. He caught some type of illness while we were moving around that
nobody could explain to me in clear English. Not that any of them I could talk to were
doctors, anyway. Going to hospitals was off limits because the devil-lady had her forces
fax photos of me all over the country. I received a media message from my cousin that
showed my passport photo on a grainy white background and Arabic writing next to it
with a phone number. This message was sent to him by his close friend, a government
official I met earlier, who saw the fax in his office that morning.

I sold my Treo 750 so all I really had left was a burner phone which I changed every few
days to avoid tracking. Therefore, no Whatsapp messaging, only the old MMS style
messages and Bluetooth file transfers. So, no hospitals, no clinics, and definitely….no
“help” from the police. My son wasn’t getting any better, he was, in fact, getting worse
and it came to the point where I had a clear choice: I spend the little money we had left on
expensive meds and treatment for my son or I keep the money and buy stuff I need to
survive. I chose myself. I have never told anyone this and I’m sure that when my son is old
enough to read it and understand he will have the sufficient training I will give him to
make the same decision for himself and leave me to die when I become a liability and he
must carry the weight and responsibility of leadership. If not, he would probably never
forgive me for this.  

Do you remember the commercials on airlines that come up during the pre-flight safety
minute? It shows a parent in an emergency placing a mask on himself, then on his child,
followed by a clear warning, “Please put the oxygen mask on yourself first prior to
assisting another person.” People in the plane have said straight to my face that the cabin
crew are fucking lunatics, “I’ll die for my child!” was one man’s angry statement to me
when we discussed it. And I corrected him, “No, sir, you’ll die WITH your child.” There are
two kinds of people in this world: you and everyone else. When your mind is weaponized
everyone else becomes an expendable factor in that simple equation. It’s just a matter of
understanding percentages and who has the best chances of bringing victory. If you really
love them, you must think this way. The CEO is the critical factor in making the company
run, and everyone’s livelihood depends on his actions…or inactions in some sad situations.
 
So, if there is a choice between the CEO going down or the junior cleaner that just got
hired last month, who do you think is going to go? You as the leader of your family or tribe
or company or team or whatever, need to understand that when you are thrust into a
position where you are responsible for the lives of everyone else, YOUR life becomes the
MOST important life for the group to maintain viability. You have the training, the
mindset, the physical skill, the resources…not the sick child, not the old woman, not the
dog or the cat…you. If you are taken out of the equation there is little hope for anyone to
survive anyway. This was a reality in the Roman era and it’s a reality now. My nemesis
made it bright and clear that she cared nothing for my child and even less for my pregnant
wife. They were collateral damage in her personal war with me and they had zero value in
her eyes. If I die, nobody will protect my wife and my unborn daughter, or avenge my son’s
death.  It’s a checkmate situation. The cunning old fox she was, she knew that very well.
And she understood the reality of a protracted conflict against her endless resources was
a death sentence for me. You still might be saying to yourself, there were other options…
yes, there were. And one of those other options saved the day at the last moment. But I
needed the mental fortitude to make a decision which was difficult and I did.

It’s amazing how the universe can seemingly pull every string and call up every connection
it has, to make something work for you when it wants to. Some people will call it luck. I call
it divine intervention. Ten years prior to the devil lady's blood feud, I had a conversation
with a young man in Canada who called me asking for training. We spoke at length about
his situation (he had a drug problem and an angry ex-wife) and how he could change his
life and become one of my students for Pencak Silat Sharaf. He swore to me that one day
he would be my student. So I thanked him for his dedication and left it at that. I never
heard from him again…until Africa.  

I met him again years later in that shitty situation. The attic was his. He was still a drunk
and a drug addict. But he was as noble a friend as any man could have ever asked for. I had
lost a lot of my cash, weapons, and property when the uniformed hounds raided my
former apartment at the behest of their master. And it was his envelope full of money
that allowed me to bribe some of the local guards to look the other way while I got my son
the treatment and medication he desperately needed. His family, a well-connected
military family with ties to the old regime of Al-Nimeiry and the new one of Al-Bashir,
assisted me in dealing with the feud that was spiraling quickly out of my control. Through
the help of their intelligence contacts who had sufficient knowledge of the devil lady's
weaknesses, they managed to “persuade” her and her uniformed hounds to cease and
desist immediately.  
They also offered me a job as a trainer which I politely refused. Truthfully, I just wanted to
get the hell out of there as soon as possible. And so, my feud with the devil-lady was
ended as quickly as it started. I have a bad temper with assholes and a zero-tolerance
policy with abusers. If I hadn’t screamed at her and cursed her publicly, I would have never
had to suffer such a nightmare. Our public argument and my obvious disdain for her
abusive behavior towards people landed me in a heap of problems. But without it, I
wouldn’t have had such an incredible lesson. No regrets. No apologies. In a world full of
daggers and cloaks, if David has the right friends, even Goliath has to find another kid to
pick on.

Immediate Action:

Please put the oxygen mask on yourself first before you put it on your child. For their
survival and yours. Make that decision now so you don’t hesitate when you’re in the
situation.

Parting words to the wise

If you have completed the Mindwarps in this course you will already have transformed
your mindset significantly from simple civilian to aggressive adversary. This short course is
designed to have an immediate impact and give immediate value to you in your combative
training, business, or career. It is high martial strategy applied to all aspects of your life so
you can out-think your adversaries and have the mental toughness to outlast your
adversaries. I learned these lessons through hard-fought battles in my life, over multiple
continents, and under very stressful, dangerous conditions. The Warrior Mind Combat
Blueprint works, it is timeless, and it will deny your adversaries the strategic advantages
they would have if you hadn’t applied this blueprint. Because now you have the one thing
99% of people on this planet do not have – a weaponized mind.  

END
Mind Combat