fucking badasses fuck bitches and smoke weed

> Terrorist Attack. Mutou.

There are certain sounds that you should never hear when you're teaching a biology class at eleven in the morning. The first one that comes to mind is the sound of automatic gunfire and breaking glass.

"Hakamichi, keep everyone inside," I say. "Wait here."

I move to the doorway and carefully push it open, glancing down the hall.

There are two men in masks, carrying assault rifles. They're pushing a couple of girls in wheelchairs out into the hallway. One of them has a gun in the face of Mrs. Shimada from class 3-1.

Fuck.

Think. Think. Think. Is this a spree shooter? No. They'd have started shooting already. A disgruntled student? How could he get ahold of a gun in Japan? Automatic weapons. . . and they've got training too. This is something else. Something organized.

Step one. Get any potential hostages out of the zone.

"All right, class. Listen carefully. I need you to drop what you're doing NOW. Don't take anything with you except essential medication. Anyone who can walk, start helping the movement impaired kids. I need you to head out the back door right now and move towards the. . ."

And that's when the door behind me opens and a man walks in shouting and holding an assault rifle.

They say you never forget. That it's like riding a bicycle. Maybe.

Step one: control the gun. Grab the barrel of the weapon. Point it up towards the ceiling. Away from the kids.

Step two: distract the man. Knife-hand chop to the throat. Sloppy. It doesn't hit hard enough. He's still up, still fighting.

Step three: control the fight. Short kick to the left shin, take him off balance. Good hit. Repeat the throat chop. Still doesn't hit hard enough, but it knocks him down.

Step four: get a weapon. Switch from a knife-hand chop to a left-wrist chop. Get him to let go of the rifle for just a bit, and then. . .

Twist. Turn. Right hand slides down the weapon. Safety is off. Weapon is hot.

Instinct takes over. Three quick pulls of the trigger. Two in the gut slam against a ballistic vest (that's bad. military grade body armor). The third one takes off his face.

"MOVE! GO!"

I scream to my kids and move into the hallway. My heart pounds. Adrenaline races through my blood. For the first time in fifteen years, I raise a rifle to my shoulder, line it up against a man's head, and pull the trigger.

Fuck with my kids, will you? Not on my fucking watch.

Not while my name's Akio Mutou.