As someone who prided himself on his physical fitness, I insisted on doing as many of my own stunts as possible.

It was part of the draw, and a big reason why I was box office gold.

Of course, my charisma, chiseled, jawline, and huge talent also helped. I had gone

over this particular fight scene dozens of times with the stunt team. I knew my part, and I knew

the parts of the stuntmen I was supposed to fight just as well. It's all part of the job,

and I was really fucking good at my job. Which was why, when a face I didn't immediately recognize

showed up on set just before the director called action,

I was confused.

The newcomer wasn't part of the stunt team.

He hadn't choreographed anything with us,

but he did look vaguely familiar. His sharp-cornered black mustache was almost as out of place

as his black and white hounds-tooth slacks and matching vest over a long-sleeve white shirt.

The script called for modern-day British gangsters and tracksuits

and sweats. The set was an alley formed by shipping containers on an English port.

This guy stuck out like a sore thumb, and he wouldn't stop staring at me as I limbered up.

In past times, I would have snapped at him in front of the whole crew, asking what the

fuck he was staring at.

But something about this guy gave me pause, which was rare.

Still, I was curious to see where this would go, and confident I could adapt to whatever

the director threw at me.

So I went with it. That was a mistake.

He immediately threw our choreography out the window when he walked right up to me and swung a roundhouse at my head.

...