pSaw a meme once.
“Could 100 men take a gorilla in a fight?”

I laughed.

Not because it was funny—
Because it was weak.

Why 100? Why not one?
Why not me?

So I flew to Rwanda.
Barefoot.
No passport.
Just a pair of jorts and an unbreakable will.

Found a silverback deep in the jungle.
Big bastard. Looked like he bench pressed Land Rovers for fun.

I didn’t flinch.
I sprinted at him full speed, screaming “STAY HARD” in Swahili I learned that morning.

Bad idea.

He caught me midair.
Treated me like a ragdoll in a washing machine full of hammers.

Snapped my femur like a breadstick.
Dislocated my spine.
Used my ribcage like a xylophone.
I heard jazz.

Medics found me 6 hours later face-down, bones pulverized like fine Colombian snow inside my body, humming the Rocky theme through a collapsed lung.

They said,
“David… you need months to recover. You’ll never walk again.”

I said, “Cool. Then I’ll crawl the fing Boston Marathon.”***

And I did.

48 hours later, body wrapped in duct tape and prayer, I dragged myself 26.2 miles across hot pavement like a war-torn meat crayon.
People cried.
One guy threw up.
A priest offered me last rites halfway through.

I told him to shut up and hydrate.

Crossed that finish line with a tibia sticking out like an antenna.
Raised my bloody hand.
Said:

“That gorilla didn’t beat me.
He trained me.”

⸻

Next time someone asks, “Could 100 men beat a gorilla?”
Tell them:

“Only if one of them is Goggins… and even then, he’s gonna run a fing ultramarathon with his spine in a backpack.”***

Stay hard. Stay stupid.
Fight the gorilla.