So Luke Rockhold’s posted up at this bar in Santa Monica, lookin’ clean—tight tee, jawline sharp, vibes on point. He ain’t here to throw hands. Nah, tonight he’s tryin’ to heem dern.

Bro’s been on this whole new wave lately. Says heemin’ dern is like spiritual jiu-jitsu. "Grip tells you everything, bro," he says to his buddy. "Dominance, chi flow, soul read. It’s primal."

First chick he walks up to, leather jacket, spicy energy. Luke gives her The Look™.

"Yo," he goes, smooth as a guillotine, "I’m Luke. Mind if I heem your dern?"

She squints. “You wanna what?”

“Heem. Your. Dern,” he repeats, dead serious. “I read people through their grip. It's like—pressure points for personality.”

She snorts. “Aren’t you that guy who got his soul kicked out on pay-per-view?”

Luke eats it. Still smiles. “Yeah, and I felt every ounce of that man’s spirit in my chin. Now let’s see what you got.”

She laughs, gives him her dern. He heems it gently—firm but respectful.

“Yup,” he says. “You’re stubborn, a little guarded, but real under the layers.”

She pulls her dern back like he just read her zodiac.

“Okay, weirdly accurate.”

The night goes on. Luke’s out here heemin’ like it’s a meet-n-greet. Some chicks dig it. Some call him a cult leader. One thought it was slang for asking to kiss her elbow.

By midnight, bro’s nursing a whiskey, soul a little TKO’d. Then this baddie in a red dress slides next to him like a sneaky left hook.

“Heard you’re the dern guy,” she says, smirking.

Luke turns, that Rockhold confidence still alive. “Guilty.”

She lifts her dern. “Let’s see if you can handle mine.”

They heem.

Long pause. Eyes lock.

“You’re trouble,” Luke mutters.

She smirks. “So are you.”

Game. Set. Match. No ground-and-pound needed.