Suppose it is an ordinary Sunday. A late-evening drink downtown. 8:47. The bartender says, “There’s a man with a machete!” You look up from the bar, and there he is, silhouetted in the doorway 20 short steps away.

What do you do?

Of the 10 people in the bar, 6 froze in place, locked down by drink and the terrifying reality of the masked man. As the man strode down the length of the bar towards me, machete raised, one young woman ran screaming out of the door, unwilling to witness — or risk sharing — our strange fate.

I had just enough time to scan my surroundings. Gun left in truck. Fake plastic candle, menu. Fire extinguisher — where? Barstool — only option. Time slows. Seize the barstool — heavy, industrial, chosen by the bar owners to be hard to swing. No matter. Quick juggle to find the balance and heft. In an instant, I let go of every might-have or could-have. One part of me regrets ever stepping foot in, knowing that this could be my last whole moment — one other is grateful I was there, my girlfriend the bartender would not have stood a chance alone. He completes another step closer and the thoughts vanish.

Suddenly, the young barback jumps in, shoulder to shoulder with me. He had grabbed another barstool and together we stood in phalanx. The attacker swings at my companion — I step in and punch with the stool, driving him back before the blow can land. He turns to deal with me and my companion pushes in turn. We instinctively work together in turn, punching him in steps back towards the door.

Defeated and impotent, the masked man whirls and backhands a stone-drunk bystander with the machete. My gaze is locked on the masked man, but out of the corner of my eye I see the bystander sag against the bar, holding his head. I smell blood. Rushing, we drive the masked man out of the door. I drop my barstool and lean out of the doorway — I can’t see him. I lean out with both hands and crank the door shut in a single move, defying both the rubber wedge and hinged brass foot. I slam the deadbolt home and turn. “Oh my god you broke the door!” my girlfriend says, still on the phone with the cops. The injured man is bracing himself with one hand against the bar, the other pressed tightly to his head. Good — he didn’t catch it in the neck like I thought. The smell of blood is bright, metallic, a puddle below him on the bar.

The young woman who ran out the door earlier returns, hammering on the door to let her in. The door, jammed shut, needs a generous shoulder to open. I lock it behind her. She cries and says, “I’ve seen too many horror movies” by way of apology to her friends. I look at the blood on the bar and shrug. You’re fine, honey.

I run out the back door and grab my first aid kit and my pistol from my truck. The barback has bundled the injured man into his truck, off to the hospital. I follow the blood trail back to the bar and wait for the cops, and comfort my girl.

I want to say there is something I learned, some life-changing affirmation. Its not. Life is a meat grinder, and you have the mere illusion of control over your exposure to uncertainty. My exact same actions could have led to disaster or death for those around me if this man or the world had played different — this is the very nature of the Judge’s game.

“Suppose two men at cards with nothing to wager save their lives. Who has not heard such a tale? A turn of the card. The whole universe for such a player has labored clanking to this moment which will tell if he is to die at that man’s hand or that man at his.”

Build your hands while you may, according to whatever measures fit you best. You do not know the day nor the hour when you will be called to go all-in.