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I'd stand there, yell "Who the -blam!- do you think I am" and eat the first blow. With the second blow he'd almost certainly hit me in the gut, and I'd keel over. With the third hit, he'd likely hit me on the back of my neck, as I'm still bent over clutching my gut. That would almost certainly sever my spinal cord, putting me into cardiac arrest.
I'd die like a man. Never backing down. Never showing any fear. Children would whisper about me, the man who was felled by the Great Protector Jerome. My memory would fall into the realm of myth. No one would lament me.
Then I'd haunt Bungie's new building. Paying particular attention to leaving heaps of ectoplasm in the restrooms. My revenge would not be quick. My revenge would not be clean. My vengeance would be total and unrelenting. No ginger beards, or refrigerated snacks or microwaves would escape my wrath.
All would rue the day. Except Jerome, because I assume he's also a Ghostbuster (he just sort of looks like the type to strap on an unlicensed nuclear accelerator and 'not be afraid of no ghosts' to me) so I'd stay away from him.