So the other day I was hanging out at LaGuardia, trying in vain to ignore the nonstop verbal assault from the CNN Airport Network, when something caught the corner of my eye. It was large, red and yellow. Something gaudy this way comes, I thought.

I looked up and identified the source of the colorful plumage: Hulk Hogan had walked up to the gate directly across from mine. Yes, that Hulk Hogan. The man who invented runnin’ wild. The wrestling icon of the 1980s who turned Wrestlemania into Hulkamania. The giant who had gone toe-to-toe with Rowdy Roddy Piper and lived to conduct a screaming-into-the-microphone interview immediately afterward.

For a moment I doubted the possibility that it was really him. He was wearing a bright red T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, his usual so-tight-I’m-they’re-making-me-a-little-uncomfortable jeans, and the trademark do-rag. The outfit was so exactly like what Hulk would wear that it made me wonder if it was perhaps a Hulk imitator or something. (This was, after all, just a few days before Halloween.) But then he happened to turn so that I got a good long look at his face. Yep, it was the Hulkster. He was indeed runnin’ wild in LaGuardia International Airport.

I don’t have a lot of celebrity sightings. I work in public relations, so I probably run into celebrities more often than the average person; PR programs occasionally use celebrities as spokespeople. Even so, it’s still relatively rare for me. And yet, as I sat there contemplating the fact that I was a mere 70 feet away from the reality TV star whose family-imploding Hogan Knows Best paved the way for the Jon Gosselins of the world (and who actually manages to somehow look normal in Ed Hardy T-shirts), something about the moment seemed oddly familiar.

And then I remembered: this wasn’t the first time that I’d seen Hulk Hogan in person. I flashed back to a couple years ago, when I was attending a trade show in Las Vegas and happened to see Hulk in the hallway of the convention center. Some company must have hired him to make an appearance at their booth as a way of generating foot traffic. But I didn’t see him on the floor of the trade show; if I had, that wouldn’t have counted as a celebrity sighting. (If you know when and where a celeb will be, that doesn’t count. It’s only cool if it’s a random moment. Don’t ask me why. I don’t make up the rules, people.)

He and his son, Nick, were hanging out with a small group of people in the hallway. I couldn’t help but to feel a continuing sense of disappointment that Nick didn’t sport a mighty Fu Manchu mustache and Panama-Canal-dockworker tan like his father, but that didn’t stop me from deliberately walking down that hallway so that I could get a close look at the Hulkster. And as I walked past, Hulk had glanced at me.

Hulk had glanced at me, I thought. And that’s when it hit me. There was only one possible explanation for randomly spotting the same celebrity two different times in two different cities three time zones apart. My blood ran cold, and I broke into a sweat that made me smell slightly of day-old ham.

Hulk Hogan was stalking me.

Think about it. What are the odds of running into Hulk Hogan – who lives in Florida – in Las Vegas and New York? Astronomical, right? So astronomical, in fact, that I simply can’t believe they’re a coincidence. Hulk spotted me in that hallway in Vegas and has spent the following two years tracking me down. There’s no other reasonable explanation for it. Seriously, can you think of another one? Right. Me neither.

It makes me wonder how many other times Hulk has been hot on my trail, skulking in the shadows, hiding in plain sight. Was he there when I ordered one of those pretzel-wrapped hot dogs at the mall? Has he been duct-taped to the rafters of the gym at my daughter’s volleyball games? Is he staring at me through binoculars from the roof of the office building across the street from mine? I think the only possible answer to these questions is a disturbing and resounding yes.

As I sat in that terminal, I wondered if Hulk had spotted me as I attempted to slouch behind my laptop. As soon as I had this thought, I chided myself for being an idiot. Of course he’d spotted me. Why else would he be in same terminal as me, at the exact gate opposite me? As if Hulk Hogan has any reason to fly from New York to – where was he going? I peeked over the edge of my laptop. The monitor at his alleged gate claimed he was waiting for a flight to Tampa. Yeah, right, buddy. Conveniently heading toward his home city. Like I’m going to believe that.

Though I was flat-out terrified as I took another bite of my head-sized cinnamon roll and washed it down with a gulp of vitamin-enhanced water, I also felt a sense of something more comforting. I’d spotted him. He had overplayed his hand by appearing right before my eyes and pretending to be talking on his cell phone while waiting for a flight and making no eye contact with me whatsoever. The fool.

The airline dude at my gate announced that my plane was boarding, so I shut off my laptop and gathered up my things. As I hovered around the line while waiting for the airline dude to call my group, I couldn’t help but smirk in Hulk’s direction. It was a meaningful smirk, a smirk with a message. I’m onto you, Hulk Hogan, it said. And when you do finally make your move, I’ll be ready.

He didn’t appear to see my smirk – in fact, he had moved seats and now wasn’t even facing me at all – but I know he knew. And now he knew that I knew he knew.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Hulk Hogan. It tolls for thee. I’ll see you in hell, my friend.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He is able to filter out harmful impurities. Look for his novel, Acoustic Kitty, at area Borders stores and online at Amazon. And coming soon is The Cat Ate My Nachos: The Very Best of the Suburban Fringe. W00t!