There’s a video making the rounds online of a fake lawyer who brandished a fake gun to threaten a fellow motorist in Biñan, Laguna, in the middle of a traffic altercation. “Abogado ako!” he declared with the kind of conviction that comes only from deep confidence or deep delusion. Except he isn’t a lawyer. Not even close.

The man turned out to be a legal researcher, a court employee who, judging by his performance, must have confused the study of law with the theater of intimidation. Even if he isn’t an attorney, he still works within the judiciary, an institution that exists to embody fairness, reason, and restraint. Instead, he chose to act out a scene straight from a roadside melodrama.

The gun, too, turned out to be fake, a replica that could not fire a bullet but could still provoke real fear. Harmless in function but potentially lethal in consequence. In the Philippines, as in most places, symbols of power often matter more than the power itself. And nothing symbolizes power quite like a man waving a gun while misusing the law’s supposed majesty.

To that legal researcher, research this. The law sees no humor in the use of imitation firearms during crimes. Under Section 35 of Republic Act 10591, the Comprehensive Firearms and Ammunition Regulation Act, an imitation firearm used in the commission of a crime is treated as if it were real.

In the eyes of the law, waving a toy gun to threaten someone is no less serious than using a genuine one. Fear doesn’t distinguish between plastic and metal. When you’re staring down a gun barrel, real or fake, your heart doesn’t pause to check for a serial number. The intent to intimidate is enough.

The framers of the law knew that, something the man who pretended to know the law should have understood. Mr. Researcher ought to have done his homework. If there’s a single, vivid example of the erosion of trust in our institutions, this might be it: a court worker who literally and figuratively spat on justice.

The Philippines has long blurred the line between authority and appearance. A crisp barong or an embossed ID can open doors faster than any court order. We mistake uniforms and titles for integrity, and we forgive arrogance if it comes with an official seal. The fake lawyer from Biñan understood that instinctively.

He bet that his claim, “I’m a lawyer,” would buy him a few seconds of fear and submission. He was right, at least until the cameras rolled. And he probably thought he could get away with it because others have. We’ve seen powerful men brandish real guns, hurl real insults, and walk away untouched. A culture that normalizes arrogance will always breed imitation authority.

For this Contrarian, there’s a darker edge to the farce, an ending that could have turned tragic. What if the man he assaulted wasn’t an ordinary driver? What if his victim had been a licensed gun owner, or worse, an off-duty police officer in civilian clothes?

The moment he raised that fake pistol, the other man could have drawn a real one and fired. He could have ended up dead on the spot, not from vengeance, but from instinctive self-defense.

One twitch, one second of misjudgment, and a fake lawyer wielding a fake gun could have met a very real death. That’s the fatal irony of pretending to hold power: when you fake danger, danger tends to answer back.