Rinpoche Chen Ching Te Hsien Shen, or simply 'Rinpoche Chen', as he was
perhaps relievingly known; sat fearless and motionless like a cicada on an ancient oak;
regardless of the obsessively sharpened kanta blade which pointed accusingly at his
worn but somehow sprightly face; barely far enough away to shirk from slicing the
edge of his eyebrow. His eyes appeared to move independently of the rest of his head;
watching a small gang of militia officers in dark blue uniforms reminiscent to an extent
of those of the old police force, but modified with sparse decorative patches pertaining
to anonymous and probably fictitious campaigns along with jester like rank badges and
regimental sashes. The organized rabble tussled with hospital beds and demolished an
assortment of tables and chairs- the only salvaged remnants of the houses their pillaging
empire had gutted during the first celebrative days of their farcical regime. The middle
aged monk gazed; almost detached from the scene; through the wrought wire gate
entrance to his own silent sanctum; remaining inhumanely oblivious to the primeval
carnage which enveloped his underground hospice. Years of work all but destroyed;
hard graft, blood and tears. But nothing is shed in vain. If we concern ourselves with
things that are impermanent, we will only upset ourselves when they curl up and die.
Defiant to the last, he refused the pressing urge of aggression which would have
triggered most men into retaliation long ago; thus obstructing the establishment's
elaborate ploy to force him into such vengeful action which would have provided them
with some menial moral victory. There would be more work to do; more hardships to
endure; there always were. No matter how much society dirtied the soul of man, there
would be more innocents awaiting exploitation by their new totalitarian state.
The harmonious flickering of dozens of whisping candles and smoldering jossticks
filled the undisturbed stillness of this carefully built aid center; a fragrant frangipani
washing around like a valley stream under the enlightened eye of a towering Buddha
image; gazing down from an ancient print hanging on the back wall. The junta's Chief
Officer for Treason Prevention; Chang Yang Kaishek; cold and uneasy; attempted to
prevent trembling like a new born calf as he held his trusty weapon to the monk's
serene face. Taiwanese born, Kaishek bore a comical appearance sporting an
authentically stereotypical Chinese beard and mustache. And, as anorexically scrawny
in build and similarly featured as his Twentieth Century historical namesake, he
struggled to appear official and authoritarian but succeeded only in looking terribly out
of place in a limited edition jet black uniform which thankfully obscured his
perspiration. He shuddered with some ancient, suppressed memory of the home he had
so long ago discarded. Though he had never been religious, something seemed to
prevent him from seriously contemplating murdering a monk in such ice cold blood. His
lower lip trembled with a combination of fear and admiration, Chen sensing these give-
away emotions with abominable ease and accuracy. Sneering, Kaishek commanded his
first words; demanding an adequate answer something deep within him knew he was
unlikely to receive; "We have laws in this country;" Chen would have been forgiven if
he had been led to believe otherwise; "you are an educated man; you should know
that." Having not received even the vaguest hint of a reply, his thoughts were cast back
almost as if the monk was telepathically accessing his memory; to the image of a
monastery near home which had been fire bombed by the Chinese army. Despite the
fact that there had been a full fifty monks inside at the time, he heard not a sound but
the gradual crack of burning wood and the odd explosion of glass and much more
precious but no less transitory sacred artifacts. At that instant he had encountered a by
now estranged feeling of respect; for once in his life he had looked up to someone. His
father had beaten him as a boy and never earned his admiration. Even his kung fu
teacher had riled him to the point of what would have been unwise retaliation. But the
willpower of those percipient priests had stuck in his mind like a stupidly swallowed
toothpick in the throat. Of course he had hidden these perceptions from the authorities
and never thought back since, but even the most dishonest man can hide nothing from
himself. Back then he had been moved by the silent courage of these most humble of
men. He had seen their sacrifice as an embodiment of the Taiwanese cause. It had been
a guiding light for him during the ultimately regrettable conflict between his people and
those who had assumed patronage over them for many decades. He felt the same now,
but just like last time hastily disregarded the strange notion of ethical correctness in
favor of a mournfully misplaced loyalty to his new home state. "Your... compassionate
venture is a paltry attempt at revolution, monk. Your actions are measly; microscopic
in the eyes of your rulers. What makes you think you're special; influential? Your
robes? Your resistance? Your wisdom? Why keep up this.... clumsy charade, old man?
What's your intention; to die? To perish a hero? It's a sad man who provokes death."
"And a tragic one who flees life." Kaishek was not impressed with this retort, and
flashed a blade towards the priest's face in a fruitless attempt to force the prey to act as
helplessly as his designated role required. Perhaps if he pronounced his argumentum ad
baculum a little more clearly it would make its mark. But as the sword scribbled it's
paper cut wound into the monk's cheek, it was Kaishek who felt himself suffer the
blow. 'Some kind of mind trick; some sorcery.' Kaishek's suffering was really of his
own construction. 'They can turn your own actions against you; some cryptic
conjuring of apparently coincidental karma.' Chen knew exactly what his so called aggressor was
thinking, and proceeded to play on his assumption that he didn't. "Does that make you
feel better?"
In Kaishek's ample experience, people usually moved when prodded with
grossly honed edged weapons, and the fact that this one refused to be so swayed made
him flinch backwards instead and hurl his sword at the cool cavern like stone floor as if
just having unknowingly slaughtered his loved ones in a blind blood bath brought about
when he strolled into his room for a spot of candlelit sword training not knowing they
were lurking in the darkness preparing a surprise party for him. "No; it doesn't make
me feel better" was his belated admission. With the tables turned and Kaishek feeling
decidedly guilty; drenched with moral responsibility; the monk twiddled his thumbs
together with the patience of a man determined to start a fire by rubbing sticks,
whatever unbearable amount of time such an undertaking might involve. Time can play
strange tricks on uncertain men, and Kaishek's regrets about his past; and thus his
present, had been skillfully manipulated to achieve what the steadfast pacifist could not
have brought about through more direct means. Such psychological blows could be
landed by the mind alone, which greatly outweighs the destructive power of either fist
or sword.
Then, silence. Every government officer in the building stood still as if ready to
receive a command from god before a faint strand of music could be heard descending
the steps from the street below amid a hazy interlude of marching footsteps. Jero
Ngaman; just one swamped identity lost in the nameless mass; cringed at the egotistical
fallacy of his boss marking his entrance while playing some vastly indulgent opera
music as he remembered the lewd battle charge of a squad of fated marines in some old
Vietnam war movie. Fittingly, the head of state was indeed a character straight off a
Hollywood set. A suitably eccentric antagonist; but since he was also known as a
suitably restraintless one, Ngaman thought he had better keep his humor to himself.
Five screw faced officers stormed down the remainder of the rickety steps and lined the
walls like leeches on flesh. Three more in an acrylic soot black so deep it could almost
have contained stars and constellations, wandered down at a lesser pace; big shots in
the government's political and military ranks; which basically amounted to the same
thing. Chen sighed to himself like a drifter diagnosed with a terminal disease realizing
for the first time he had let life slip by. A man may have servants, money and power,
but that does not make him a good man. A man may have others to serve him, but all
this is useless if he cannot serve himself. 'Bend and be straight; yield and overcome.
Have little and gain; have much and be confused.' The music entered the room
marginally ahead of the seraphic shadow of the president, followed by the man himself;
patched with a barrage of the military badges of four armies; the Ukrainian,
Yugoslavian, American and those of his own City State's; earned no doubt through
barbarism rather than heroism. A man who delighted in death and carnage; who
thought it an art. Who walked with fire supposedly undeterred. It was as if the fire
walked with him; followed his lead. He commanded it; ruled over it; the pits of hell
recreated here on earth via his own design.
Wiping the gold identity plate pinned to his chest like a remembrance poppy and
repulsively turning up his nose at the sweet smell of frankincense and myrrh which to
him carried the scent of an aseptic poison; a reminder of a scene in the spiritual history
of the western world which the demonic deity he would have worshipped had he not
been so side-tracked by worshipping his own image deeply regretted; the man at the
center of this ridiculous parade swaggered single mindedly toward his captor.
He spat a weeping joint at Ngaman; inviting a puff of sparks as the guilty
private felt the charred remains strike his face but retaliated only in the haven of his
mind. Vladimir Volscenzi had no respect for an officer's safety if that officer found the
deadly serious mechanisms of government amusing, and even less for a lowly deviant
who had taken it upon himself to reinstate institutions which by his will had long ago
been renounced. He placed his hands behind his back and headed for the gaping
gateway separating the priest's private room from the rest of the hammer hewn hospice.
It was a glittering show; a colorful demonstration of the conceited and
essentially empty capacity of the nation's tactless top dog, but the excessive precession
had made Kaishek feel noticeably better as the arrival of his munificent patron acted as
a decisive aphrodisiac. Volscenzi was proud of his society, and actively despised those
who sought to undermine it. This was no secret. "There are no fugitives." Not greatly
appreciating the pedantic tone of the precocious premier while greatly anticipating his
assumption that the monk held a possibly inferior comprehension of the English
language, Chen decided to foster a quarrelsome manner for the purposes of this
inexorable 'conversation'. "No." He shook his head in agreement.
"Where are the
fugitives?" Volscenzi had almost reached the end of his tether already; a man with a
decidedly short fuse. This was a good sign to Chen, who was well aware he could
aggravate his captors mentally a whole lot more effectively than they could aggravate
him physically. "There are no fugitives." At this, Volscenzi barely restrained himself
from leaping out of his skin in a regorging rage, but gritting his pristine silvery teeth, he
somehow managed to remain marginally rational; "What has happened to the fugitives
who were here?"
"I advised them to leave."
"You knew of our imminent arrival and protected them." he span around to face his
audience and left Kaishek; still noticeably unhinged by the whole situation; under the
monk's hypnotic gaze once more. "This fool risks himself to protect strangers! A
neglectful pastime; a malignant cancer. The cancer of compassion." He looked to Chen
as a bloodthirsty huntsman looks at the obscurely contorted corpse of a mauled fox;
"Socialism; or worse; Communism!" Chen had never been especially inclined to follow
any particular political ideology. Communism in China had been directly responsible for
the vicious deaths of many of his associates, but if Volscenzi was intent on pursuing a
mathematics in which two plus two equaled five, that was his prerogative. He clearly
just didn't know much about politics. "Communism is as much a malignant cancer as
democracy, and you know why?" This was growing more like a staged seminar by the
minute, so the security paparazzi strained opera inflicted ears and at least pretended to
listen in case there was a quiz later the submitted answers to which would determine
whether they lived or died. "Because with these ideals we have no leaders; no saints;
just sinners. Sinners helping sinners. The blind leading the blind. There is something
called natural selection; it is how civilizations survive. Without it, we help people. We
idly stick together and get nowhere; we want it all. We help the retarded kid read
because he's retarded. We help the lame kid move because he can't do it himself. We
waste our time on failures. We fool ourselves that if we are all nice and compassionate
we'll all survive, but that isn't how things work. It's dog eat dog. Only the strong climb
to the top of the slippery pole;"
Kaishek resisted the recollection that the charlatan ruler had not so much
clambered up that pole himself than been pushed by nepotism and betrayal, and let him
continue undeterred. "What has this feeble monk achieved in his long, torturous and
now soon to be discontinued existence?" There was an uncertain giggle; some of the
younger officers realizing for the first time that Volscenzi would never extend any
measure of compassion to them. By this time, the ranting head of state was facing Chen
again and off loading his empty rhetoric directly. But even dictators have to pause
sometimes to catch breath, which would allow the crafty mouse to slip by the vicious
tiger; "To act for the rewards of that action is to act without mindfulness of the action
itself." Though facing Volscenzi, Chen's words were intended more for Kaishek, as the
latter was painfully aware. But it was clear that the lofty puppet master of this
sepulchral theater was in no mood to listen to alternative perspectives, and though the
monk was well aware his words were falling on deaf ears; "I simply appreciate my
responsibility to my fellow man; there is no crime in this."
"No crime; no crime? Oh; your liberal selflessness embarrasses me." Volscenzi's
sarcasm was as expected and unoriginal as his exaggerated entrance. He began to tap
his fingers on the nearest tabletop; beginning to show the temperament of a man who
so often got exactly what he wanted that on the small number of occasions when he
didn't he allowed the child inside him to swallow him whole like a monstrous anaconda.
"I have not come personally all the way from South Manhattan to listen to a pathetic
idealist's Nineteenth Century banter. I run this country; not you. I make the rules, not
you. I have more valuable things to listen to than your 'moral guidance'. Don't you
realize that in indulging others you neglect yourself? Pity; concern; these are weak,
useless; insane! This is my society, and it will work by my rules or it will crumble.
Billions of dollars investment! Two generation's work! What concern is it of yours?"
"For evil to flourish, it is only necessary for good men to do nothing." Volscenzi was
not sure how to answer that comment, and so simply ignored it like a minuscule gnat
ruffling the mane of the lion and proceeded as a scuffle broke out behind him, turning
slightly to emphasize the fact that he was not really talking to his captive, but more to
himself. "I despair at all this, I really do. I try to build a perfect society; a utopia, and
what do I get? Monks, revolutionaries, trouble makers; humanitarians, for christ's
sake." Unable to think of the antonym of the word 'utopia', Chen declined to correct the
sovereign’s use of words, not that his offering would have been considered anyway;
"Don't you wish things were a little more... reliable?" Kaishek nodded unconvincingly,
which persuaded Volscenzi that perhaps something was not quite right here. He had a
sudden, unnerving impression that he wasn't alone, and carefully turned; for once in his
life not knowing what to expect. He felt himself staring at two mug shots; terrorists he
had ordered dead days ago, then noticed that the two prime suspects for many a
treasonous crime were standing right there in front of him as if he were some fearful
spectre of the past.
Iron had had a strange feeling that morning that today he would come face to
face with one of the greatest wrongs left to right in his life, and sure enough, here it
was. "I just had a feeling I'd meet you today." There had been that unconscious
awareness of the aura of some shadowy demon from times gone by. The lonely dictator
clapped his foot and snorted some scented smoke from his face like a puffing stallion.
"Ah; well, well, well; what a surprise. You know, you two were next on my admittedly
short list of visits. I don't believe we've met before." Lincoln knew exactly where she'd
seen him before, but somehow couldn't take the situation seriously. It felt uncannily like
a dream to her, and she couldn't help thinking that at any moment she would wake up
and kick herself for not acting while she had the chance. "I think you knew my
parents." This comment failed to jog any memories for Volscenzi, whose past
murderous misdemeanors may well have been carried out in a previous life for all the
blood red water that had passed under the bridge since. "I've known lots of people; it
comes with being a world leader. You know; presidents, ambassadors, autocrats,
royalty. I'm not in the presence of a blue blood, am I? No. Perhaps the bastard spawn
of purged politicians; I am sorry if I inadvertently mislead, misinformed or mistreated
your parents. What were they? First family of the US? Ousted aristocracy of some
irrelevant European principality?"
Lincoln grated her teeth as if stripping a particularly thick skinned vegetable
with a flimsy knife; growing ever more edgy with this derogatory disregard for any
pains or grievances she or anybody else in this maniac's 'care' might have had. "They're
dead." The words somehow managed to spill past her toothy portcullis like a frosty,
conversation stopping breeze. It was Chen who read the situation best; as he habitually
did; raising a single passive finger in accidental reference to an old Zen fable, which
served its purpose in adequately easing her mind. Afterall, it was better she avoided
doing something clearly long overdue but admittedly stupid. Then it suddenly hit the
moronic monarch exactly what he had done, and his memory flooded back with
tactlessly delinquent black humor. "Ah; you're victims. My victims, no less. You must
realize world leaders must pull a few strings here and there." He raised his hands and
slapped them back onto the table in an apologetic gesture. "You see, it's a shame but
you fail to comprehend the intricacies of politics. A man like me has to make sacrifices.
I kill lots of people; that's the way of the world. I killed someone yesterday; I may kill
someone today. I may kill you Mr. Kaishek." The prospective victim of this motiveless
hypothetical crime flinched nervously and uneasily smiled away the suggestion as an
indication of endearment like an exhausted parent half heartedly humouring a child's
flights of fancy after a hard day at the office. "If someone wishes to challenge the king,
they will be cut down to size. If a man allows his country to fall to political pressure;
democrats, liberals, socialists; he will be disposed."
Jade; the priest's eternal assistant; pushed past a pair of stout bodyguards and
made sure she would be in the way should the only invited pair amongst this multitude
of 'guests' decide to sink to the level of their mental torturer. Volscenzi giggled
spasmodically and revealed the scope of his past achievements like any good villain
would; "my father specifically chose me as his chief assassin because he knew I was the
best man for the job. Fifteen years military experience. Experience of life in the
trenches. It is; let us say; an enlightened understanding of life and death." An atypical
madman, Volscenzi's tiradical solipsism was well documented in the ranks of his
maligned military, although only in secret. "Have you ever been in the trenches; had to
fight day in, day out?" Metaphorically speaking yes, as far as the magnanimous
militants were concerned, and literally in Chen's case; though in a previous professional
incarnation, so the plebeian patriarch turned swiftly to the newest arrival; "have you?"
Jade; a novice nun who had followed her master from China on his perilous pilgrimage
to the new world, was hardly a candidate for trench warfare should such primitive
conflict arise. A slight character of peaceful persuasion, she was born into a large and
poverty stricken agricultural family and joined the monkhood at an early age, thereby
saving her parents from having to feed yet another hungry mouth.
Originally of Thai origin, her family were made destitute during the Yunan
purges and packed off back to Siam from where she had never heard from them since.
As to the proposal of life in the trenches of Europe and the Middle East, Jade's distaste
of violence coupled with her atrophic demeanor would have been her downfall even if
her indomitable spirit would have ensured her survival until the first volley of bullets,
bombs or bayonets were sewn.
Verily it mattered little to whom Volscenzi directed his comments; he was still
only really ever lecturing himself. "I had my targets; I achieved my goals. You should
be respectful of my success rate. Would it not have been a greater disaster if your
families were left mortally wounded in the gutter by some half baked, talentless
wanabee; an amateur? Left for you to mop up their blood? To nurse them? Your loved
ones were apprehended by an assassin of extensive integrity; of extreme caliber." Iron
restrained one clenched fist with the other like a spoof dictator concealing his
instinctive military salute; he was really starting to stir the pot... "I wouldn't have got
where I am with pacifism, and I don't believe you would have either. There were many
revolutionaries out there in those early days. That's the problem with selflessness; it
brings you down. It gives you campaigns to strive for which you could quite easily
have done without. Laying your life on the line like Mr. Chen here. Wasteful. Wasteful.
If your parents died at my hand, then I apologize. Not for killing them, but for being
careless and leaving the job half completed. I never would have been able to live with
myself if I had known...."
Iron shuddered as if someone was passing an inexplicably severe electrical
current through his body. Chen was careful to speak before he acted; "To throw the
first attack is to entice defeat. Victory resides in the ability to defend and counter, not
to rush into an impulsive battle with only the delivering of the next strike in mind."
Volscenzi turned for a moment, sighed theatrically at the monk and turned back still
bearing that look of falsified guilt. "I admit there were a handful of little hits I carried
out just for fun, but a man has to have his hobbies. Most were for the sake of my old
man; you have to earn your pocket money; do your chores. A boy doesn't refuse his
father; it's a family thing." Thanks to Volscenzi, Iron and Lincoln had never known of
family responsibilities, and besides, this was beginning to sound painfully reminiscent of
the much documented 'only following orders' excuse. "And given my military
experience... Come on; a man's got to start somewhere. Jesus was a carpenter; family
business. Moses was a slave; family tradition. Spinoza polished lenses. Hell; Hitler was
a decorator. But I guess those early days of mine were necessary for my own growth.
Just think; your parents perished in the moulding of a great man. In this life, you have
to use your shoulders; shove a few people aside. Otherwise, you'll never get where you
want to go. Your parents were old....ish; going nowhere. My dad never gave me the
time of day- he was a busy man, and now I see why. It made me grow up quick, and
I'm sure you have too. And why? Because you've been relieved the unending chore of
family life; you've been given time and space to be yourself. I just snipped the umbilical
cord. They would have died sometime anyway; perhaps of an awful disease. You may
as well go sometime, and I assure you it would have been sudden; I don't leave people
bleeding on the side walk. They wouldn't have suffered; much. I assure you we've all
benefited in the long run. What did Bentham say about the greatest happiness?"
"To the greatest number." Lincoln would have been physically sick if she'd not been so
distracted from Volscenzi's remorseless banter by an impending rush of anabolic
antagonism which she magically managed to keep control of by merely clenching her
fists and kicking the floor with a jittery foot in preparation for an imminent revenge.
Volscenzi refused to recognize her quite obvious emotions; "Aw; a philosopher." He
had such a degrading knack of making each simple word he uttered sound like a biting
insult, and enjoyed the rare psychological game to an even greater extent than he did
the regular political one. "Excuse me if I puke with joy. And oh, of course; morality again. I do like these little
discourses Mr. Chen and Miss... Lincoln, I believe." He cracked his knuckles as if the
revealing of his knowledge of her identity was the catalyst for a game of 'I know
something you don't know' and draped his king size military coat over the gate as he
began to wander apparently aimlessly around the room stretching his fingers. "Of
course, it is not the duty of the warrior; the bearer of the moral standard; to cast the
first stone. Afterall, who is without sin? I will have that pleasure... Mr. Iron." The
aforementioned contestant thus called as if plucked out of the audience by a plastic
grinned game show host to attempt an assault on the mystery star prize, Lincoln
nudged the challenged 'revolutionary' and gave an inviting nod; as did Chen; who
welcommingly accepted the clown like stupidity of such a challenge, especially amid a
group of people who biased in their support if they genuinely believed some inclination
that Volscenzi was a serious governor and not a morbid jester to the inaugural
serpentine throne, would cheer their own jailer on like death row inmates petitioning a
'save the chair' campaign. "You concern yourself with such meaningless things" was
Volscenzi's judgmental reminder; "we fight for life and prosperity. Morality, duty,
responsibility; what use are these? This is your insanity; your disability... You can't even
see what you fight for; you can't even feel it. There is a better place; a bigger one; a
utopia of our dreams to which this partial heaven is but a mute distraction. You
scrabble around like a man in a dark room searching for his glasses. Open your eyes;
You fool yourselves with metaphysical nonsense and waste your lives." Lincoln had
been satisfactorily convinced years ago that there was no utopian ideology at work
behind the burlesque gestation of this supercilious society. The manipulation of the
wealthy, the persecution of the poor, and behind it all that hideous technology which
though to its merit had slaughtered the rabid beast of capitalism with much a plomb,
had galvanized an era in which even a human being's genetic identity could be fobbed
off to the highest bidder. This raised a worrying hypothesis if what she had to deal with
at this present moment wasn't enough. It was well known that new-borns were
systematically purged of any 'antisocial' tendencies before being registered by the
authorities, but where heresy fails to stretch disturbs the heretic more than where it
does, as what we don't know about tends to be far worse than what we are allowed to
find out. What if she herself had been 'cloned' at some point; her genetic structure
abused for dubious ends; purged of those rebellious intricacies which made her... her?
For the second time the notion arose that what if there was another 'version' of herself
walking around canceling out all her good work at the whim of a promiscuous
potentate such as the one who now called her single friend to arms? "Well then, excuse
me if I have no gripes about relieving you of such caged existences." Iron let his guard
drift in a successful attempt to press his distinguished chief statesman into making the
first move as the latter concluded his ineffectual ramblings at long last; "... and in
combat, I will prove my worth, and your futility."
With that, Volscenzi hopped forward with a left hook which scrapped the space
mere millimeters in front of Iron's face as he jerked his head back in a comfortably
evasive antic. "Futility is a versatile concept, Mr. Iron, but I misunderstand your
compulsion." Iron had given up deciphering the crossword comments of his nemesis,
and instead threw a simple jab into Volscenzi's lower lip, receiving a carbon copy
retaliation for his troubles. Iron eyed the huge net like rubber veil which stretched from
floor to ceiling on the side wall like an over stressed camouflage sheet; probably
recovered from some disbanded military outpost or other; then promptly sent his
opponent bouncing against it with an angled straight punch to the chin. 'This character
hasn't been as grossly overstated as I'd been led to believe.' The decisiveness of
Volscenzi's thoughts seldom matched his actions. He side-stepped with a regal smirk
and forced his opponent into a left handed block with a prompting roundhouse to the
midsection, then produced his authentic attack and yielded the desired result; hoisting a
shin at his mortal enemy in a similar attempt with the opposite leg. Iron took a cautious
step backward to reaccomadate himself with his surroundings and perhaps calm this
frenzied fist fight down. He hooked Volscenzi's lead arm around in an abrasive
backward circle and floored the haphazard megalomaniac with a matching arm sweep
applied to the chin; his own belated reciproctical charge proving enough traitorous
kinetic energy to knock him down. Worries aside, Lincoln felt herself swabbed with a
feeling of heavenly relief as she shook like a kitten in an oozing storm; aware she was
mentally unfit for this much anticipated confrontation given the pugical propensity of
maintaining a collected mind, and settled for watching the unfolding conflict with just a
hint of favoritism. Of all the little brawls he'd have to fight before this endless catalogue
of running battles was over, this probably wasn't the ideal one to allow oneself to
struggle in.
Having been flicked back onto the scabrous stone floor with such dispassionate
ease, the fallen autocrat roused himself and hopped into an immediate fighting stance
with a grim reputation to reinstate. 'I thought I'd wiped this place clean of people like
this.' At first glance, a mind reader would have thought Volscenzi was accusing himself
of negligence rather than his scrupulous subjects, but as was typical of the man, his
efficacious egotism ensured that the phrase 'I' referred not to himself as a person, but
society as a whole. He was also aware though, that it was far from clever to be seen
getting thumped this way and that in front of his many minions, since when an
illegitimate ruler's invincibility is questioned the iron fist tends to rapidly change hands
to some mutinous villain waiting in the wings. And iron fisted emperors do not get
kicked around by grudge bearing street urchins. Suffice to say, the necessity of victory
gave the self appointed dictator the spark he needed to swing the balance back in his
favor. He whirled across the floor in an attempted sweep like a skimming missile having
ignored its intended trajectory, to which Iron reacted in an instant; leaping instinctively
up out of harm's way to watch his opponent spin dramatically in a full and fruitless
circle. Still in motion, Volscenzi then attempted a soaring roundhouse; fueled by the
enforced three hundred and sixty degree gymnastic twirl, but utilizing the same
instinctive awareness as before, Iron had ducked below it before the attacker realized
he was gone.
The enraged aggressor growled his discontent and hurled extra inertia into his
continuing ballet spiral, but with the resulting foot sweep a simple prophesy for a man
with Iron's experience, by now a counter screamed to be executed. As he leapt
evasively upwards again he snapped an unavoidable kick square into Volscenzi's jaw
before indulging in the luxury of landing. As he crashed to the floor with a fist already
semi clenched in anger, Volscenzi dreamed of having had some government program in
place to plant explosive devices in children's bodies at birth which would mean only a
press of a button and whoever he deemed undesirable would quickly become charred
but untroublesome remains. If he had had a notebook handy he would have jotted that
idea down for future reference. Iron raised an eyebrow to his accomplices as if a boxer
to his corner on the eve of a TKO. Now things were starting to look up.
'Funny.' He had time for a little free thought. 'I'd have thought this was one guy
I'd really like to hit, but in actual fact it's no different from hitting anybody else.' Such
idle musings would have put any less competent fighter in a fatal position if brought up
in the heat of battle. 'Goes to show he's nothing special; nothing significant; even to
me.' Unfortunately though, 'special' was one of the first nouns Volscenzi would have
associated with himself; alongside 'godlike' and 'untouchable', although right now these
particular concepts were very far from evident.
Meanwhile, Kaishek wheezed sorrowfully as his barbarous boss climbed up
again and sped onto the offensive with a blur of punches which pounded his opponent's
elbows, shoulders and midsection without inflicting any serious harm. But a clever
swing of the right leg around and down over Iron's guard brushed aside all that
negativity as it knocked the social misfit into a sideways stoop. Volscenzi seized the
opportunity like a homeless hound discovering a choice cut of beef; hoisting a shin
across Iron's unprotected cheekbone and eye and watching pensively as the usurper
toppled backwards. His spirits lifted above and beyond cloud nine, the premier reacted
as if he had just won the heavyweight championship of the world; raising his arms aloft
in celebration. But just as a few frugally jubilant officials beyond the guarded fence wall
rejoiced in kind, the victory celebrations were cut invariably short as Iron; still on the
ground; hooked Volscenzi's leg from behind and sent him head first into the frigid floor.
Lincoln giggled secretly to herself as the now more rowdy crowd uttered a shrieking
protest of unsportsmanly conduct, though somehow she imagined the Marquis of
Queensbury would have exited in disgust shortly after the first bell.
Rules aside, a gaggle of enthusiastic officers dragged their maniacal master to
his unsteady feet and quickly went about putting bodies between the two combatants;
eager to ensure that injury did not become embarrassment. To Volscenzi; with bear
shaped bodyguards standing between him and Iron like sphinxes protecting a pyramid,
the victor's identity was clear. Any qualified judges though, would have strongly
disagreed. But besides, even if he was not victorious in conflict, he was so in political
and social dominance. Afterall, the hierarchical ladder spoke for itself. "I think..."
Volscenzi gazed around with a sudden claustrophobia at the virtually vivisected hospice
and continued with his prostrate pronouncement; "I would love to brawl further, Mr.
Iron, but I believe our job here is done." One unidentified official squinted at his leader;
surprised at his lack of commitment. Surely a man of his rich military history and high
prestige could defuse a situation as slight as this. But on the other hand, Volscenzi was
nothing if not an unconventional statesman. To him, the whole governmental system
and all its spurious activities and complex workings were elements of a huge strategic
game which appeared to take place nowhere but in his own imagination.
The dictator; by now headed for the exit flanked by numerous burly
bodyguards; upped the pace as he watched his nemesis out of the corner of his eye get
to his feet and attempt to squash a wretched cut over the eyebrow while simultaneously
pondering the motives of Volscenzi's hasty retreat. "I trust there will be no more
disobedience here." The departing party still had something whimsically deep and
meaningful to say despite appearing to be swept away from a pack of delirious fans like
some precious superstar on a wave of hysteria. "I would advise that this enterprise
cease operations indefinitely, unless you wish to come to a more gruesome end."
Lincoln couldn't believe what she was seeing. First the sudden exit, then Volscenzi's
arrogance in persisting to give orders regardless of the fact that he was clearly
commanding a diplomatic withdrawal. She would have suspected the monk of some
sort of telepathic assault which had caused the band to disperse had she not been aware
of his abhorrence of such underhand methods. But with Volscenzi trundling away like a
crippled lamb left for dead in a butcher's shop and Kaishek scuttling puppy like behind
him; the vast repertoire of officials muttering prayers of thanks to whichever god had
spared him and his superior officer further ridicule, all she could manage was a wry
smirk. "Hail mary mother of god, it's a miracle." Iron would actually have preferred to
continue this promising scrap further, but if divinity must intervene, there isn't much a
mere mortal can do about it. "Do you think they'll stop at leaving the building, or do
you reckon they'll cut their losses and scoot out of the city as well?"
"Methinks you ask too much." Lincoln watched the last of the uniformed pawns
disappear through the opening at the top of the stairs as if rats following an out of tune
piper. "Perhaps merely a demonstration of the pitfalls caused by the ego." When Chen
spoke, those around habitually listened since he was a man who very rarely spoke about
anything unless it was the complete and indisputable truth. "A man driven by the ego
grants an opponent targets which really should not be there. Damaged pride inflicts him
more severely than any physical injury. I think you hit him where it hurts him most."
Above ground, meanwhile, Volscenzi was eager to redress the balance as he
almost pole axed a helpful soldier and proceeded to spit a selection of barely audible
commands. "I want assassins, snipers, bounty hunters; everything. I want everything! I
will not tolerate subordination in my utopia!" By this time, the miniature army had split
into various factions, all of whom hurried off swiftly in different directions to go about
carrying out their new-found tasks. Only a select number of grumbling bodyguards
remained to attend to their leader's immediate needs. Volscenzi put a budding arm
around Kaishek and led him away from the others to concoct his latest apocalyptic
plan. "You know, commander, death is too easy; too final, and it's been done before.
Since my accession there has been precious little action, so I intend to savor this pinch
of treason. They think they have suffered. They believe they have been cheated. But
you know the curious thing about suffering; however much you endure, you can always
suffer more."
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