Iron landed with an echoing thunder of flimsy metal as he hit the elevator's roof;
thankful of a stergent stability which was masked by its uncertain rattling motion, and
dodged a looping cable as it edged towards him like a boa constrictor uncoiling for the
kill. Swinging his head from side to side like an attentive predator on the prowl, he
noted his surroundings in the blink of an eye. The ongoing fuzzy clank of the lift
shrieking in his ears, he blew a wisp of air as if a diver about to go for the world depth
record and glanced around him twitching his ears with the intense awareness of an
evocative assassin. It was clear any opponents he would face here were either everyday
ex cons eager to employ the desires of their new found legal freedom on whatever
hapless nobodys they should come across, or typical militia; neither enthusiastic nor
properly qualified for their so called 'jobs' as guards of the criminal empire's most
sacred, or in other words, most profitable treasures.
Crawling towards the access hatch on the top of the contraption, he took a
second preparatory deep breath and fired his arm downward, having to lean
precariously backward on his heels to wrench the plastic hatch off its resistant hinges as
it projected LEDs and jagged teeth of ripped fiberglass and shattered tin across the lift
shaft as if a vital power cable had inconsiderately exploded while the tumbling vehicle
was in motion. He bent the newly revealed lever up and instinctively rolled over to one
side, barely avoiding the inaugural salvo of gunfire which burst through the thin
elevator roof, making holes like droplets of water in a lake of punctured metal.
Flipping onto his feet like a prowling cougar, he leapt sideways and struck the
larger of two elevator hatches with the flat of the foot; the dreary off silver cover
swinging open like a cat flap. Glad that he'd got the attention of the failing contraption's
recluse residents at last he quickly transferred his weight onto his back leg and span
round to avoid the next predictable flurry of gunfire. Nodding contentedly as his unseen
opponents waited to hear their target slump to the lift floor, Iron leapt feet first through
the access hatch; slamming one of his two adversaries painfully to the floor with a pair
of partially intended though partially merely fortunate dropping kicks to the face. His
sub conscious mind registering the geometry of this new habitat while his attention
clicked almost instantly to facing the remaining security guard like an equestrian
competitor concerned only with the next jump, he cracked his knuckles above his head
and awaited a give-away opening. Recognizing that traditional navy blue military
uniform, he noted these were military personnel as opposed to street thugs; not that
that would make a significant difference to how events would pan out. He pondered
whether there was an end to all this, but then recalled that if he had been more
forthright he could well have put an end to it all himself yesterday when he had got into
that short lived scuffle with the head of state. Had he taken his chance his one man
revolution may have born fruit by now.
His pride dented to a greater extent than his nose was about to be, Carlos Sierra
blinked as if suddenly struck with a nasty bout of epileptic convulsions in the insane
buzz of cackling electricity which seiged the elevator walls as if a full scale Trojan war
was going on outside. He whipped a gun from his hip like a wild west gunslinger only
to have it cast aside with a looping roundhouse. Concentrating on the displeasure
resulting from his loss of arms, Sierra completely neglected to notice the approach of a
reverse roundhouse to the chin which emerged naturally out of the ongoing spin. A
shunting straight heel made his head clunk uneasily into the awry lift wall.
Lights zoomed by outside a slit like window which would not have looked out
of place in the stair well of a medieval castle. The juddering motion continued as Sierra
began to feel he was on a ride in a thermoelectric theme park flanked by flashing lights
and creaking sound effects; all conspiring to produce the illusion of the squeaking
capsule swaying on the brink of collapse when in reality an intricate mash of pulleys
and hydraulics were keeping the thing up; clattering around chaotically as it threatened
to give up its usual motion and just plummet. At least in a theme park, despite the fear
there was always the knowledge that it was false; that you were in effect safe. Iron
seemed intent on convincing Sierra his metaphor was misdirected.
By now he had hopped into another searching roundhouse and a reverse with
the other leg; prompting the pained private's head to thunk twice more into the
wrought metal inner casing of the already nausea inducing elevator. For all the agony
he had awarded him, Iron may as well have pumped him full of cemtex, tied a high
tension cable to an undesirable extremity and tossed him down that tunnel like lift shaft
to encounter an excruciating doom. But a diving knee to the pectoral region did a less
wasteful job in causing him to double over, which opened things up for Iron in indulge
in his exuberant freestyle. Leaning over Sierra's stooped head, he wrapped his arms
around the small of his back as if lifting a household cat, pulled his body over his
shoulder as Santa Claus would do a sack of toys and dropped into a seated position as
he drove the disoriented dragoon officer into the trembling floor spine first, which
made the whole world shudder as if somewhere outside god was passing his overdue
sentence on the human condition.
By now Iron was up making sure Sierra's partner was still suitably restrained by
the effects of a broken nose and; perhaps more importantly; the prospect of a further
beating, but he still found time to hastily drop to his knees, whip the fallen officer's
handgun from his jacket pocket, swivel his arm around in a semi circle and empty all
four remaining rounds; his lack of expertise in such metters ensuring all were needed;
into the elevator control panel, which screamed into an explosion of flame and light as
it sparked ferociously and inevitably died. Discarding the gun inconspicuously, he
listened for the grinding last breath of the smoldering lift before parting the doors and
sliding through the barely sufficient gap which connected the elevator and the ninth
floor. If he had been a more conventional character he might have just pushed the
button relating to the floor he desired.
A polished deep red floor stretched out in every direction as if it were a dichroic
sea of blood. Amid the bold silhouettes of numerous empty shelves and counters which
once made up the concupiscent core of an ancient shopping center, Iron made out the
oblivious shapes of three more gauche goons lining the near wall like barnacles on a
humpback whale before they noticed his.
Oscar Vasquez and his two trainee companions were not about to offer a
meddlesome trespasser the freedom of Dodge, and were automatically possessed with a
congenial vexation via which it was assured they could facilitate an alacritious
attainder; prompting the suspect saboteur to dive under an old shop counter like a
rabbit into its burrow to the canned applause of machine gun fire.
He paused until he was sure the first two of his opponents had reached the
opposite side of his makeshift shield, then sighed with dissatisfaction at the integrity of
his new adversaries, hopped over the counter, placed a kick into the first's flavescent
face and landed in a downward twirl which cut the second's legs away from him in a
scarifying hack which may well have been delivered with a logically more
ergonomically broadsword; striking just above the ankle with a hewing thunk before
concluding the three hundred and sixty degree diameter by unloading all his remaining
kinetic energy into the side of Vasquez's head with a staunch foot and all three
slumped; confounded; to the floor like a group of plastic soldiers under an angry
father's indiscriminate boot. Shrugging at the simplicity of the confrontation, Iron made
for the exit in the near wall with such haste that the fallen foot soldiers failed to notice
him leave; flinging the door to a nitty network of dull blank concrete service staircases
open, he disappeared with as much haste as with which he had arrived.
Barely out of sight at the far end of the corridor, two more mock security gurus
loitered in the darkness like a somewhat solemn tweedle dum and tweedle de. Silvanus
was the tall, lanky one; Bezeel the squat and decidedly rotund. Neither appeared
entirely convicted to the task of apprehending this deviant trespasser. "Ah, to act, or
leave destiny in the hands of the Gods?" Silvanus often offered such idle questions to
an eternally silent floor more in an attempt to stall his boredom while he did his
laborious work than to incite some meaningful debate. "By doing neither, don't we do
both?" Bezeel's retort was unexpected.
"Bezeel, my friend, I never realized you had such a grasp of the delightful paradox."
Bezeel sipped a steaming cup of coffee between agonized cringes; knowing if he'd open
the cap he'd see something akin to the bubbling mud pools from whence life first
emerged on this long since ruined planet; fearing that if he didn't drink up quickly the
whole process might start all over again there in this brittle paper cup. "There is no
paradox. The only paradox is why we are here; watching; waiting, and for what; while
I'm forced to suffer you quasi philosophical nonsense?" Unsurprised by his junior’s
impatience, Silvanus stroked a whisping beard as if it was a spoilt pet; "As a pacifist; a
transient; an Abdal as our Islamic friends might say, it is apt only to listen."
"Well you know, Silvanus; what am I supposed to do while you go on, huh? Close my
damned ears? Why not try keeping quiet; appreciating what's going on around you
rather than going on so incessantly about it; the merits and failings of every single
incident and object. Why don't you stop thinking about things and experience them?
Like this coffee; you sit around thinking what sort of beans it's made of; how hot the
water is, and you never taste the coffee." Silvanus smiled to himself. His friend was
beginning to realize the principle.
Taking the steps four or five at a time, Iron zipped up the stairs like a mountain goat
and threw a pair of double doors open like an irritated tailor tearing through an unhewn
garment with a meticulously sharpened pair of scissors. He was greeted by a vast, bare
hall which in a previous incantation must have been the centerpiece of what had once
been a warehouse like toy store. For a moment he swore he could see the hazy ghosts
of delighted children playing like mischievous meercats in the Sarengetti unaware that
unless their parents contracted a sudden over zealous generosity they would not be
going home with their new play things. He shook the internal cobwebs clear and the
scene jumped back to the real world, where four nervous looking officers surrounded
their departmental superior, who sat like a notary necromancer from a colorful tale of
fantasy clad in the elegant sash like spoils of murmatious military conquest utop a tinsel
throne probably intended as a colorful Christmas grotto which in bygone years would
have sufficed to convince children of the essential goodness of the world in which they
lived.
Commander Chang Yang Kaishek; cool to the point of freezing; sat back in
supreme confidence on his false jewel encrusted mount as if about to receive
authodentric attention. Leaning on a savagely sharpened kanta blade wedged deep into
the carpeted floor in front of him, the ministerial delegate smiled a serpentine smile; a
full set of jagged, uneven teeth glaring over the maze of his imperial, Manchu mustache
and thin, flowing beard, which may have looked more appropriate on a mythological
wizard.
"My friend Mr. Iron; we meet again." His risible rigmarole booming through the
gutted hall like a madman's scream over a stormy heath, he rubbed his hands together
around the hilt of his weapon as if applying a Chinese burn and thanked the gods that
that accursed monk wasn't here. Iron; neglecting to conceal his delight at the prospect
of a decent challenge to his apparent dominance of this huge, dim edifice of an arena;
enjoyed the silence while it lasted, although with Kaishek this was bound to be merely a
fleeting restbite. "I see I'm welcome back in the cradle of democracy..." Kaishek's smug
chuckle was so unenthusiastic that Iron could only conclude that either it was intended
to be sarcastic or he was a worse actor than those epervescent extras who regularly
surrounded him. "I believe before you fight the master, Mr. Iron, it is customary to
dispose of the minions." He waved an inciting bony hand to which Lieutenant Tyler
responded immediately; snatching the opportunity to cut short his commander's
eccentric preamble before it hurt his eardrums far more severely than any physical
attack ever could. But a piercing glance from Kaishek ordered him back, and the
fidgeting bodyguard rapidly disappeared into the shadows to light a coat hanger sized
cigar; the light headed ecstacy it would provide at least likelt to lessen the audible blow.
Kaishek continued unabated; "At the time of our previous meeting, Mr. Iron, I was
unsure whether you would survive such a... let us say... baptism of fire. My master is a
meticulous man. He lives for the game, Mr. Iron; as do I. In the light of your... shall we
say; artisan performances on these two occasions, I emerge very much persuaded of
your proficiency. Maybe the scholiast has created a schematic he cannot fully control."
The disparaging agony of the rambling adjutant and his erratic, hap hazard
language were beginning to rile the frustrated felon, who simply stood back, relaxed
and polished his fingernails with a thumb while the unremitant drone continued to
overwhelmingly ensure that the speaker's swollen self importance won the overbearing
tribute which he so readily consumed. "You and I, Mr. Iron, are two similar players
performing on two parallel sets. You the outlaw of medieval myth; I the valiant cavalier
of lordly ancient legend. You and I are warriors; warriors in a den of thieves. But there
can only be one champion of such gallant men, and it is now time to separate the
luminary from the journeyman."
Counting three seconds to himself to be assured that this elaborate, embellished
onslaught of scampily scripted self praise had died the death it so long ago deserved,
Iron raised his head as an insurrectionist farm hand to a tedious, oppressive monarch of
whom history would soon be writing an insurgence incurred obituary. His silence
enticed Kaishek to jeer with autocratic displeasure and wave a limp hand at Tyler and
Svenson; both of whom grudgingly but obediently started towards their opponent like
suspecting chickens marching uncertainly into the slaughter house.
Guard up, Tyler motioned Svenson back with a nod of the head. He wanted the
glory here; everyone knew it was violence not intelligence which qualified one for
promotion. The thought of nothing but a huge pay packet in his mind, Tyler swang a
weighty hook, but suddenly saw a blurred, hammer like shape hurtling towards him
before feeling a sharp pounding sensation in his chin as if he'd been hit by a pellet gun,
then a second impact instilled by a much larger object than himself; this time slamming
into him from behind. Shaking his head clear, Tyler soon realized the second impact
had been his collision with the dense, though carpeted floor. he had even thrown
another dribbling punch before noticing he was in fact staring up at the ceiling.
As his partner regathered his senses, Svenson advanced towards his opponent
with a transfixed trepidation. Iron; one hand flicking to his ear as a head cover as he did
so, ignored Svenson's idle jab by swinging his leg over it and into the perspective
promotion chaser's gaping and unguarded maw. Holding his jaw more in antipathy at
his own lack of judgment than in severe pain, he quickly unleashed a more powerful
hook only to find that as soon as it had reached it's target, the target itself was no
longer there. Ducking down just below the wafting arm, Iron proceeded to rise in stop-
start stages; battering Svenson's ribs, solar plexus and chest with a series of bloody
body blows before whacking him down to the floor with a devastatingly close range
roundhouse to the face. Spinning around the moment the final blow had been delivered,
Iron's anticipation of the by now clumsily vertical Tyler's position shocked the vengeful
henchman into a prolonged hesitancy. This hesitancy would cost him dearly as the
offending party quickly unloaded a chain of three forward spinning kicks to the chin
before leaping right around him and bringing a backward swinging kick hacking into
the rear of his head like a hefty mining pick. Plummeting to earth as if a fallen angel,
Tyler had accepted his immediate fate the moment he had been struck.
Meanwhile, Svenson; eternally the more intelligent of the two; decided that
perhaps orthodoxy was not the order of the day, and instead charged in with an
attempted grab which may well have proved effective had he possessed the foresight to
plan any sort of strike to follow it. Aware of this saddening fact just as well as his
cringing adversary, the taunting trespasser quickly twirled his arm around in a sickening
circle, turned and executed a blunt short range back kick which rattled his ribcage and
quickly forced him onto his back again as a glassy numbness came over his dilating
eyes.
Watching like a silent game hunter behind the schmaltzy shield of hierarchy,
Kaishek continued to monitor the brawl like some scraggy, starving eagle on a raised
perch. Silently impressed, he motioned towards Iron with a hand again; the remaining
two bodyguards registering his command automatically like restrained robots
programmed only to kill when ordered as if his brain was wired up to thiers for
efficiency.
Tate and Heiko; two more lieutenants of comparatively discrepant height and
build, entered the arena with a far greater confidence than their fallen colleges. Alonso
Tate had enjoyed a glittering career as a cruiser weight boxer until his own temper
intervened. He was thrown out for biting and never turned back from a life in the
sporting wilderness. He took the floor slowly and sluggishly, pulled an FBI baseball cap
over his punch swollen cranium and chewed away violently at a mouthful of gum.
Heiko, on the other hand; a slight figure who could only have tipped the scales at
featherweight level; adjusted a baggy hapkaido uniform complete with fist and foot
pads and flicked a few kicks out with each leg before leaving his post to join the action.
With a representative of his much loved state government advancing like the
twin heads of Cerberus from either side, Iron assigned an intent eye on each and placed
a private gambit on the more agile of the pair being the first to embark on an
ostentatious offensive. Soon enough, Heiko; with a side splitting smirk; hopped
forward offering a speedy decoy jab and attacked genuinely with a half roundhouse
kick which whipped over Iron's head as he coiled underneath it as if a retreating caddie
saving himself from the volatile swipe of his extemporaneous employer. Heiko bounced
steadily into a comfortable fighting stance and nodded with a poisonous mixture of
disdain and respect. Iron would have been able to decipher his retort if the speed of his
speech hadn't outstripped that of his attack but while he was still scrabbling to make
out what in reality could only have been a derogatory dig, the swift martial artist
unleashed a razor sharp straight kick followed by a looping spinner; both of which Iron
deflected with measured knee blocks. Heiko giggled contentedly like a crack head told
what was in sober truth only a mildly amusing anecdote, with Iron beginning to get fed
up with being both publicly goaded and praised in this manner as if in similar vein to the
sick notion that adding comedy to tragedy makes the victim feel better, and decided it
was time to set the record straight. Heiko maintained his impeccable confidence and
slid towards his adversary with a front foot sweep which Iron instinctively lifted the
target leg away from. In this position, Iron was on top. Heiko had committed the vital
fallacy of being too complacent to follow up his mistake, which left Iron entirely free to
thump his opponent backwards with a deceitfully hefty jab; an opportunity which he
dully exploited. Iron, however, did remember to follow up with a high half roundhouse
to the cheek bone before thumping Heiko to the floor with a jumping backick which
span his head into an agonizing heat haze of drowsy, wrenching misery as it bounced
off a deficiency on the plush, nursery rhyme design carpet.
Meanwhile, Tate was already half way through delivering his first attack; a
hook knitted onto the end of a thundering charge which would more have suited a
mobile cement truck than a man. But Iron was prepared, and quickly span round away
from the fistful of flush ferocity; performing a spinning strike with the back of his fist to
Tate's exposed temple as his own punch sailed smoothly into mid air like a pigeon
struck with a stone while swooping down for a flimsy chunk of bread. Tate; staggering
back as if a dejected leper; hesitated before retaliating to watch his partner flip
artistically off the floor; shrugging off the pain which smothered his person as if it had
never existed. Iron though, would not leave such a pause unpunished, and predicted the
half hearted uppercut which followed; knocking Tate into a spiral fall as he leapt into
the air with a spinning roundhouse; the airborne turn providing the velocity to both
complete the kick and cover the remaining distance to end up facing the retaliatory
Heiko, who much to Iron's surprise and delight had managed to control himself like a
screaming fan fighting to reassert a cool composure in the presence of his boyhood
idol. Trying to fool his opponent into avoiding his strike rather than blocking it, Heiko
swang a torso high round kick which Iron had the fortune to brush aside with his knee.
Not to be deterred, Kaishek's bodyguard retaliated with a straight kick; heel scraping
Iron's covering arm as he back stepped out of trouble. Heiko; almost anticipating that
his second strike would be evaded; took a Pascalian gamble and span into the air with a
full reverse roundhouse to the face which may well have sapped all his force and
balance but was strong and quick enough to save him. But tragically Iron was even
quicker.
Betting that after two deceptions, Heiko was bound to lay his stake on the
notion of striking third time lucky, he ducked the moment his enemy left the floor to
prepare for an insightful counter. Though if he had been wrong he would have been left
wide open to be hit, his gamble paid off whereas Heiko's sent him reeling into an
unbalanced and thus essentially perilous stance which Iron highlighted as he piled a heel
kick of his own into Heiko's unprotected stomach and followed up with a series of
vicious reposts; a weighted knee to the chest, another to the jaw, then a standing
reverse roundhouse followed by an airbound version. Heiko; inevitably ill equipped to
take this hammering with such a small build; putting aside that the far more enduring
Iron possessed a similar stature; slumped to the floor like a hunted antelope and
promised himself to make a new year's resolution about more intensive training.
The dizzied form of Tate was next, but an effortless dodge of his frail hook and
a bullet like straight legged ax kick which struck as if a close range catapult into the out
of work prize fighter's neck and cheek were enough to floor the sleeping giant one final
time.
As he turned round to encounter the sullen clown prince's undeservedly
augmented royal pedestal, Iron exhaled reservedly and finally faced the visiting
dignitary of this makeshift 'local government' headquarters, who stared with a mixture
of warped appreciation and untested superiority. "You fight with exceptional aptitude,
Mr. Iron," Kaishek rose from his seat; plucking his grounded blade from the
floorboards with an arrow like thunk. "But nonetheless, I remain unconvinced of your
silent claim of true warrior status." Iron hoped he had placed particular emphasis on the
word, 'silent', since he couldn't recall ever uttering that egotistical claim. "There is a
time for warriors, and a time for champions." Kaishek strolled into the playing field;
twirling his sword masterfully around his head and upper body as if in a circus act.
"There is a time for losers and a time for winners." Iron lifted a sturdy, although
uninterested guard as Kaishek held his razor thin weapon up in preparation and
concluded his elongated battle challenge with as much unnecessary fanaticism as
inevitability; "Today is a day for winners!" With that, Kaishek toppled into a deadly
slash; glinting metal barely skimming past his opponent's face as he prepared to move in
with another attack. Iron watched his threatening blade with an amorous intent as
Kaishek pitched a high half roundhouse which towered over Iron's head as he swang
down backwards over the floor in a complete circular movement which chopped the
dethroned official's other leg down like a chainsaw to fancy mahogony; his back leg
doing the chopping.
Kaishek clambered up with a blitz of flying sword swings striking from any of
eight different directions in quick succession. But Iron; attentive glance inseparable
from the whirling blade; moving backward all the while; swerved and weaved under
and around the sparkling weapon until Kaishek's arching arm forced him to swap sword
arms and retreat.
With a questioning frown, Iron wondered what sort of offense he could mount
here while remaining safe from that howling blade. But making the mistake of
dedicating some of his subconscious thought to wondering, Iron's concentration lapsed
and Kaishek reacted gleefully to the opportunity. Whipping in a sideways swing, the
jagged kanta blade caught Iron with a shallow slice to the midsection. Kaishek smirked
broadly; savoring his victory as a small stain of blood seeped through his enemy's shirt
as if his stomach had been a water balloon.
But Iron was determined not to allow the junta hardman's profane triumph to
last, and hid back behind his trustworthy guard. Firing a freestyle sidekick into
Kaishek's solar plexus then head, Iron quickly reduced his confidence. He reacted
rashly by pooling all his energy into a powerful slash which Iron avoided by rolling
backwards and onto his feet.
Kaishek growled with a hatred as irrational as it was intense as Iron raised his
guard ridiculously high to dupe the zany zealot into striking low. Kaishek smiled
savagely and fell for the simple feint; swiping his blade at his opponent's chest just as
Iron side stepped away and casually put out a kick which struck Kaishek's sword arm
and sent the weapon spiraling to the floor like a piece of cutlery out of the hands of an
ailing pensioner.
Retreating slightly, the recently disarmed bureaucrat lifted his fists and
conceded that he would have to fight fair. Iron was now offered a new freedom; to
think clearly without worrying about being diced by those jeering swords like a podgy
spud intended for the deep fryer. Offering only a preparatory selection of jabs before
backing off to plan his real attack, Kaishek was clearly not the kind of character to
voluntarily put himself in danger first, which left Iron to do the pacemaking and flick
out a backhand chop; leaping off the ground as he witnessed it expectantly blocked and
struck with a rising heel kick to the chin which sent the infuriated delegate to the
ground in a jumble of uneasy arms and legs.
As his opponent dragged himself from the floor like a semi squashed fox under
the wheels of an autochthonic automobile, Iron whacked him straight back down for
good measure; leaning forward in a cotillion crouch as he released a customized hook
which struck Kaishek's nose just as he had begun to recover from the initial blow. By
now, the offended party was bitterly aggravated; and slid forward like a brawl seeking
ice hockey player throwing a jet like jab and stocky straight punch with alternate arms
then a close range uppercut which slipped slenderly through the devient's defense.
Returning the blow, Iron leant to the side and spooled a sidefist strike to the jaw;
catching the rejoicing official off guard and forging a gawking gap between the two.
But heartened by landing a worthy assault, Kaishek's confidence sprawled again in his
mind like a lottery winner in a hareem; the memory of the last few minutes suddenly
flooding away.
Realizing chivalry dictated it was his turn, Iron attacked next; hopping ahead
with a stomach high shortpunch before jumping like an over excited Tigger upwards to
deliver a thundering downward strike to the exposed back of Kaishek's head, then
knocking him down again by facing sideways and lifting an angled uppercut into his
chin with agonizing veracity. But Kaishek; still adamant for some obscure reason that
he would triumph without question, would not be deterred. He hurled a high half
roundhouse kick into his adversary's forehead which Iron attempted to shake clear, but
found himself on the floor as the crackpot commisar whipped a leg through the air into
his enemy's chin with a leaping half roundhouse.
By now, Kaishek's self assuredness had become self worship. Cackling with
sinister and resolute abhorrence, the battered military man moved in as Iron flipped
onto his feet like a fish panicking its way out of water. His speed at regaining balance
and composure, though; shocked his opponent enough to disorientate him. With a
pitying frown, Iron moved steadily towards him with alternate legged strikes; a snap
kick, side kick, spinning back kick and roundhouse; all head height; all pushing Kaishek
back a yowling yard.
But Iron was far from finished; still stringing every attack together with fluid
concentration as if he was the bookie's favorite for the prize money in a retired granny's
knitting bee. Concluding this lethal combination, Iron discharged a jaw height ax kick, a
jumping snap kick and a sliding knee strike. Kaishek's blagging assurance that he would
be the only legitimate winner here had dissolved like an aspirin in a hot spa into a
wimpering acceptance of imminent defeat. Swaying; awaiting the knock out blow with
surrendering nausea, Kaishek received a fission powered open handed smash; both
palms crushing his nose like a speeding car into a brick wall; rupturing some distant
consciousness and allowing him to collapse onto the insomniatic floor and dream of a
realistically unwanted rematch as he stood on rickerty legs then collapsoed like a
Harryhausen skeleton under Sinbad's scimtar.
Iron sighed with merciful reluctantly and propped Kaishek up against the wall
to stop him choking on his own blood. Clicking his injured jaw with unusual
contentedness of having fought a worthwhile fight, he turned and left the room with a
forgiving sigh; knowing that this specific den of iniquity had been well and truly
relieved of its unsavory although entirely legal house sitters. Iron would rather not have
to live his life like this. He would rather escape; lead a normal existence; however little
that prospect suited him. But something just kept him playing the role; made him
shrivel into the mould of the character in which he had been cast; interested to find out
what would happen to him in the end even though the solution to his troubles seemed
so predictable.
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