As day drew to dusk, the last remnants of light drew back like a salient sea
brushing a brusque beach; fading into a quaint translucent invisibility. Lincoln checked
her watch and nodded as an emaciated gray bus spluttered dead; pausing on its way to
the ring of featureless, achromatic roads which led to the main structure of South
Street ferry port. A low ranking officer whose weight far outstripped his hierarchical
position sat plump and proud behind the wheel.
Struggling to control the resistant vehicle, Ali Araji shoveled a hot dog into his
mouth with a delighted hand. He lay back and pulled the door release lever to take a
welcome breath of what was actually far from fresh air. These old fashioned
contraptions sported very little ventilation and even the day dream of air conditioning
was a luxury. If he didn't know better than to make such an accusation, he'd have
thought him getting this particularly bludgeoned bus was some practical joke by his
superior officers.
Drawing her berretta, Lincoln tapped Iron's shoulder and the two scuttled
silently out of their hiding place and onto the mannequin machine. Ali; startled into
spitting out his sumptuous snack then feeling sorry about it, threw a flipper like hand to
his gun and began to panic. Lincoln gave him an advising glare which quickly told him
not to attempt to make a heroic stand, which Ali; glad for the excuse not to; nodded
and dutifully hurled his weapon through the doors into a handy litter of bushes which
lined the road like the nation's prize athletes lined up to greet a doddering dignitary
before the deciding match against a horde of hated opponents in both sporting, and
more impoertantly, political altercations.
Iron approached as if a fare paying passenger oblivious to the inconspicuous
commandeering of the vehicle; "You goin' anywhere near the ferryport?" Ali was
mesmerized by this mixed display of normality and irregularity, and eased into a sense
of half expectancy. "Yeh-yeah; I go right to it, but..."
"There; all you need do is ask." Iron nodded; satisfied. Lincoln looked up to the
heavens for some assurance that her under cautious comrade wasn't about to get them
both killed. An answer failed to materialize. "You don't mind giving us a lift, do you?"
Ali shook his head viciously and swiftly closed the door; perspiring profusely like a
sumo in a sauna and suddenly forgetting all about his beloved meal.
A dreary silence bucked in a frenzied wind as the epileptic silver- blue
greyhound bus clattered and rattled towards the ferryport in a manner uncomfortably
unlike that of its namesake. As it shuddered to a halt by the entrance checkpoint, the
two hijackers took care to conceal themselves within the dingy depths of the vehicle.
Mikal Redwood; a lanky security chief with a sickening green trim on his uniform from
shoulder to shoulder; wrenched out a toothpick so deeply imbedded between his
incisors that the sight would have made a vampire's skin crawl and leant out of the
roadside cabin with a transparent air of authority to gave the driver a promiscuous
smile. "Hey Ali; what happened to your 'dog?"
"Erm, hole in the road."
"Hole, huh?"
"Er; yeah." Ali stroked his protuberant belly like a curled up cat and swabbed a
globuleous bead of sweat from one of his many chins with a drenched fast food joint
serviette which only served to pepper his bulging face with excess ketchup. "Should
know these roads by now, Al."
"I, er... wasn't thinkin'."
"Mind on the old gut, huh?"
"Yeah; something like that."
"Well, you take care a' yourself, Al. Man of your size; wouldn't wanna be scrapin' up
the mess when you get inta' an accident." Redwood stepped back and raised the barrier;
his concern far from admirable in its mock sincerity. "Go 'head." Ali uttered a muffled
'thanks' and steered the bus into the vehicle lot; puffing with a shivering relief all the
way. "That's the way into the main terminal." He gestured a jittering pork chop of a
finger towards a little black door in the corner; sweating like a kebab on a spit. "Ta."
Iron's lack of appreciation for the big occasion had not deserted him and the pair were
soon gone with as little of a kerfuffle as with which they had appeared. As the strangers
hopped off the bus, Ali checked he hadn't been shot with an instinctive, fidgeting
motion then cowered back into his seat, assuring himself he hadn't been. "Y' welcome."
he remarked under his breath as the two disappeared into the central terminal.
Officer Jon Harris; cradling his favorite candy bar, stepped out of the derelict
though inexplicably fully stocked refreshments store and towards the newly promoted
ferryport head guard; Jay Johnson; whose lethargic cross armed pose reflected his
nonchalant attitude. "Alladin's cave, huh?" Harris; whose conceited commander had
never inspired his respect; only his fear; decided he had better reply in case of sudden
unemployment; "I just like candy bars, a'right?" Johnson shrugged, mouthing a
disinterested 'right.' He was gradually getting tired of working for this government;
there was no sense of responsibility to the state as a whole, no rewards he couldn't earn
through street fighting and worse still, no challenges. Disheartened, he wandered over
the makeshift gangway onto the deck of a small infantry supply ship. Watching the last
signs of a sparkling sunset over the shimmering waters, he wondered about his future.
The feeling of wind which would have been ruffling his hair had he had any and the
quintessential buzz of silence in the bay around him reminded him of an old Otis
Redding song, until he realized it was his life he was watching roll away. That said,
there remained a proud, profound innocence; something restful; in which he was able to
at least temporarily bask undisturbed. But inside the complex, something was about to
happen which was so unthinkable that the measly South Street Defense force would be
caught totally unprepared; an uprising.
Harris; now all alone; had strayed back to the refreshments stall; his epicurean
desire for excessive edible sustenance consuming his flimsy sense of duty like a
mythical ocean serpent swallowing a careless band of nortical adventurers. One
moment he was chomping a block of Hersey's chocolate as if tooting on a fairy ocarina;
staring intently at a cartoon colored box full of candy bars; the next falling before an
unknown hand which shot out from behind the life's supply of sugary delights like
something out of a King Arthur myth; only far less elegant. Caught utterly unawares,
he absorbed another unpredictable punch to the chin as a stranger stepped out from
behind the kiosk like a saintly corpse striding out of his rocky tomb. Iron raised a finger
to his lips, and with Harris for once discouragingly lonesome, he meekly obliged as
Lincoln found herself burdened with the responsibility of the lookout. "Could you tell
me where we get the next ferry from?" Iron; keeping his voice to whisper; recieved a
semi genuine nudge as Lincoln looked at him as if he was a rookie marine on his first
assignment still believing he was home playing paintball as if to remind him that this
was a serious 'adventure'. "S’ overthere." Harris' voice accelerated increasingly as he
grew nervous, but he managed to point across an empty precinct of looted enclaves
towards a pair of beaten up double doors; half open; which must have been designed by
someone with some sort of paranoid expectation of a siege. But with nobody to guard
this ineffective fortress, a siege was unnecessary. "Are you the only guard here Mr...."
Lincoln's under confidence in the ease of this break in was beginning to take shape.
"Harris. No. The others went to see the commander."
"Dock one, right?" Harris looked up sheepishly at Iron as if he had just displayed some
psychic knowledge of the place, but was soon informed otherwise. "Commanders think
big, see. Dock one's bound to be the biggest and best. You're commander sports a
perfect specimen of the military mind. Dock two just wouldn't do." This meticulous
militant obviously knew the boss personally; "Simple psychology, really." He turned to
Lincoln; "My forte." And with that, the two would be missionaries began to creep
towards the doors leaving Harris to forrage for his scrumptious snacks; hardly believing
the simplicity of the campaign to date.
With a silent hop over the plank of wood which only barely bridged the gap
between boat and pier, the pair boarded out of the sight of officers Cedros and Wu
Ching Yen; who seemed more interested in internal bickering; and entered the shadowy
bottom deck of a steel skinned provisions transport as it bucked and cavorted in the
brimming bay as if they were renascent rodents scampering onto a privatious pirate
galleon.
As the intruders weaved around polychrome pews of staunch seats originally
meant for tourists visiting the plethora of laudable landmarks boasted by Manhattan’s
nooselike surrounding waters, Cedros noticed something move through a brief
reflection in the glass windshield of the boat, and true to form his suspicious persona
assured him of an opportunity to justify his much stated proficiency in his profession.
He immediately tapped Ching Yen's shoulder with a robust gun but and leapt into a
voracious dash; cocking the trigger as he moved purposefully towards the miniature
flight of steps leading to the passenger deck. Ching Yen paused to flick his cigarette
into the murky depths as if a Las Vegas casino hand jacking an ace out of the pack,
then broke into a sprint towards the opposite side of the bobbling marine contraption;
realizing that if he was to get into the new South Street chief's favor as he had with the
previous official, he'd be next in line to take the job should the kindly hand of homicide
happen to take grasp of his boss' throat any time soon. Behind a row of almost granite
thick plastic seating on which haggard holiday makers must have slid and bruised
themselves repetitively in days gone by, the trespassers watched the guards wander
aimlessly through the lower deck as a shout winded through the air from above to
reach the two preoccupied subordinates; "Cut the rope!"
"Sir?" The baffled Cedros wondered what relevance this had to matters at hand.
"CUT IT!" Johnson's passing comment had become an ultimatum.
"Don't want our visitors escaping, do we?" Ching Yen sniggered at his partner's lack of
initiative as Cedros rushed towards the mooring point knowing full well that he was
leaving his partner to make a hero of himself. But this wasn't to be, as a rising shadow
grappled the gun out of his hand. Yen; at last aware of his opponent in the swollen
belch of darkness which surrounded him; lobbied a hopeful jab but found the elusive
shape twirling round and depositing an upwardly mobile elbow into his chin. With a
much needed step back, Yen gathered himself like an all too manly matron pulling a
dormitory load of washing off a dripping line. Fighting both an invisible target and the
uneasy movement of the boat, he staggered on the restless floor and found himself
helpless as Iron jumped out of the darkness again to spin around with a reverse
roundhouse- exploiting his opponent's lack of vision; tactical as well as physical; with
seasoned perceptiveness. Yen; slamming headfirst into a cruelly placed support pole;
slithered to the wooden floor in sorrowful surrender.
By this time, Cedros had reentered the covered area, opening up his attack with
a barrage of bullets which skidded into a sorry array of windows as the sinister shape
ducked under another row of seats. Swearing at himself for missing such an easy target
safe in the knowledge that the all encompassing racket of sticato shades of shattered
glass tinkling to the shaky floor would mask his profanities, Cedros delved deeper into
the middle of the seated deck; firing a blind three rounds across the length of the deck
before collapsing to the floor as something smashed into his chest; catching him totally
unprepared. He dragged himself up and backed out of the covered area; realizing how
much he appreciated minimal moonlight and thus a reunion with his sense of sight, until
he was knocked back against the chunky rail which separated him from the writhing
waves. Cedros' anxiety erupted into a blaze of resentment as he raised his weapon
marginally too late and found himself bundled off the boat by Lincoln, who charged at
him shoulder first. He plunged into the pitilessly icy waters, suddenly understood why
traitors deserted their leaders and sensibly followed suit; allowing the unwelcomed
guests to climb the skinny metallic ladder onto the open top deck to meet his superior
officer.
Atop the roof of the of the rumbling craft, the night's breeze wafted from the
calm nothingness of nature into the bland and tasteless arena of life human beings
proclaimed their own; a sufforcatingly small stage which coerced a cold claustrophobia.
Jay Johnson; never without his characteristic gold rimmed boxing gloves; a sentimental
throwback to a time when he had a profitable in ring character to promote; leant
against the top rail of a corrugated iron clad deck which sported dimensions too similar
to that of a regulation boxing ring for comfort; square with three bands of chromed
barriers. Johnson turned as if facing his maker; an out of work heavyweight in his
favorite place.
Before fights he would always retire to the crib of nature; an old hut in the
Rockies or even just fishing on the banks of the Hudson. It would calm him down; get
him into that groove and focus his behemoth rage. "Peaceful, huh?" A love of nature
was hardly an integral aspect of his assumed stereotype, but you have to offer the
rough an occasional bout of the smooth to maintain a healthy balance. Johnson had
been starved of a vital dose of the smooth for too long; cooped up like a POW in this
God forsaken place. "The breeze; stimulates the mind. Power's nothin' without
control." Any scholar of the boxing world who had studied Johnson's glory days would
be surprised to hear those words come out of mouth of a man reverently referred to as
the 'Brooklyn Banger'. "Now that my friends have.... departed, I'd like to share
somethin' wit' you. Y' know, Mr. Iron, when we last met, you made me think; I ain't
really... satisfied in this job." Johnson seemed to make all his gestures with the gloves;
quite typical, Lincoln supposed, as he waved his huge fists; but then afterall you could
hardly fail to notice the hammer like appendages. "Your little resistance movement
interested me; the challenge, the fight. 'An I like ta fight. Now, I'll make a deal wit' you;
we have our rematch; one on one. I win, an you two head off back where you came
from. Second thought; you two stay right here an' I hand y' over ta the boss. You win,
an' I join your little.... expedition."
Iron needed only a moment to mull over what he was putting them both in for,
but recalling the old adage about going with the flow, an assertive nod was always
going to be forthcoming. When they first met at the storage facility back in town he had
been left deliberating why a man of such clearly dubious loyalty would be picked to
serve as a leitenent, never mind a commander. In any case, Johnson was determined to
make any possible mutiny a short lived one; to assure himself of his own commitment
to his new post if nothing else. "You know as well as I do how valuable someone on
the inside would be t' you, an' I see you're a devoted man; the perfect man to confirm
where my strained loyalties will take me. I'm a lot of things, Mr. Iron, but one of them
is honorable. As a fighter, I'm sure you appreciate the symbolic nature of
conflict." Even if a little misguided, Johnson was a poet of a warrior, in a strictly grass
roots sense. But at least he was fair. "And as this is my home turf, I'll let your friend
referee this match. You agreed?" Iron shrugged a nod to Lincoln, who returned one; as
that reluctant neiche in her personality despaired in the back of her mind at
surrendering her destiny to Iron's unpredictable even if assured hands. Crossing her
arms both to cut the figure of an ostentatious official and to counter the shivery breeze
which seemed to habitually to stalk seafaring vehicles, she slunk back to an appropriate
distance and said a short prayer to whatever disturbed gods governed gratuitous sports.
Iron; acknowledging Johnson's outraised fist with an attempted shake, drew it
back quickly enough, remembering this particular fighter was not to be trifled with
whether or not he was soon to become an ally. "Prepare to join the winning side." To
this banal banter Johnson smirked; gold tooth beaming;
"Then may the best man win.
Oh, an' Mr. Iron; I intend to win."
Guards up, both competitors stepped back in affinity; cruising around the huge
military emblem which lay sprawled on the ring floor like a sponsor's advertisement. In
close symmetry, the two moved as if bound together at the wrist with a taught leather
strap; the distance between them barely fluctuating.
In the dim twilight, water gradually sliced past the dagger like shape of the boat
like a flurry of fallen angels clinging to the achilles heel of the creator lest they tumble
into the abyss. But while the curvaceous craft attempted to disturb the combatants with
a low creak and an unsure bobbing motion, Johnson hopped forward; delivering the
first attack; a prying jab meant only to size his opponent up, which Iron blocked with
laughable ease. Iron followed; a similar jab, similarly evaded. Now both relaxed out of
striking distance. The formalities were over and the fight could begin. Iron dismissed a
sense of deja-vu and leapt in with a thudding straight punch to the chest which Johnson
avoided as he side stepped and swang a quick uppercut; this strike blocked in an
instinctive flick of the arm. Quick to see the opening, Johnson fired a jab over his
opponent's blocking arm, but found it pushed out of harm's way with a raised forearm.
But the itinerant boxer was getting more comfortable with every passing moment and
moved in again; attacking with another screeching uppercut. Iron; foreseeing the
punch, dropped to the floor and swept his adversary's feet clean away in an almost
blasé fashion. Tree trunk legs flailing like the blades of a warming down fan, Johnson
hit the floor with a crash and a curse as he remembered this wasn't a boxing match and
realized he'd have to keep a significant amount of weight on those big black boots
whatever was thrown at him.
He paused to let the boat shudder under the impact he had felt moments ago
and regained his balance before bouncing keenly straight back into the action with
raring poignancy; unleashing a jackhammer right which Iron escaped by spinning
around in a full circle and countering with one of his own, which succeeded no further
than his opponent's as Johnson span in the opposite direction with a burly turning
punch. A double armed block was enough to cushion the pain, but the blow still threw
the stalwart stowaway back a step.
As in thier prequel encounter, Iron had failed to establish himself in the opening
exchanges, and decided he would have to turn it from a tactical bout to a more artistic
one. Almost diving crazily towards Johnson, he whipped out a downward hammer
fisted strike to the head as if chopping wood with an ax, which Johnson evaded as a
fortunate swipe became a block.
Both fighters fell back a pace; extending the space between them. But it was the
former heavyweight champion who closed this gap as he thundered in with a rash
swing; realizing as he watched his fist fly out what a bad idea it was. Iron reacted with
unhesitant conviction; stepping in a diagonal and plunging a hooking elbow into his
much taller opponent's chest without having to jump by a significant margin. Johnson
was still busy recalling the stupidity of his maneuver, and stooped down without
noticing his counterpart fling the striking elbow upwards towards his shoulder;
whacking the boxer's chin on the way up like a wreaking ball and tossing him into a
blurry half twirl before he capsized head first onto the wavering floor.
Eyes blaring like well stoked furnaces; lip streaming blood down his chin,
Johnson pounced to his sturdy feet with surprising speed and flew into a frenzied dash;
a colossal straight punch propelling Iron across the deck as it drove through his guard-
giving the floored rebel a maliciously split lip which not so long ago he had joked with
Lincoln about wanting. Now it was Iron's turn to get to his feet; his opponent slamming
his gloves together in celebration. The injured party brushed the wound with a fist and
awaited Johnson's move. Sure enough, the disillusioned officer of the lecherous law,
realizing the effect of his last attack, followed with an almost identical one which his
opponent evaded by leaping sideways and swinging a leg into the blind side of
Johnson's guard with sufficient savage content to fling himself into an shaky near
somersault while his sparing partner crashed to the rippling floor.
Lincoln shrugged apologetically as the challenger jarred his kicking leg into the
floor to prevent an embarrassing head first collision with it and steadied himself back
into a fighting stance with a thankful arm. 'How do you referee a brawl like this?' she
asked herself, not expecting any solution. Thankfully, officiation did not seem entirely
necessary.
Since his original run in with Iron, Johnson had become obsessively intent on
learning from his mistakes, and clambering to his feet with the convenient aid of the
rail, immediately made his infuriation felt with a flying leap accompanied by a
venomous hook. In an outlandish counter, Iron slid underneath the hovering form of
Johnson and waited for him to land before slicing his legs off the ground with a
backward sweep. Teeth first, Johnson pounded against the rigid deck like a soon to be
unconscious elephant hit with a tranquilizer dart; spitting fragmented bites of gold as he
dragged his mammoth frame back up just in time to be spun backwards as Iron pivoted
around in two full spins kicks; one intended to gain momentum and distance, the other
aimed directly at the fatigued boxer's face.
Johnson cuddled the rails like a childhood teddy bear as he hung over the
refreshing cold metal; the winding sight of peaceful water easing his sorrow scorched
mind which accepted defeat with militant relish. Iron omitted a temporarily light headed
but comforted sigh and accepted Johnson's offering of a congratulating, although
tortured handshake.
"Good fight." Johnson's remark seemed as illogical as it was misplaced. As his
mind crawled into a haven of comforting serenity, he submissively let all the thoughts,
feelings and worries he had for so long held descend into the immortal cool waters
below. You can't take anything with you when you leave; and what he had had two
minutes ago, he certainly didn't want to be remembered by. Lincoln gazed skyward to
quix the gods on mankind's persistent macho theatrics, and recieving no reply, was
heartened at least by the notion that she wasn't the only one oblivious to its purposes.
Managing to relieve his eternal tension for once, Johnson looked to heaven and
smiled. After years of trudging with relentless, hostile fervor down the crooked path, he
had eventually and quite ironically been pummeled into discovering the straight and
elegantly narrow. Presenting a pragmatic smile, he collapsed backwards for a final time;
thinking of things so gratifyingly distant that he sank into an ebbing, queasy sleep,
knowing that it would be a newe, wiser, better man who would wake in his place.
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