The tiny transport ship bucked and swayed in the curling waves as if its
occupants were riding in an anarchic rodeo. Lincoln lessened the stomach turning
sensation by indulging deeper concerns; "Oh, what a utopia this is. Mencius said that
the kingdom is the basis of everything under heaven, but since the people are at the
heart of any kingdom; since each individual makes up part of the whole civilization; it's
the individual who makes the kingdom possible, and the king should return the favor.
He owes his position; his very existence, to each individual under his command. So he
has to look after them all with sincerity and insight. But nowadays what should be done
is neglected in favor of what you can get away with."
She pulled her knees to her chest as if huddled on a tundric glacier and twiddled
the laces of the chunky army style boots which had always looked both out of place
regarding both her physical timidity and revolutionary zest. "In Mencius' time,
following the moral high ground was a respectable attitude, but now self importance is
the order of the day, regardless of the fact that a government's job is still to look after
it's people not to engineer new and unprecedented ways of squeezing money out of
them like blood from the proverbial stone. Governments are businesses, but that very
fact can only mean that they're no longer governments, because that isn't what the
phrase 'government' means. There's nothing wrong with fighting an unjust regime; it
doesn't make me hypocritical because the raw fact is that this thing that calls itself a
government isn't a government at all, but merely big business with a high societal
status. Governments are meant to govern. We don't have a government; a governing
body; just a corporation, so what's wrong with fighting it?"
Johnson dropped his head as if giving up in the corner after a decisive beating
by a superior opponent; a concept he was not familiar with. Thinking wasn't generally
his strong point, but he was beginning, at least, to realize that even if he could only
comprehend things in analogy with what he knew best, he did somehow understand
what she was getting at. "If turnin' traitor means I'll be goin' somewhere instead a'
round in circles like I always used ta', then it's the best decision I've ever made. I only
ever felt good in the ring; lion in his den my old promoter used to say. Out of it; yeah; I
was a victim. I' been at the top of the sporting world. I' been near the top of the
political world, but I'm right at the bottom of the real world."
"Can't rise up until you've been knocked down, right?" It was funny, but Iron and
Johnson were kindred spirits in some ways. Lincoln put her head on a hand and
observed both in comparison. Both primordial gladiators; one who took himself so
seriously it was almost funny, the other apparently unable to take much seriously at all.
It confused her that Iron and Johnson would be kindred on a kind of base, behavioral
way whereas she and Iron were kindred in a way she had never before been able to
imagine. The equation didn't really make sense because she felt about as kindred with
Johnson as a cat in a dog's home. But she supposed the fact that her connection to Iron
was not really even dependent on this world may well have explained away the
problem. It was a bond so obvious it didn't even need to be spoken and which she
probably couldn't go back to living without. That did place into serious doubt the
masquerade; the self sufficient persona she had always upheld for herself, but since the
relationship was reciprocal it was unlikely to be broken. She surmised that the fact that
Iron- feet still planted in this ridiculous pantomime world although his head reached
beyond the clouds- continued to play his alloted part perhaps explained it.
"I was only ever knocked down once in my professional career." Johnson had
returned to his specialist subject; "A guy called Fitz Mobannha. He was Cuban
champion way back. Like most Cubans, he was a good amateur who never made it in
the big money game. I was the seasoned pro; media built me up like the savior of the
western world; 'pillar of democracy'. I was supposed to batter this guy; splatter him
across the ring. Show the Coms America was the biggest, butchest, badest place on the
face of God's earth. I caught him a few times and got complacent. I showboated and he
knocked me down with a stiff left.. Lying against those red white and blue ropes with
those dollar drunk nuts; the money men; the gamblers; urging me on. I realized they
didn't care about me, but the result. I didn't know why I' never seen it before. Blinded
by the money; the fame. I stayed down. I lost my title and suddenly found no promoter
wanted me anymore; the man who gave a communist the world crown."
Lincoln began to be distracted by other things; cormorants swooping into the
derve waters and the first indications of day beginning to lean out of scattering black
cloud like a bullied kid at last left to make his way home by his bored tormentors.
There was a certain comfort in allowing them to talk about traditionally 'boyish'
subjects and play the femine pansy even though in truth her personality dictated that
she'd be more suited to mucking in in the discourse about the fight game. At least she
could dream about being normal. Then again, such 'normality' was under further
scrutiny just about the worst thought she could imagine.
"So what happened then; you fight again?" Iron was perhaps better at indulging
their new college. "Yeah; but I soon forgot my lesson, went into underground boxing
and joined the state army. I feel better when I take a punch; I realize my decisions were
wrong. Bit like a reminder; beatin' of the gong. I feel better 'cos I know it's given me
the opportunity to move on ta something more worthwhile."
By this point Lincoln had even gotten tired of the less than superlative scenery;
"Victory comes only from defeat. To realize which one's the right road, you have to
drive straight into the roadblock on the wrong one first. That's an age old fact that
society resists, but reality embraces." She hadn't quite accepted Johnson yet; he was
hardly the most trustworthy of people; a little unpredictable; although she was well
aware she shouldn't really have been passing judgment on that particular issue. Iron had
obviously never considered the capitalist soundbite 'trust no one'. "It probably doesn't
seem right for a boxer to be a philosopher, but in actual fact, that's exactly what a good
boxer is. He may be a champion, but he's also lost and downtrodden. He has to adapt
to all opponents; all situations. That's the making of someone who's champion of his
own mind; one who accepts and works with his limitations; who's often beaten but
never has to face defeat; who faces himself in every battle rather than the physical
opposition. Someone who betters himself, not just the other man. That's the key to
fighting. Strangely enough, it's also the key to life itself; everything acts as a microcosm
reflecting all intricacies of reality, and to better...." Iron's deepening dialogue trailed off
into silence as he became aware this was about as far off the point as an arrow shot by
a blindfolded drug addict trying his jittery hand at kyodo, and afterall Johnson was
more concerned with the immediate microcosm than the universe as a whole at this
present moment. Besides, appropriately enough their destination was in sight, and
another appointment with an old friend loomed.
"You met the commander?" He duly changed the subject, which gave Lincoln
the perfect opportunity to ask what really should have been paramount from the
beginning; "Jay; where exactly are we going?"
"Training ground on Liberty." This didn't sound entirely promising. She had been
expecting Iron's earlier description of the place to have proved less than accurate.
"Training ground? Correct me if my presumption is unfounded, but training grounds
tend to indicate what; hundreds of beefed up soldiers left alone with the drill sergeant
for months on end just building up sexual frustrations and the compulsion to pummel
somebody's head; preferably somebody of the reactionary persuasion?"
"Err..." True to form this prospect actually did capture Iron's interest as a genuine
proposal.
"So that means.."
"Probably a bit too much fighting, Mart." This caused him to sulk childishly under the
impression that you can't get enough of a good thing. Unfortunately for those more
rational elements in the group, the raucous mob outnumbered Lincoln two to one.
"Government train the troops over on Liberty. It's a closed camp."
"Isolated, right?"
"Makes 'em train proper." Lincoln hoped Johnson's fighting prowess outclassed his
linguistic talents. "So let's get this straight. Instead of just cruising over to the financial
district, we go all the way to Liberty, take a nice sightseeing excursion, maybe scuffle
with a few hundred raw recruits and then take the fight to the authorities direct.
Something tells me this wasn't my plan."
"We can't just go t' the business district; there's the missile array."
"Oh great; there's always a missile array..."
"This is a cargo ship; it's meant t' take supplies t' the troops. They see us deviate from
the course an' they just shoot us down." The fact that the phrase 'shooting down' didn't
really apply to maritime vehicles failed to deter Lincoln's criticism of the 'plan' thus far.
"Sure there isn't another way around?" With this Iron whipped an old subway map from
his jacket with the flimsy excuse that 'it helps to know where you're going'. As he
pointed out the by now all too clear fact that there wasn't another way around, she
found herself looking at him rather than the untidy piece of paper wondering if he could
conjure up something more helpful from those apparently bottomless pockets; a
retaliatory missile launcher par exampe; or on a less tangible level; perhaps a cure for
world poverty.
Amid gathering stormclouds, the noble figure of liberty strutted out of a
backdrop of crooning blackness to gesture with a welcoming assurance to the latest
hapless seabound travelers to pass by her sullen gaze. Lightning fizzed majestically just
on cue behind her spiked crown; briefly illuminating the symbolic relic of a world now
lost to the seizing hand of bullying big businesses and tactless political tyrants. The boat
bobbed belatedly at the whim of an indescribable ocean wake as it's occupants
witnessed the sight their forefathers had witnessed over a century ago; some of Iron's
family migrating from Italy and China, a line of Lincoln's coming from Europe and
South East Asia, and Johnson's braving the shorter but no less dangerous trip up from
the Caribbean. There were not many Americans who could consider themselves truly
American, and those select few who could were out of joint Western convenience and
ignorance labeled 'indian'. Apart from those, most American citizen's ancestors had
passed through either this or one of many other ports to enter their new homeland, and
all would have looked up to this serene monument which still today sported an air of
mixed stern opposition and unyielding acceptance. Acceptance of those seeking a safe
heaven from the perils of the ancient, disorganized world; of Europe, Africa and Asia.
And opposition to those anti liberal establishments which had for one reason or another
driven it's adopted children away from the countries of their birth. But today liberty had
an uneasy flicker in her eye; as if she was aware in the back of her mind that she had
better watch her back. Because the peace and security of America was no more. Over
the years, autroproners, politicians and military men had shattered the hub of
democracy from within and brought home the rabble and injustice which was once
reserved from the world beyond America's green and pleasant land. Liberty had become
isolated. A monument to ideals still claimed, but never practiced. A monument which
once welcomed the cheated, the abused and the discarded like the keeper of the pearly
gates, but which now stood alone in the sea surrounded by those things it so opposed
on every point of it's circumference; battling a beast who attacked from every angle. A
monument to the past.
Kaishek pretended unconvincingly that he was not a sufferer of a hoarse
hydrophobia as barracking blots of rain slapped his wide ringed western hat; a garment
he had persuaded his minions he was wearing for dubious stylistic reasons rather than
just to shield him from the deluge. Either way it hadn't worked. The sky was darkening
just to get at the crotchety commander further; a dingy obfuscation of what was
according to the weather men going to be a promising day. Whoever was responsible
would have to be shot. If god was responsible; the melodramatic military maestro
murmured; perhaps somebody a little lower down the hierarchical food chain had better
do it for him.
The trio of invading delinquents excused themselves of the remainder of the
dilatory boat journey as they sprang into a clump of concealing bushes and allowed the
stuttering supply craft to drift into the harbor alone, thus leaving a brain dead bunch of
guards to swoop on the vessel like a flock of starlings to a garden bird table as the
unwelcome visitors sneaked through a filthy flotilla of floating craft and onto a graveled
path intended for less violent and more thrifty tourists. Iron and Lincoln cracked their
knuckles in unison and appeared to be fired up by the downpour, whereas Johnson
shied away from it like an agoraphobic on a space walk, but to little avail. By now the
weather was so bad that the pervading precipitation was turning well kempt sheets of
grass into a jumble of dribbling mud; a kind of negative transubstantiation which as he
observed its heterogeneous spread made Kaishek feel decidedly queasy.
Iron diverted his gaze to the belching heavens and happened upon an obscure
sight. The old statue of liberty was still there; bathed in the intermittent illumination of
noisy crackles of lightning accompanied by the resounding booms of a tumbril
thunderstorm. In one such unannounced flash, he caught glimpse of the gray robed
heroine's once measured and noble features only to realize that the impetuous
indulgence of vandalism had scared this manito monument like a rampant rash; leaving
it; like the city it surveyed; a towering eyesore; an unrecognizable reminder of a bygone
age. Scrawled in indelible gloss over the iron lady's features he could clearly make out
the flagrant face paint of a coxcomb clown; white undercoat adorned with street
fighting black eyes, felt brush like lashes, tomato red nose and a rainbow long cartoon
smile which appeared to draw a rainy tear from the raped statue's eye. Black clouds
slinked overhead to announce the arrival of a gloomily unscrupulous character.
"This is my art; my masterpiece." For somebody so infatuated with the sound of
his own voice, this comment of Kaishek's had been largely epigrammatic, which would
have pressed any one of the three to knock him clean out the moment he had
prematurely completed his self serving statement had he not been flanked by a careful
caucus of otherwise miserable militia who cornered the group as they crawled out of
the surrounding bushes like ducks delighting in their preferred weather. Iron agreed
with the sentiment, but had to admit to himself that he was unaware of Kaishek's
rebellious streak. Momentarily ignoring him as his eardrums continually demanded, he
whispered to Lincoln rather than spoke aloud due to the impeding presence of a gaggle
of stern faced soldiers. 'If he only knew he was criticizing his own society as much as
his predecessor’s with that 'remark', he'd have kept his wit and his paintbrush to
himself.'
"You do amuse me, Mr. Iron; You must appreciate how boring it is stuck on this island
for a man of my artistic caliber. I need space to move, you know; to invent." Kaishek's
distaintful dilettantism had invited Lincoln's gaze to creep up to the pastel drenched
eyes of the astute statue; a typically terrible male attempt at application of makeup, she
thought; before recalling the fact that she too was no expert baring in mind the kind of
life she had lived. Still, there remained a certain fallacy in his stylized comment on
society; 'that really is a demonstration of the practice of covering one's ears to steal the
tinkling bell.' Predictably unabated by her silent distaste, the 'artist' rambled on; "I have
to venture onto the mainland sometimes just to get away from it all. You'll also
appreciate that there is little to worry oneself with here, but on the mainland there is the
continuing tide of battle. It washes against you; stimulates the mind. There is a war
being waged. As a warrior, I excel at that style of life. Here; as a protector, though, I
am underworked; misused. Which is why I applaud your efforts. You have given me
something to protect this place from."
"Well, I'm pleased to return the compliment."
"Quite. But I am mildly surprised by the recent acquisition of your... syndicate." At this
point he turned to Johnson; "Commander." Kaishek and Johnson never saw eye to eye;
the Liberty Island defense official had always thought the boxer's presence on the
nearest strut of open mainland a less than immovable one; a fact which could put his
own gloomy hideout in danger, and Kaishek was prone to take such things personally.
A danger to his property equaled a direct danger to him. It was good to see he was
right for once. Perhaps that little confrontation with one of Johnson's new found friends
back in the city itself just happened on an unlucky day....
But for now all three were standing amid a haphazard flock of spotlights
pointing this way and that through the watery darkness at the foot of the statue. The
easeful waters lapped at the shores quietly and there was an eerie atmosphere of calm
conflicting harshly with the violence which was about show itself. The wind whistled in
the nearby trees to the other side of the statue and a layed seige to a small souvenir
shop to the port side of the central stone walkway which housed the one solitary
building observable on this thin icy plateau. Small muddled pathways wrapped
themselves around various war and peacetime memorials and clattered pieces of
crooked steel artwork which would perhaps have felt more at home outside the nuclear
age. Rain span and hooked through a dark sky in savage contortions like a net
unraveled utop a lofty peak.
Johnson took a bold step forward to the mirroring response of an armed quartet
of military black clad personal bodyguards, which the boxer insultingly ignored.
"You've been telling me how ta do my job before I ever even took it. You sit here
spoutin' 'bout your liberty; your leadership; your symbolism. Your stupid little fits 'a
poetry;"
Kaishek put a hand to his chin and attempted to predict exactly where this
tactless outburst was to be directed. "How 'bout we drop the poetry, huh? You can
fight; I seen you fight. Well come on; let's settle it; let's see where you comin' from wit'
your personal recommendations an' your reports to higher authorities since I took up
that post." With that, Johnson made up his own mind over how this continuing
disagreement would be solved, tapping his gloves together as if a condemning warning
before hurling himself forward with a roaring right hand which would have reached it's
destination had it not been for the timely intervention of three restraining hands whose
owners carried the specific responsibility to restrain. Kaishek crossed his arms as if a
frustrated artist standing back to observe his flawed creation from afar. "And all my
speculation was correct. Mr. Johnson. You are as unreliable as I suspected." Lincoln
coughed into a dispairing fist and thus called a halt to her more volatile college's all too
direct campaign against the common enemy. "I know having fought my way across an
entire City State and onto this lovely island home of yours I'm probably not in the best
position to say this, but violence really isn't going to solve it, you know." Kaishek
sneered defiantly in absence of a more whimsical retort and signaled to his band of
overpaid followers to unhand their ungracious captive.
Iron was unsure about all this; there didn't seem to be any other way out of this
predicament but to break out, and besides, violence isn't violence if it's properly and
righteously applied, and this situation prompted an act of 'righteous' intent. He
motioned to strike the midsection of the nearest bodyguard; one Emmanuel Bardeya;
with his leading leg, but instead went for the face; a simple ploy applied with poise and
simplicity. As intended, this basic feint produced a wider range of options and openings
for those around him; both Johnson and Lincoln being thrown into a do or die situation
safe in the knowledge that it is far easier to throw an attack than muster a defense.
Lincoln's offensive maneuver was typically as thoughtful as Iron's; cutting across
Johnson's path in order to throw a particularly threateningly placed guard off course
with a jumping sidekick to the ribs, thus creating the opportunity to both exploit the
boxer's explosive punch power and cater for his lack of imagination; another tactless
serviceman becoming the butt of their carefree coreography with precious little
gratitude. Lincoln awarded Iron's foresight with a congratulating nod of the head. The
tables had well and truly been turned.
Now it was Kaishek's turn to think on his feet. With Bardeya and co out for the
count, the numerical advantage had been severed. It was three on three, and much as he
professed his liking for a fair fight, the opposite was more often the case. "And so the
chess game has produced another stalemate." The Liberty Island chief should have
better judged his opposite number's tolerance level; any inappropriate comment at such
a time would only serve to provoke a man like Johnson, who more often that not found
verbal communication a baneful waste of time. He prefered to let his fists do the
talking. "F*cking chess!" was the witty refute; the solid application of a battle soiled
clutch of knobbly knuckles to the jaw the intended accompaniment.
Wheeler; back in the watch house; pointed his assault rifle in the general
direction of the ensuing fracas and began to jog. He should have listened to his mother;
he should never have taken this job, but then, how was he to know that one day he
would have to fight someone; shoot someone? He was a watchman; a chaperone, not a
soldier. Mabye on his way down that rain soaked avenue he'd trip and have to whine
between the flowerbeds until the bedlam died down. He nodded to himself incessantly
as if his spinal column had been magically replaced with a spring. That was the best
idea he'd hatched in a while.
Lincoln span around in a concise circle and sent Pedro Careca face first into a
steadily growing puddle around the base of the dominating statue before he had even
muttered a profanity in anger while Iron disposed of Salu Zulku like a body into the
bushes with a solid knee and a dismissive yank of the arm. Kaishek clearly should have
trained his cadets better. Speaking of the now marooned resident bureaucrat of this
well and truly siege laid outpost, the cursed commandant turned in a slippery getaway
on hazy galoshes and began a mud chomping sprint towards a refuge gifting gaggle of
pert pine trees which not only offered him protection from the elements, but also
contained a nasty surprise for his guests.
Predictably it was Johnson who leapt to shorten his drowsy dash for cover
across the treacherous slushy grass, but as if from nowhere another clutch of hand
picked trainees almost literally swam out of the depths of a repand rash of rose bushes
to tackle them, thus facilitating Kaishek's graceless escape.
Iron and Lincoln disposed of the latest demotivated duo with identical side
kicks before straining to make out the fastly retreating form of their mentor through a
tempestual darkness which could have indicated a shift in time itself which had made
the breaking day revert to night once more.
But in such debilitating conditions, escape is unlikely, as Kaishek was soon to
find out; the merry misfits trapping him amongst a neiche of peevish pine trees with
Johnson about to take off on another fanciful flight of ferocity until a clumping sound
like a horse's hooves on a cobbled floor began to sound bizzarly from above. The
thumping sound continued as black shapes appeared among the parting foliage of four
trembling trees just behind the outspoken megalomaniac; flashing glints of silvery metal
peeking through a crowded haze of blackened leaf and bark like an approaching
precession of moaning lepers descending on a dusky village scene with gleaming
crucifixes swaying in the forest breeze. Johnson backstepped in uncharacteristic
concern; thinking that perhaps his former college’s complacency wasn't as unfounded
as he had first imagined.
Four black camouflaged soldiers emerged into view; climbing down the tree
trunks like slithering leeches- sticking to the wood with the aid of shuko gauntlets;
metal hand gloves with mountainous ranges of spikes strapped across the palm and
baring the countenence of having been recycled out of old fashioned bear traps.
Kaishek clapped in sadistic pleasure as the four dropped to the ground behind him in
uniform black face masks which covered all but the eyes as if these were the only
remnants of humanity that remained. Lincoln tapped her foot impatiently as poor
punctually became worse. Two more uniformed minions, this time minus the masks,
emerged dramatically from the clump of trees behind; heading a hefty contingent of
armed soldiers brandishing all manner of callous weaponry and looking every bit like
carbon copies of the first four as if churned out of some gargantuan science fiction
cloning machine.
"As you may well observe," Kaishek smirked as the maskless men took their
places at either side of him; the highest ranking of this strange and guileful clutch of
characters; "the odds are not stacked so much in your favor as you might have thought.
Now, I do believe if survival is your intention, surrender is surely the only viable
option." Johnson reacted to this as if the word 'surrender' had hit him like an allergic
reaction. He strode forward with fists aloft in an ostentatious showmanship akin to that
of a war wounded private keen to earn his commanding officer's respect by boldly
challenging the entire enemy army to a suicidal scuffle without the merest consideration
of impending death. 'I only hope he doesn't succumb to the inevitable.' Lincoln
watched as a full eight of the faceless peons shoved their way in between Johnson and
their meticulous masters. 'People go from one extreme to the other. It's either fight for
one side or fight for the other. True, maybe I'm no better, but how about not fighting
at all?' As if to answer Lincoln's unspoken criticism, Johnson plodded to a premature
and admittedly graceless halt. Iron felt somebody's personal pride needed to be granted
a restbite. Afterall, as the numerical advantage grows in favor of an opponent, it is
often customary for bravery to become stupidity. "Look at it this way, Jay; it's a better
form of self defense to do the defending rather than the attacking, right?"
"Who said anything 'bout self defense?" was the eccentric boxer's lightning fast rebuff.
Kaishek, as per usual, saw it fit at this juncture to intervene by means of yet another
verbal tirade, albeit a calculated one. The psychology of the villain is a difficult notion
to fathom for those pushed by circumstance to play the uncomfortable role of the hero.
Kaishek's case though was a one of a powerful man hell bent on satisfying his unnatural
craving for more power; and things to impose it on; and thus to him the
reproclaimation of his leadership was the main objective, despite the fact that by now
everybody else had become unequivocally tired of it. "It depresses me, it really does,
that three characters of your obvious intellect and commitment should see it fit to
endear yourself to the cause of revolution. Such high ideals and such an awkwardly
defective knowledge of fact, fiction and the differences thereof quite clearly embitter
your struggle; a struggle which would more wisely be directed towards survival rather
than blunderingly spurious fantasy."
Johnson screwed up his face like a pierced beachball in response to this
avalanche of apparently anagramatic analogue. Yet regardless of the fact that he wasn't
understanding a word of it, or perhaps because of that, he chose to remain silent.
Kaishek gratefully continued; "what, I must ask myself, would plant in a human being
the ambition to create such an illusory world? May I remind you of the countless
revolutions and attempted revolutions which have fused themselves so vehemently onto
the fabric of history? And may I not make the point that such revolutions or, as in this
case, attempted revolutions tend to spill a decidedly similar amount of blood from the
corpses of both establishment and militants? And may I also point out that there are
only three of you; consequently you have little blood to shed. May I call to your
dispairingly deluded minds Saint Petersburg, the French revolution, the Chinese civil
war, and the American civil war. So much blood has not been spilt in a single outing in
this country since, and I would much hate to reverse that statistic now."
"Blood or no blood, at least all four of those revolutions were successful." History was
beginning to catch up with Lincoln. That was a scary thought. "Ha!" Kaishek jumped
back in theatrical gesture as if a toga toting emperor pounced upon by Brutus and a
disgruntled senate. "Do you call inhuman proportions of bloodshed 'success'?" Clearly,
more recent history recalled, Kaishek was not haunted by the henna patterned stains of
homoglobin onnhis own unhumble hands. Like a kind of insane girka, once the kukri
was drawn blood had to be shed in order to satisfy dignity and tradition. "Just a handful
of dissatisfied pedestrians taking to the delicate world with a pickax because they
would rather wreak havoc than mine quarries like they're supposed to. With nothing
better to fill their torrid time on this planet than to prod at the fringes of their own
government like grubs on an injured workhorse hoping in vein to swiftly do away with
their monstrous host and somehow slither into it's vast and inviting mind and control
the gargantuan beast themselves. I simply despair at the fact that such vile intentions
persist in the hearts of my compatriots, and I equally despair... in fact I am insulted to
be presented with the unenviably tiresome task of exterminating such lowly
opposition..."
Nesshin Kallem; one of the foremost pair of soldiers, had begun to glance
impatiently at his leader as if wishing upon him a painless but immediate throat
infection. He struck the air with a vicious looking Japanese long sword which he would
so sadistically love to have been imbedding into one of the intruder's heads. Kallem's
half brother on the other hand; Shimbozuyoi Kazzar, simply closed his eyes like a
helpless fisherman in rough seas and waited for the bludgeoning rhetoric to die away.
But in spite of the silent insurrections around him, the perennial master carried on. "We
must sit here and contemplate with honesty; do I really deserve such inconvenience?
Has my input into this humble nation been so insignificant that I may be punished so? I
must beg to contest that point, but no matter. Let these indiscretions be rectified. Let
what has been done be now undone." He swished his arms in a melodramatic fashion as
if conducting an extensive orchestra; ordering the death squad to fire at last at their
tortured captives. Kallem's frustration had quickly turned to joy as all but his half
brother and the commander swarmed simultaneously towards their horribly
outnumbered targets like superpowers to a nuclear test ban treaty; that is, with
abundant force and eagerness, but all too little inventiveness, objectiveness or success.
The sight of a miniature army of highly trained military men armed with a
variety of oriental weaponry from spiked poles to swords, ropes and daggers would
prove to most a rather terrifying prospect. But Jay Johnson was not your average
human being. A little slow in the mental department perhaps, but he was a fighter at
heart, and proffesional gladiators with bitter grudges are dangerous men. Giving a
fighter a grudge to bear is as dangerous as selling arms to a fascist dictator; a foolish
mistake, but one all too frequently committed nonetheless. He reduced the oncoming
crowd to a good round fourteen with two well placed punches which would have hurt
magically less had the recipients not insisted on charging straight into their paths.
Iron ducked a wild blow from a shuko wearing assassin, tripped him
demeaningly with his lead leg and rose just in time to spin away into a quarter turn and
greet a sword wielding accomplice with a bruising set of shots to the ribcage. The
frantic pace was no different for Lincoln. She ducked a downward slice from a heavy
staff and followed with a series of punches to the midsection and head before hurling an
oncoming opponent over her shoulder and into the first at an opportune moment.
Meanwhile, Johnson's soaring fists sent another reeling, displaying the
philosophy of the banger rather than the punch picker, until Kallem entered the fray;
spinning around fluidly with his blade in a deadly ballet dance and catching the boxer
lightly across the stomach with a backhanded slash. By the time Johnson had reacted,
Kallem was out of harm's way grinning maliciously. The crowds subsided to give their
superior officer space as Kallem revealed a set of wily fang like teeth and pointed his
sword like a fencer. This was clearly to be a battle of artistry verses aggression.
Although in the process of being attacked by indomitable numbers from all
directions, Iron cut another assasin down with a double legged sweep then twisted
around like a gymnast on a pummel horse to sweep an opponent approaching from
behind in a similar manner. Next he leapt to cut back the head of a mace waving minion
by way of a turning kick to the jaw while Lincoln sent her new dancing partner reeling
with a flying roundhouse and span around to catch Iron's gaze across the waterlogged
arena.
Having both dispatched their latest adversaries, the riotous mob around them
seemed to pause for a moment in reverence of their fixed exchange of stolen glances as
if here they were supposed to realize something which both failed to. For this brief time
nothing could touch them. Iron was just pondering how looking into her eyes he felt he
was looking into a mirror when the moonlit shimmer of a beastly blade caught his gaze
and he found himself shifting clumsily backward as a pipe like longsword bit into the
grassy turf beside him. Reacting with a swift sidekick to the unfortunate soldier's
exposed face, he hopped into a two step sideways movement culminating in a lofty
reverse roundhouse which he had envisaged the moment he had seen another hapless
assassin’s noxious spurt towards him. In the midst of this noise and violence, though,
lay silence; if only for a moment.
Johnson and Kallem were still busy sizing one another up; the former merely
shaking his good fist in preparation to land the killer blow. Seeing this, Lincoln smiled.
'Well, I hate to disturb a sporting contest, but...' Picking her moment, she kneed an
opponent in the chest and promptly shoved him backwards into Kallem who, forced
into a stumble, instantly caught a thundering straight punch from Johnson which would
have shattered a mountain of breeze blocks had they been strategically stacked between
him and his target as he lunged; landing with what seemed like the impact of a comet
thumping into a frail earth as he simultaneously altered dramatically the direction in
which the injured party was already falling, not to mention adding proportionately to
his backward velocity.
Even Kazzar's appeasing patience was tried by this, and in a fit of ill conceived
brotherly love, dashed acrimoniously forward to the distaste of his leader, drawing a
richly crafted blade as he leapt like a skimming flint across the groggy mud. He sliced
away at Lincoln in a quartet of tree toppling swings, all of which she somehow
managed to avoid by ducking this way and that and eventually half tumbling, half
rolling between two oncoming soldiers; the last attempted attack having been too close
for comfort. Inevitably, one of the pair she had narrowly avoided had wandered into
Kazzar's way, and received an unintended slash to the ribcage for his troubles. Kazzar,
though; the calmer of the siblings in theory at least, saw this as a good reason to
control himself, and though he would not go so far as to apologize to the mortally
wounded henchman, he quickly cleaned up his act, for now it was Lincoln's turn to
falter at the whim of the less showly swordsman's wepeon of choice.
Kazzar simply stood and stared with his blade held by his side as if a big cat
waiting for his next meal to loose the long and inevitable fight against that ever present
spectre called death, although Lincoln was well aware this particular vulture's methods
of catching prey were to be far from passive. She stepped back and raised two open
hands- a stark contrast to Kazzar's deathly weapon of destruction. Left handed, he
prodded the blade in two jab like motions and held it in front of him like an artist trying
to measure distance with a sripping brush. And in a way, that was how he saw himself.
But the art of war, to Lincoln, was a flawed notion, however good she was at it. She
moved to one side to avoid a more volatile slash and returned by stepping dangerously
close with a backhanded swipe to the temple. Meeting with success, she followed up
with a shockingly close range left hook, right uppercut and crumpling straight kick to
the chest, all the while making use of the fact that she had got in too close for the
sword to be effective, which left Kazzar with only one hand free to defend himself. The
last attack of Lincoln's prompted him into a bumbling tumble ironically as his half
brother at last managed to clamber to his feet; his face looking like a burst water main
seen through an infared filter. He had waited for Johnson to get involved with another
pair of pawns before rising; thus avoiding the man who had made such a mess of his
admittedly not sparklingly good looks. But, sword in hand, he now coughed
uncomfortably and approached Iron, who was busy kneeing yet another soldier in the
head enough times to make even the ripest brain turn sour. Finally, the defiled character
gave in and collapsed backwards, thus allowing Kallem a bite at the hitherto unnibbled
cherry.
Impatiently launching himself into a roaring offensive like a roving missile
sighting its target and booming headlong towards it as programming dictated regardless
of the perilous blades and flailing fists which loitered the space between them as if a
scattered hive of bees busily molesting numerous distanced pollenous petals, the
sentinel swordsman seized the initiative like a juicy sirloin steak. Such single minded
devotion to the attacker's imperative so often Kallem's downfall; as his more cunning
spouse continually reminded him; he was reluctantly about to learn the hard way yet
again as Iron; previously preoccupied with a triad of shutuko wearing militia; hacked
the aggressor back down to the sodden earth with a high boot which even a blind man
could have seen coming had he been gazing fortuatously in the right direction. The
disgraced bodyguard bathed unenthusiastically in a chocolate puddle of muddy
precipitation like a shaggy dog in an overused tub, but was soon joined by a doddering
masked assassin whom Iron discarded absent mindedly with a textbook shoulder throw.
The unannounced arrival of this fallen peon left prostrate back first on top of the
nescient Kallem only invigorated his unwanted shower further. As Iron brushed aside to
hurl another unfortunate into tactical oblivion with a midair spin and a reverse
roundhouse to the right of the jaw, allowing his other leg to spin off in a virtual split
designed for artistry rather than application, Kallem shoved his former comrade aside
and; a concoction of sweat and rainfall dousing his face like a burst orange, growled
vengefully and cut his own college down with a callous slice of the sword without even
offering him a cursing glance of those murderous eyes. This was reserved for Iron; the
perpetrator of his humiliation.
Johnson buckled a juvenile tree with the resisting implement of a three point
staff wielding opponent and a socking hook, then mauled another two in quick
succession with a far from dainty pair of uppercuts. Lincoln, for her part; one eye on
the increasingly worried form of Kaishek, who twiddled his thumbs like a great orator
composing his next speech; which, heaven forbid, he was probably doing, found time to
squat into a double leg sweep- turning three hundred and sixty degrees like a fusion
powered carousel, her leading leg downing the oncoming assassin who stood directly in
her path and the back leg swinging full circle to cut a second down to size as he
sprinted in with little foresight and even less fortune.
To Kallem, the prospect of yet another fall from insubstantial grace was out of
the question; the battle boiled down to just he and his torturer. Iron discarded the last
of his attackers with a consummate leaping hook kick which rocked the stunned
soldier's head sideways as if he was muscling the final turn out of a screw with a
massive screwdriver, before turning to the hateful hitman with the almost non existent
speed of a veritable statue as the clamor of vexing violence rolled on around him as it
would if he was standing in the center of an archaic imax movie theater. A clearing
appeared to emerge as if to facilitate the showdown between two of the primary
combatants, and Kallem obliged in the doting monsoon as he paced around in a
cautious circle around Iron, who followed suit and sidestepped in a concentric sphere
to accommodate an imaginary cyclic arena. Kallem lifted his sword, teeth clenched, and
performed an assortment of showy slashes and drives like a New Zealand haka; still
three or four sword spans from his adversary. Beads of rain tore down his bloodied
face and mottled his grubby tunic as the rage inside built up to a predictable climax.
Iron steadied himself as if the possessive captain of a sinking ship and awaited his
moment as Kallem galloped towards him like a covetous cheetah descending upon a
gaunt gazelle; hacking and slashing ineffectively as if a great white shark sacrificing tact
for brute force as he attempted to chomp on an elusive stickleback. Iron toyed
tenaciously with the aggressor; folding his hands behind his back like a priest at
confession and weaving under, aside from and otherwise out of the path of each
ferocious strike with which Kallem ventured to dissect him as if a rocket powered
bluebottle floating effortlessly out of range of the maddened flycatcher's rolled
newspaper. Finally, the slippery misfit allowed his arms to arch into amorphous action;
the angle achieved by a foresightful footstep to the right which enabled him to reunite
the dejected swordsman with the marshy ground in accordance with an arm bar and a
vacant sweep. Insight then prompted the rising revolutionary to relay a chameleon like
eye behind him in time to see Kazzar; on the opposite edge of the unconsciously
concocted circle's circumference; stationary as if a broken down pickup and needling
his sibling's conqueror with a jutting gaze as he held his sword aloft. Iron; baring in
mind how reminiscent of a seedious saber showdown from ancient Japanese myth,
legend, and more appropriately to him given his years of confinement; cinema that this
duel had become; automatically stepped into the center of the clearing as if performing
a ceremonial Bali dance, although his exaggerated steps leant more to the simple fact
that the boisterous bog was deepening even as he pondered the logistics of the
forthcoming scuffle.
With Kallem now back on his weary legs, the two began to circle their
opponent at equidistant berths like a clutch of resourceful vultures vying for the best
view of some not quite dead prey; Kazzar with his weapon pitched vertically like a
brawny fisherman with a big bite and Kallem preferring to display his horizontally
across the face just to add to the artistic nature of this theatrical show should some
blood lusting osprey observe it from above.
Oblivious to the cruel rendition of a carnivorous kabuki play before him,
Kaishek surveyed the dismal spectacle of his trusty troops' impending embarrassment
from a solace spawning set of prickly pines and issued himself the unenviable
imperative to adjourn to the quieter, safer depths of the woods which appeared to
strangle him like a virtual rainforest impinging impishly on an Aztec city. Lincoln,
however, was as quick on his toes as a fiercely territorial labrador intent on gnawing a
carefree postman's ankles as he made a mad dash for the front gate. She headed him off
with an ad lib heel kick to the foot which struck a sore tendon, making him stagger and
reassert his balance with the trunky assistance of a sympathetic tree. Kaishek twisted
around instinctively; drawing a sword as he went which seemed to skim past Lincoln's
ear like a highway truck passing an inattentive pedestrian on the cold shoulder who
really; safety being the primary issue; should have gone back into town to find an
official crossing.
She raised her guard and back stepped a little; readying a thumb as if placing it
on a pentop to protract the nib. Understandably Kaishek failed to notice the concealed
motion and came at his opponent with both blades swirling like the oars of a seven man
regatta rowing boat. Though his pace was mildly mesmerizing, his aimlessness
surrendered the perfect opening for those; like Lincoln; who possessed the ability to
virtually slow time down in her own head, enabling her to accurately predict such gaps
far in advance of their actual appearance. One such gap opened for exploitation, she
plunged the side of her thumb into an exposed pressure point by Kaishek's kneecap
which; as he observed things; passed right through a slicing sword on its way. But
whether it was the rules of empirical plausibility or merely everyday reflexes which had
just been broken, that deft thumb most certainly offered him a generous measure of
pain. He wobbled like a beer glass placed clumsily on the corner of a pub table and fell
to one knee; inviting Lincoln to send him tumbling dizzily into a shorn tree stump like a
kid falling off a go kart with a rising ax kick delivered as if she was punting a football.
Scrambling to his feet with the urgency of a frail bargain hunter stampeded in
the summer sales, Kaishek somehow managed to nail his firebrand foe with a floating
side kick which succeeded rather through guesswork than intent and followed up with
what could quite well have been a fatal overhand roll of the sword had Lincoln not
been mindful enough to draw her feet backwards a step like a meek army cadet secretly
amending her stance as a superior officer went down the line with a malicious look and
a prodding baton. As it was, she suffered only a superficial gash just above the hairline
which was soon washed down her face by what little rain made it through the caressing
branches; making it look as if that permanent crimson dye at the roots was beginning to
run.
Iron was still involved in his own wicked waltz; the brothers grim spiraling
around him in ever decreasing circles as if they were notches on either side of a tumble
dryer door and he the drenched and dogged item of clothing inside, although contrary
to the metaphor, it was Iron who remained cool and in control. The showy
swordsmen's upcoming ploy was unlikely to disturb him. Kazzar; forever the tactical of
the two; motioned to his half brother to charge; and charge they did; blades held in
opposite straight lines; not realizing Iron had read the telling trick like a bland slapstick
comedy from the outset. In response he performed a pair of gymnastic backflips as if he
were a tossed pancake at an opportune moment; leaving Kazzar and Kallem to keep on
running into eachother; inflicting unintended wounds to their sibling's shoulders which
may well have proved essentially superficial, but which nonetheless transformed both
into gibbering wrecks on the slush puppie mud as Iron commandeered a sword and left
the two human hippopotami to their dirty bath.
Johnson was by this time simply indulging in target practice. Four more shuko
wearing hicks were downed in quick succession with a series of predictable rights
before he just about stopped himself from knocking Iron out flush with another boulder
like fist as he passed whistling jovially and spinning his stolen weapon around like a
skipping rope. Restraint had never been the boxer's strong point.
Lincoln had managed to deprive Kaishek of one of his twin blades, which
further lengthened his odds as he skirted a look around nervously and realized he was
now the lonely representative of his well and truly infiltrated training facility. It had
been his pride and joy the past few months; a school of excellence full in truth of a
militia which was yet to mature. Still, there was pride to be fought for; prestige. There
was clearly no hope, only the possibility of the salvation of some measure of dignity;
that and the notion of doing as much damage as he could to this revolutionary
perectination so that at least when the relay baton was passed on to those on the other
side of the water he may have tenderized the goods for them. But that was assuming he
could hit any of them.
Iron; determined to spectate impartially along with the seasoned scrapper
Johnson, brought failure onto himself as he came towards Lincoln spinning the weapon
dangerously as she approached from the other direction to catch the thing mid toss and
curl it into an opposite spin; thus arming herself and swiftly exploiting that advantage
by thwacking Kaishek's own sword out of his hands like a master pickpocket.
Abandoning the overgrown dagger to ensure a far fight, she displayed a manic grin
through filtered rainfall which made Kaishek gulp with trepidation; knowing that even if
he succeeded it would be Johnson next on the list of challengers; a prospect he may
well have chosen to exchange for a more immediate fall from grace.
His overhand left was eaten up like a three layered gateau by Lincoln; who
again appeared to walk through it like a pugilistic Moses to obtain a position where she
could rattle his midriff with a stake like short punch and practice a severe odontology
with a bone curdling hook which soared over his guard as if a short sighted falcon and
came down just in time to connect with a laniary snap.
A clever heel applied evaginatively to the shin achieved the intended result;
convincing the recipient to block low while the attacker went high with the same foot;
leaving Kaishek to mope indignantly against another cylindrical conduit shaped trunk;
which would have moved to push him off like a pedestrian in a rush trying to rid
himself of a thirsty Franciscan who had indulged perhaps too much in his own special
brew had trees possessed such peculiarly human reactions.
Iron and Johnson observed arms crossed like a pair of noble savages watching
an intellectual revolution take place in which they were far from concerned enough in
to get involved, although having said that, the latter could be seen to be strumming his
fingers with an eviscerating anticipation; he was well aware that Kaishek would rather
the boxer not be the one to take his head like a vampirious impaler. At least Iron and
Lincoln were well known to be mercifully restraintful when it came to battling
representatives of the jumbled junta; all had reported back to the boss alive if they
reported back at all, which admittedly said little in retrospect, and of course there was
always the demoralizing fact that when it came to mortality rates, Volscenzi's office
carried a far worse record than the outside world, especially if you were reporting in as
a failure. But Kaishek was soon to be reminded that restraintful does not always equal
peaceful as he copped a gruesome knee to the teeth which only served to open up the
gumline crevice she had previously created further.
He spat blood in a manner unbecoming of such a creative persona and stood
stock still for a moment of battle weary contemplation as if a scientific specimen in a jar
of formaldehyde while Johnson nodded in appreciation; he wasn't going to be needed
afterall. He had always ridiculed female boxers; they weren’t made for prize fighting,
street fighting or any other brand of brutal sport. Lincoln had proved him wrong
before, and even now she delighted in the fact that there were certain benefits of
belonging to the 'lesser' gender when it came to tactics of war. Born and bred military
men like Kaishek tended to lean towards petty misogynism which meant strategy went
straight out the twentieth floor window when it became clear they were being
comprehensively beaten by a member of the opposite sex. This was exactly what
happened in the case scenario in hand; the bloodied drill sergeant launching himself into
a scud like charge which he very swiftly regreted; cast away prostrate as Lincoln turned
aside, caught his attacking arm at the wrist, added only slightly to his redirected
momentum with a leading of the hand akin to a ballroom dancing gesture and thumped
an astute heel into the small of his back which sent him face first into a traitorous tree
which had previously offered him salvation and straight back into a dazey reverse lun
gom which finally had him floating in a messy puddle with a pitiful whine. Johnson
guffawed tiradically as if a chattering baboon on laughing gas as the undeniable victor
stood for a few tense moments arm aloft where it had been left at the conclusion of that
concussive maneuver like a playful picador having just completed her final show.
Kaishek, still believing everybody would as of rights constantly be paying
attention to him, waved a lazy hand like a megalomaniac villain in a regular superhero
adventure acknowledging the good guy's repetitive habit of thwarting his dastardly
world dominating plan which had left him to face a lifetime in jail; until next week.
Iron ran in and hugged her like an ecstatic ball player as if she had just clinched
the world series for their team on the very last pitch; only snapping her out of her
cajoling static stance as he lifted her off the sodden floor like moving a crate, though
admittedly she was not as heavy. The irritating rain had begun to falter by now just to
add to Kaishek's pains, and the glints of morning sunlight which he had looked forward
to single mindedly since that irksome drizzle began started to push through the leaves
and branches to create a sparkling stain glass window effect on his aching form as if he
was standing between a projector and the wall. Suffice to say in the end those accursed
weather men had been right. Heads would not be rolling; except maybe his own if he
ever dared to go back to his menial office in the governmental complex at the old Twin
Towers. For the moment he would rather lie in the mud. Actually, since it was pretty
much guaranteed that his assailants were to soon be on their way to that very same
complex, he realized that he would not be entirely distraught if they were to succeed in
their proposed takeover of power. The rain had ceased; the heavens at rest. Maybe god
had done his bit to make the conditions as unbearable for Kaishek as he could; there
was no such thing as chance.
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