“Very impressive Indi,” Jones admitted what was impossible to deny. “You are a natural to say the least but I’m afraid I cannot overlook your disrespect.”
Indiwongga stared, unmoving and unafraid.
“I’m a fair chap, so, to redeem yourself, I will let you fight again. If you win, well, let’s cross that bridge if and when we come to it. Mr. Ortero and Mr. Hernandez, would you be kind enough to join us?”
The mustached gaucho and the skinny Mexican floated up to do just that. “Now Mr. Ortero should be more than capable of providing you with a challenge, but Mr. Hernandez is a wildcard so to speak. I doubt he’s much of a fighter, to be honest, his weapon of choice was cowardice. The deserts of northern Mexico are literally littered with the bones of those he abandoned there. Coyotaje is the correct name for his chosen profession, a smuggler of people if you will. Our Mr. Hernandez, however, preferred to lead those in his charge only halfway before creeping off with their valuables and their water, leaving them to die slow, painful deaths. No judgment of course, a man has to earn a living. Ladies and gents, Javier ‘The Coyotaje’ Hernandez.”
The introduction was as bad as the story but everyone clapped just the same.
“So Indi…boy, kill them both and you will be allowed to move on. Lose and…well, you know.”
Indiwongga said nothing, crouched, stomped one foot and waited. The edges of Ortero’s thick mustache danced, the smile behind it unseen but understood, killing pleased him. Hernandez, on the other hand, looked like a pig ready for slaughter, fidgeting and shaking as he waited. Keeping his distance, Ortero crept cautiously around Indiwongga. Indiwongga let him. Hernandez stood his ground, his scythe trembling in his hands.
“Kill!” Ortero barked.
Hernandez didn’t move. Ortero sprung and struck. Indiwongga turned to meet him, lowering his chest to the floor, spinning on the ball of one foot like a break-dancer. Ortero’s blade sailed over him, closer to cleaving his partner than his target. Springing to his feet, Indiwongga struck, taking Ortero’s right leg off just above the knee. The gaucho face planted, his screams of agony cut short by the impact. Indiwongga climbed to full height, grunted through sealed lips and stared at Jones, his eyes as threatening as a summer storm cloud. Hernandez hadn’t moved an inch, save his trembling.
Jones shrugged, “Jobs not done yet boy.”
Cursing through burst lips, Ortero squirmed to escape, a pointless endeavor, there was none. Indiwongga lowered the business end of his scythe to the floor beside Ortero’s head and slipped it under his throat. Indiwongga raised one thick foot then drove his heel down onto the back of Ortero’s head, beheading and crushing his skull with brutal efficiency.
Jones yawned. “And?”
Spinning his scythe around one hand, a deadly propeller, Indiwongga stalked toward the terror-stricken Mexican. Allowing the handle slide through his hand until it almost flew from his grip, he caught it just as it passed Hernandez. In a fluid display of skill and power, he spun, hauling the blade toward him and through the nape of Hernandez’s neck, popping it from his shoulders like the cork of a well-shaken bottle of champagne. Indiwongga let the blade follow its course, his eyes on the newly liberated head as if climbed high, slowed and fell. A moment before it crashed, he swept his blade low and buried the tip in Hernandez’s face. Stomping in celebration, grunting deep and low, he turned again to face Jones and held his prize out toward him.
“You certainly have the right stuff Indi my boy but your attitude is in need of adjustment. The choice is yours, but only as a courtesy, fix it or I will.”
Dudes a real warrior, like a real fucking, no joke, fuck shit up warrior! Gotta check the attitude though, or better yet don’t. Keep poking the bear buddy, keep poking the bear. There’s no way anyone will defeat this guy, I sure as shit don’t wanna try.
“Well, boy?” Jones wanted an answer, either would satisfy him.
Indiwongga lowered his blade and banged the butt end on the floor. Hernandez’s head popped off and landed with a thwack. Indiwongga lowered his own in submission.
Jones smiled, as wide as the Chestershire cats and just as trustworthy. “Very good choice, a very good choice indeed although, if I’m being completely honest, I was hoping you’d persist with your blackie nonsense, I wanted desperately to see how long it would take you to beg.”
Indiwongga, unable to reply, perked his bushy eyebrows. “How rude of me,” Jones gasped dramatically and undid Indiwongga’s unusual gag.
“I’ll run with you mob,” Indiwongga spoke slowly, his words chosen carefully. “Never run with no one, by myself since I was a little kicker. I’m not looking to burn I reckon, if this is it then I’m your man boss.”
Shit.
“Well, that is all good news Mr. Indiwombat…Indiwoggy…Indidoor…”
“Call me whatever you like,” Indiwongga said, interrupting Jones’s taunting. “Names are just words.”
“My, my, if you don’t just tickle my balls and make me shiver!” Jones cried out, clapping like the madman he truly was. “Indi it is then, Mr. Indi if you prefer. The other was such a chore, dreadful off the tongue, sounded like a tuberculosis cough.”
“Sure boss.”
“Boss? I like it. You keep this up Mr. Indi and I’ll have to take you home with me tonight and really show you my gratitude.”
Indiwongga’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed shut.
You’re playing a dangerous fucking game Indiwhatever.
*
Jones trotted to Hernandez’s head and kicked it across the stage. Thrilled with himself he did the same with Ortero’s although the crushed skull didn’t fly as well. “Fancy I’d have been a footballer had it been played in my time. United’s my club, Red Devils and all that. Yep, striker or center-mid, perhaps. Me, Rooney, Giggs, Ferdinand, Ronaldo and Scholtz! Paul was a beast! My kind of player! Would’ve fit right in I would! Don’t you agree Mr. Grant?”
Bobby was caught totally off guard. “Yeah…sure.”
“Big football fan, eh?” Jones pushed.
Bobby wasn’t sure how to answer but figured it didn’t matter, if Jones wanted to fuck with him he would get fucked with. “Um…like the NFL?”
“Yank football! Odd rules and all that gear, that’s no sport!”
“Right.” Bobby didn’t know if he liked sports, except women’s volleyball, he remembered liking that for some reason.
“Ah, an ass man! Bravo!” Jones cried with delight. “You are quite the little perv aren’t you Mr. Grant?”
Bobby shrugged and nodded.
“There might be hope for you yet.”
“Um…thanks.” Bobby didn’t know what else to say.
“Right then, enough nonsense,” Jones snapped. “A cheer for Mr. Indi is in order.”
Silence.
Jones’s face darkened again. “Show a little gratitude you ingrates!”
Bobby clapped, this time under his own will, desperate to avoid more of Jones’s attention. Those around him quickly followed his lead. “Thank you again, Mr. Grant.” Jones winked. Bobby shivered at the gesture.
“Since you’ve all completely mucked up my nice neat whittling process, we’ll disregard it and go to a straightforward elimination round. We’ve an odd number but I feel Mr. Ortero fought well to deserve a chance at redemption. The others were complete shit and of no use to the Master.”
The trapdoor appeared once more. Two of its porters, pitch forks at the ready, emerged to claim the headless losers. Jones didn’t even turn to watch their ruthless harvest. Arms folded, he tapped one long finger on his chin as he mulled.
“How do I make this as interesting as possible?”
Tap tap tap.
“Unfair fights are boring but they would cull the weak.”
Tap tap tap.
“Big talkers don’t rarely make good fighters.”
Tap tap tap.
“Big versus small?”
Tap tap tap.
“Bitch fight?”
Tap tap tap.
Bobby kneaded his knuckles, others fidgeted in different ways, all victims of the same brutal suspense.
“I think I have it ladies and gents,” Jones announced abruptly, his ring announcer persona restored and in full voice. “A fight card for the ages! A thriller of killers! Five bloodied brawls, and the winners takes all!
One fight! I only have to win one fight!
“One victory will see you to the next level. One kill will reward you with an eternity in the Master’s favor!” Jones spun, arms wide as if addressing a packed stadium. “It will be bloody! It will be brutal! It will be amaaaaazzzzziiiiing!”
Jones turned to his real audience, their faces mirrored none of what danced in his. Indi stood like a statue, his big bright eyes followed the madman’s every move.
“Mr. Indi would you be so kind as to put Mr. Ortero back together, very Humpty Dumpty if I do say so myself.”
Indiwongga hauled the gaucho’s lifeless body across the stage to where his head came to rest then roughly assembled the crude puzzle. “Very good, now back in line,” Jones commanded when he was satisfied.
Jones regarded Ortero, wiggled his finger, and the Argentinian writhed. A few seconds later, with his vocal cords mended, his screams filled the chamber. Jones stood over him, savoring the suffering. When it was over Ortero pushed himself to his feet and stood to face Jones. “You lost,” Jones said plainly. “Badly if I’m being honest.”
Ortero nodded.
“Don’t fret my boy, I have decided to give you another chance.”
Ortero nodded again.
“You’re welcome,” Jones replied to Ortero’s unspoken gratitude. “Now back in line.”
The leathery, mustached murderer shuffled towards the edge of the stage, searching for Indiwongga with his eyes as he went. He found him and his mustache rose to reveal an almost toothless sneer.
“Revenge!” Jones cried out, he’d seen the thirst in Ortero’s eyes and heard a lot more of it in his mind. “Mr. Ortero, don’t be a fool. Mr. Indi barely broke a sweat while dispatching you and you had help. If you face him alone, the only thing you’ll achieve is another defeat. And this time when you break you’ll stay broken.”
*
“Fight number one, I shall call it The Clash of the Child Killers, Ms. Haneef, our Jihad princess, will take on Mr. Tennen, 'The Kindergarten Killer!”
Jones applauded and forced the class to join him.
“Fight number two, this one promises to be a lesson in brutality. I shall call it The Battle of the Ancients! The Viking Kjeld and the Savage Indiwongga!”
Kjeld’s head dropped. Caught up in the thrill of his own creation, Jones didn’t notice.
“Fight number three! The Three-Way! Yummy yummy! ‘The Ice Queen’ Rachkovsky, ‘The Whore’ Volte and Dulvic, ‘The Polish Torch’. Only one of you fine specimens will survive!”
Rachkovsky didn’t flinch. Volte turned to size up her opponents. Dulvic stood and stared at her feet.
“Fight number four, 'Second Chances’! Van Holt will have his chance to prove he’s not the little coward we all know him to be when he faces The Gruesome Gaucho, who already has one foot in the Flame.”
Bobby at once looked at the Irishman to his left, the only one, beside himself, still unassigned. Murphy turned to meet his glare.
I just hit the fight club lottery. About fucking time I caught a break. This guy doesn’t look like much. He’s thin, and he’s got to be like ten, maybe fifteen years older than me. I can beat this guy.
Murphy’s eyes reflected his confidence.
“Last and probably least, The Leftovers! The Mr. Mysterious, Grant will take on The Deadly Donkey!”
Murphy’s head spun at hearing his title, hatred beamed from his narrowed eyes.
“Save it for the ring donkey,” Jones warned.
Murphy lowered his gaze to both Jones’s and Bobby’s disappointment.
“There you have it folks! Only one kill stands between you and the Flame, between eternal torture and the honor of serving the Master! This is your finale! Your championship match! You will fight! You will give it your all! You will, or you will spend eternity wishing you had. See your opponent! Study them! Get inside them! Unravel them!”
We’re supposed to get to know them just by looking at them?
“Good point Mr. Grant.”
Fuuuuuuuuuuccck!
“As with everything, the anticipation adds to the flavor a thousand fold. We will end our lesson now and resume once you are all rested, fresh and ready to kill. However…” Jones smiled, the madness in his eyes burned brighter than ever. “You shall not be alone. Each of you will share a cell with your opponent, or opponents. No violence, we can’t have that. I do strongly suggest some good old-fashioned mind games. Probe for weaknesses, rattle cages, talk shit, do as much mind fucking as you can because when next I see you it’s kill or be killed.”
Five doors opened in the back wall, each with a number emblazoned by fire above it. “Don’t forget your robes, wouldn’t want anyone catching cold.” Jones snapped his fingers, and the dreaded garments hanging overhead dropped to wrap their owners in their thorny embrace. “On your bike you lot. Off you go!”
Bobby turned and walked toward the last door to his right, the one marked with the number five. Murphy fell in beside him as he made his way through the disorderly crowd. “What d’ya think lad?” the Irishman asked.
“I think this fucking sucks.” Bobby replied.
9.
“So what’s your story boy-o?” the Irishman whispered from darkness.
“Woke up in Hell,” Bobby kept it short.
“We all share that one, I’m asking about before that, when you were alive like?”
He didn’t sound sinister or devious but Bobby couldn’t let his guard down. “Shit man, I don’t know. I woke up in a hot fucking cell being harassed by a jerk with a southern accent and a weird robe.”
“Not much of a storyteller are ya?”
Eat shit, I’m sick of the taste.
“Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
“All right boy-o,” Murphy replied, his words sung as much as said. “I’m a Cork man, me father had a dairy farm on the south coast outside a small little place called Butlerstown. I didn’t get much schooling, my father needed me on the farm. My job was bringing the cows in for milking, twice a day, every day, rain or shine, and there wasn’t much shine. It wasn’t easy, they’re as stupid as they look, and they shit nonstop like. Filthy fucking stuff, slopping all over the road, I swear everything I had was covered in cow shit.”
“Sounds nice.”
Must’ve been peaceful at least.
“Shit and rain and cows and more shit. Nice? Are ya mad?”
Probably.
“Ah, but you’re not all wrong like. Ireland is beautiful, she is, but she’ll drive ya mad if ya let her. All the gloom ya know, the rain and the wind and the muck, it doesn’t end. Tourists, they smile and they take their pictures, in love with the place but they get to leave. I couldn’t. There was the drink of course, I loved my pints, but it’s no remedy like.”
Murphy went silent for a long time, Bobby joined him.
Sounds like the guy had it pretty rough. Not my problem though, shit happens. Better him than me right? Damn right, it’s him or me. Fuck him. Go me!
“Summers were nice. Not hot but warm enough, for a few weeks anyway, to go for a swim if you wanted. I love the sea, always have I suppose. The few beaches by the farm were small and wild but I loved them. Dunnworley was only a mile down the road, half a mile across the fields if you didn’t mind the muck. That was my escape, the cold water of the Atlantic could wash away anything like.”
“I swam in the Atlantic too,” Bobby said, remembering.
Murphy embraced their connection. “You know then, the thrill like.”
Bobby closed his eyes and concentrated. Warm breezes and hot sand, suntan lotion and salt, laughter and squawkin
g seagulls, the memory surfaced slowly. He was young, school was out, someone called his name. He recognized the voice but couldn’t place it. Turning toward it, desperate, his concentration lost, the memory faded and was gone.
Shit. So close.
Murphy was on a totally different page. “The power of the waves, the mystery of the deep, the lure of the horizon, it was like a drug. I’d swim out as far as I could and dare myself to go even further but one day, it was just after I turned seventeen, I went too far. The tide turned on me and I got caught. It pulled me out and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I knew I was fucked, I knew, and I was okay with it. I let her have me ya know?”
Let who? Who’s she?
“What?”
“I said my goodbyes, and I drowned,” Murphy whispered as he relived his surrender.
Wait? Seventeen? Bullshit!
“You don’t look seventeen.”
“I drowned, but I didn’t die, well I did but not really. I died, but I was saved, you understand?”
You’re talking in riddles dude.
“No.”
*
“The story I was told is that an old fella out fishing off Ring Head found me. Ring Head is nearly ten miles from Dunnworley mind you. The old fella says I looked like I was sleeping, smiling he says, like a baby. He hauled me into his boat and took me in. There were no mobile phones then so he had to drive home to call the rescue, took ages he said. It was the cold saved me, slowed everything down just enough, but I was definitely gone for a while. A miracle I survived they said, but it wasn’t, no way man, it was no fucking miracle. I wished every day since that I stayed dead, that the Atlantic swallowed me. I’ve hated the old cunt that saved me, every waking moment of every day since that one, and I still do.”
Death Sucks Page 11
