Kung Fu Factory

by Crimefactory

  blew the steam from the tea, wondering if Black Tiger would return from the collection of a local

  gambling debt.

  Fu laid the kettle back on the stove sensing combustion. The backdoor splintered with

  gunfire. A man holding a Tech 9 kicked through the remaining splits of the timber. Fu

  remembered him as Lotus. He’d a blue-green dragon fanning up his neck, a rope of hair upon his

  crown, repelling down his spine. He was a headhunter for Jade Fist with a bounty to convoke.

  Shong rolled to the floor, his swarthy locks flowered across his forehead. Being a man who

  despised deficit, but relished vehement odds, he wagered a deal with Jade Fist for Fu and Black

  Tiger’s lives. He’d give their location for the Jade headhunters to reap the bounty. If they were

  killed, Shong’d be at a loss. But if they survived, the life-contract would be abolished, either way

  he’d bask in the blood that would be spilt.

  Fu attacked Lotus at an angle. His right arm hitting in an upward motion beneath Lotus’s

  left wrist like a cleaver, his left hammering down, scissoring and knocking the gun from Lotus’s

  grip. Lotus countered a right elbow at Fu, pushed his hips forward, offered a left knee up into

  Fu’s stomach, created space and drew his arms into his chest. Left and right palms met, appeared

  like a viper’s mouth open wide. He shot the double strike into Fu’s center, jolted him against the

  stove. Lungs panted. Fu grabbed the kettle. Lotus pawed a curved blade from the buckle of his

  belt and fisted the air. Fu flung the molten liquid into Lotus’s sight. Flesh thinned into blisters,

  screams twisted into psychedelic torment. Fu trounced Lotus’s profile with the kettle until he

  was a human compost.

  From behind, bullets hacked through the wood of the front door. Fu uncrossed the two

  butterfly swords from above the stove. They were smithed and balanced by the hands that held

  them. One in his left, one in his right. He inhaled through his nose, felt a static charge in his

  marrow, perched low and waited.

  A headhunter, known as Wong, stepped into the living room holding two 9mm pistols,

  sweeping the area for movement. Before the gunman seen Fu, he felt one of the swords that

  tomahawked from the kitchen to the living room, end over end, cleave into his right thigh.

  Wong was a thud on the floor swallowing his newfound misery. Fu came like an ape from

  the kitchen to the living room, with a sword in one hand, he used his other hand like a crutch

  swiveling his legs forward till he kneeled over Wong. His left knee pinned Wong’s right arm to

  the floor as he jabbed the point of the sword into the softness beneath his chin. An identical

  dragon tattoo crawled up his neck. Sweat strained from his pours. Fu milled Wong’s eyes out

  with his own, seeing the shape of his niece and hearing her final plea decapitated.

  Then Fu felt another man’s presence. A gunshot ruptured his right thigh. Pain was a blown

  head gasket traveling up into his ribcage and down his leg. The sword fell from his hand.

  Footsteps approached. Another headhunter; Ox. He leveled his pistol at Fu. “Some say you myth.”

  Fu’s ears rang from the gunfire, Ox’s words came in wisps and Fu tonsiled, “Pull fuckin’

  trigger, abolish this myth.”

  Wong twitched and screamed, “Shoot him!”

  Ox crooked his fingers on the trigger. Fu waited, watched the inheritor of his teachings

  within his mind’s eye give silence to this hunter.

  The attacks hit quicker than a bullet, tapped Ox’s spine then his kidneys. His hands quaked.

  The sensation of water washing sand through a screen secreted throughout his body. The pistol

  hit the floor. His brown eyes rung red. Nostrils and lips spotted the same shade.

  Fu hunkered on the floor. The trickle of terra cotta oozed from his leg. Ox wilted before him.

  Wong tried to buck. Fu leaned forward, drove two fingers into the side of his neck, yielded him

  silent. Black Tiger stood over Ox holding the cooler. Fu glanced up at him, said, “I teach you

  well.”

  Clapping hands combined with the salivating-carnage of air and Shong said, “You two are

  like modern day Huns.”

  Fu pushed to standing and grimaced at the ache of his wounded leg. He looked at the squared

  plastic object Black Tiger held, shook his head, told him, “No need cooler.”

  Black Tiger’s eyes questioned him and he said, “Is head of—”

  Cutting him off Fu said, “I feel Ling’s energy disperse weeks before just as I feel Jade Fist’s

  demeanor approach.” He motioned to Wong, his leg forming a pond around him. “He is one who

  remove her from vitality.”

  “How you know?”

  “I see by the positive and negative elements of existence. Why I teacher, you student.”

  Black Tiger pointed behind Fu. “But is Shong who cause all of this, he—”

  Fu raised a hand to Black Tiger, turned, met Shong’s eyes, said, “No, we cross Jade Fist, turn

  to triads for help. Shong middleman, buy our continuance. We are now loyal to his deviances.”

  Mr. Shong looked into the pitted and scarred face of Fu, through the thick glass of his specs

  and into his comma-eyes and said, “After bringing you here, I decide to make deal for your

  lives, if survive onslaught, bounty would be no more. If not, seeing slaughter would be worth the

  price I pay.”

  “Now that we survive?”

  “We clean up with gasoline, start cleaning debts in Indiana.”

  i don't fuckin' care about nothing

  by jimmy callaway

  “You ought to watch those double negatives there, buddy.”

  “Watch these double negatives, motherfucker!”

  Hiiii-ih!

  Yah-yah-hiiii-yah!

  He’s back—Johnny Frigidaire!

  “’Scuse me, Officer, my name’s Johnny Frigidaire, and I’m here to register a deadly weapon.”

  “Okey-dokey, Mr. Frigidaire, let’s just get this paperwork started. What sort of weapon are you registering today?”

  “These!”

  “Huh?”

  “My fists!”

  Wah-pish! Wah-pish!

  Wip-whap-fap-ooof!

  “Huh. No, I don’t get it.”

  He’s back to boldly split your skull—Johnny Frigidaire!

  “Oh, Johnny, I don’t think we should be walking home late at night through this bad neighborhood.”

  “But Lola, how else am I going to?”

  “Going to what, get home?”

  “No, going to—fuck shit up!”

  Don’t matter where he was before, ‘cause as stated previously—he’s back (Johnny Frigidaire, that is.)!

  Street gang attack!

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Johnny Frigidaire and his little girly-girl. Walking home awful late, ain’t ya, Johnny?”

  “Awful late—for you, Billy Boy!”

  “Nah, I don’t usually go to bed until after midnight.”

  Let’s fight!

  Axe kick!

  Rabbit punch!

  Another kind of punch!

  “Is that all you got, Billy Boy? I’ve taken harder punches at a church picnic.”

  “You don’t even go to church!”

  Let’s fight some more!

  “Dig these moves, Billy Boy!”

  The Truncheon of Hurt!

  The Impending Whirlwind of Really Unmellow Times!

  The Seven Fists of Steve!

  “That’s nothing. Check this shit out!”

  Hotfoot of the Perverted Tai-Chi!

  The Devi
l’s Rattle-y Transmission!

  Spinning Jenny-on-the-Rag!

  “After I’m through with you, Frigidaire, then I take on your little girlfriend!”

  “B-But, but I don’t even know how to fight!”

  “It was more of a sexual overture, I think, sweetie.”

  “Oh. Gross.”

  C’mon, you powder-puffs, let’s see some more fighting already!

  A right!

  A left!

  A right-left-right!

  Parry!

  Thrust!

  Dodge!

  Spin!

  “Johnny, stop it! All this violence. Why are you boys so angry!”

  “Oh, sweet Lola, I never thought of it that way! Could it be…could it be because my father never loved me? Because I never learned the majesty of what love could be?”

  “Oh, Johnny!”

  “Or could it be because you never shut your big goddamned mouth!”

  Johnny Frigidaire! He takes no shit off nobody!

  “Again! It’s ‘anybody,’ not ‘nobody,’ you sub-literate.”

  “You’re right, I know. I, Johnny Frigidaire, should spend more time reading.”

  “Yes, exactly. Why, even reading only one book a month, say, you’ll see results in almost—”

  “Reading…your obituary!”

  Aaaaaaawww-ii!

  Puh-ih!

  “Kids, this is Johnny Frigidaire. Yes, it’s true: once, I was just your average sad sack, scamming on teenage girls at the mall before going to work the four-to-close shift at the KFC. But then I realized that I was still trying far too hard, that I was still expecting from the world what I was expecting from myself. Simply put, I figured I had it all coming to me. How wrong I was! Y’see, kids, the secret to life is simple:

  “I don’t give a fuck about anything.”

  Huh-daiiii!

  Smack-thud!

  And a meaningful existence is down…

  …and out, motherfucker!

  Buster Lee and the Chucklehead That Wouldn't Stay Down by chris la tray

  The name’s Buster Lee, and there ain’t a damn thing I’m afraid of. Matter of fact, I figure if somethin’ ain’t dangerous, then it just ain’t worth my time. You could say it’s my personal philosophy, I guess. Beats the hell out of sittin’ around waitin’ to die, and that ain’t no exaggeration.

  I took to the sky soon as I was of the proper age – that was back in 1928. Times have been hard for folks, sure enough, but I’ve managed to make a steady livin’ – food in my belly and a roof over my head at least – over the last ten years or so workin’ a job most people say I wouldn’t survive past three. Yeah, these sky ships are persnickety and tend to fall out of the clouds, and I’ve had my share of close calls and busted bones. That don’t stop me from bein’ there every damn time the Eastwood takes to the air, workin’ the engine room and keepin’ everything ship-shape. It’s what I do, and in return I get to see the country and every big city worth seein’. After all, any burg that cares about its name’s got a port up in it. My life ain’t a bad achievement for a scamp with no education and even less interest in ever becomin’ some kinda square-rigged gentleman.

  I’m also the toughest goddamn fighter anyone who’s ever seen me has ever seen. Officially I’m Champion of the Air Brigade. What that means is I’ve licked every man to raise his fists against me that ever worked a tour on one of the Brigade’s airships. I’ve put a whoopin’ on pert near every other man to stand before me too – stevedores, union guys and perfessional fisticuffers alike. The only ones I ain’t laid out were the fancydancers; wags that would rather hop around on their twinkle-toes and jib and jab for points rather than go toe-to-toe with a iron man like me. So I’ve lost a few, but I don’t tend to count ‘em. Them kinda fighters ain’t even worth my time talkin’ about. Any man that ever truly wanted to test himself against me hasn’t measured up. They keep comin’, though, and I keep sendin’ ‘em back.

  Most of my income comes from bustin’ up other fellers in promoted prize fights, but the proceeds never seem to last. Seems like there is some kinda hole between my hand and my damn pocket, ‘cuz that money never seems to survive much past the one into the other. Money’s just for spendin’ anyway, like my pop always said. When he wasn’t beatin’ on Ma and me, that is. She didn’t last as long as I did; she run off before I even turned ten. Good for her, ‘cuz the life she was in sure weren’t worth livin’. As it turned out I probably owe my ability to take a beatin’ to that old sonofabitch, so I don’t curse his name too much. The only puncher to ever knock me out, my old man. Course the one time I got up and hit back – a left-right combination to the brain canister that the stupid drunk never even saw comin’ – he didn’t get back up. Served the old bastard right. Wasn’t long after that I started on my first airship.

  Enough of my personal history. I’m aimin’ to talk about the donnybrook I had with ‘ole Abbott Drooker at the Omaha Sports Complex. It was the damnedest thing I ever seen, and I seen a lot over the years. And I was right in the middle of it all.

  ***

  The Eastwood tied up at the Air Port of Omaha on a Fridee mornin’. We were due for a week’s shore leave to get some repairs – it was always a tough run over the damn Midwest, what with all the storms that rage that time of year. We landed, then me and Marvin, my main runnin’ buddy from the ship, beat feet soon as we could to this dive bar in the district called The Ugly Esquire. Now ‘ole Marvin, he’s swell for a little fella, but he’s also a top shelf guzzle guts. Luckily I knew he probably didn’t have the scratch to get too drunk and ornery. As for me, I was savage as a meat axe, to the point where the slabs of leather the Esquire calls steaks sounded mighty tasty. Figured that would about do in the bulk of my coin, and I didn’t care. I was countin’ on a fight or two comin’ my way to get me flush.

  We stormed through the front door like bulls catchin’ a glimpse of open pasture. “Stanley!” I shouted. “Fire up the grill, there’s hungry men bearin’ down on ya!”

  “Thirsty ones too!” Marvin added for good measure.

  Stanley – he’s the bartender and proprietor – looked up like he’d just seen the sun for the first time all winter. “Buster!” he said. “So the Eastwood finally landed, eh?”

  “And Marvin too,” said Marvin. “And you best step to that whiskey bottle ‘fore I get sore.”

  Grabbin’ a bottle and a couple glasses, Stanley all but run toward us, grinnin’ like an idiot. I was immediately suspicious, as Stanley is one of them guys who always has an angle. ‘Specially if he’s smilin’.

  “Come on over here,” he said, guidin’ us toward a table by the fire. Some old timer was already there, his head slumpin’ over an empty plate, and Stanley shoved him aside with a curse and a kick, then tossed his plate onto the next table where some other wag was engaged in tryin’ to enjoy his meal.

  “Sit down, sit!” We sat. “I heard the Eastwood was due in port,” Stanley said, sloshing rot gut into our glasses. “I’ve been hoping you boys would drop by.” He set the bottle on the table and smiled again.

  I tossed my drink down my gullet and eyed the man warily. “Well, Stanley,” I said, “why don’t you see to gettin’ some steaks on our table, then you can tell us what scheme’s got you all grinnin’ in our faces like a shyster at a zeppelin crash.”

  “Scheme?” he said, pullin’ an expression. “I’m hurt, Buster. Why do you always assume— ”

  “Probably ‘cuz there always is one!” Marvin said. “Now step to that grill before we gets mad! And leave the damn bottle!”

  Stanley scowled like he was gonna say somethin’ about Marvin’s mouth, then thought better of it. He smiled at me again, filled our glasses, set the bottle on the table and scurried back to the kitchen. I was keepin’ an eye askance of forward, and I could see through the accordion doors that led into the back that he was talkin’ all specific-like to one of his dirty-faced errand boys. Sure enough, that kid scampered out right away like his pants was
full of army ants. I didn’t much care for the looks of that.

  Marvin and me set to serious drinkin’. Before long the steaks arrived, burned on one side and all but raw on the other, and a lump of bread so hard and dry it coulda come from leftover Civil War rations or somethin’. Figured that kid Stanley run off was probably his best cook. Still wasn’t bad, not after a few shots of booze anyway. Felt good to be eatin’ on solid ground, as it always does.