by Frank Bill
“You have, but one must yearn to seek the highest levels of fighting. In feudal times great masters showed their mastery and power of internal strength upon animals that were ready for butchering in villages. Some directed their attack at the skull. Others at the heart. The lungs. The animal would collapse. When cut open, the organ that was attacked would be an explosion of shapes. Unrecognizable.”
“You wanting me to go out cow tipping?”
Fu shook his head. “The watching of a man who saved a life. A life that I want to be rid of, to erase my debt, as this man holds no good to anyone anymore, only pain. I am finding age now, I needn’t settle his payments for his saving of my life. He’s been repaid a thousand times over. I’m no longer indebted to him.”
“Why don’t you fucking do it?”
“One, he’d expect it from me. Two, it’s the next level you must attain, your mastery of your internal energy. And with a local, he’d never acknowledge it.”
At the time he’d not grasped what Fu was doing, but afterward he realized it was a test to his training. To pass on what he was being taught, he must master himself and all that he’d been taught. It was the next test of his progression of Fu’s teachings.
To hurt, maim, or wound another human being was simple. Hardest part was to strike someone, injure him internally without his knowing it, break down his organs, like passing a germ or infection to someone, he appears all right on the outside, the external, but as days pass, the infection slowly breaks down the immune system, his internal, and then all at once he just falters. Only this wasn’t a virus, this was a strike with one’s palm to a certain area of the body, the lungs, the heart, kidney, or liver. To damage it with internal energy.
Now smells of fresh kills sunk from the air. That of swine, venison, and hare branded by the inhale of flame from birch and cedar. The odors of unbathed flesh lingered. If Fu were still among the breathing, Angus believed it’d be a miracle. To have gone this long without the use of actual medicine to diminish the infection would be Godly, if such an entity existed.
Passing the shapes of men and women, all foreign to his sight, a slab of rough-cut timber declined into a gangplank to the pit. The rubbing of bindings about his wrists and neck were released. He stepped down into the lowered earth. Waited. Not even glancing above him. Inhaled deep and slow. Exhaled the same. Clearing his thoughts. Searching for an out.
From above he could hear the trample of feet. The rustling of men and women. The sounds of rural chaos in land once governed by rules that all had forgotten. Behind him the lumber was removed. Across from him, lumber was lowered. Booted feet came soft until they met the rugged soil of stink and human fluids. Working his sight up the outline’s mocha torso, Angus made eye contact. Sized the beastly man up. Found familiarity.
* * *
Wars always began because one man’s idea differed from another, so he’d sought to overthrow another. To submerge his will with the support of like-minded souls, force his beliefs upon another’s ideology. Another’s way of being. Simply put: someone wanted power. To be in control maybe because one felt threatened. Didn’t agree with the moral or unmoral. The closed-minded ways of others. Mostly it was all bullshit; men are power mongers and sadists. Want to rule others and what they think, feel, and do. To be in control as long as they are doing the harming. That’d be the simplest way of understanding Alcorn’s intellect, Horace had once explained to Dorn.
As Dorn made his way through the woods, down the slant of earth coated by leaves and timber, Horace’s words rang through his mind. Of why Dillard was the way he was. Territorial pissing. Like a carnivore marking its territory. Though Dillard wanted little to do with the Widow, he wanted no one to be in commerce with her. He tried instilling fear within her. Keeping others who knew of him at bay with her. It was all about control. Narcissism. And when Horace and Dorn showed up, she took a liking to them and they took interest in the Widow. Alcorn lost that edge. That constraint. Especially when Horace showed Alcorn he wouldn’t be restrained by Guatemalan muscle.
Coming from behind an aluminum-sided outbuilding and campers bleached of their color, Dorn, Sheldon, and the mongrel worked their way through the lines of looters, made their way to the church’s entrance. To where Dorn had watched Alcorn enter, leading a man of color bound by rope. It was an outline of the familiar that Dorn hadn’t seen in some time. An outline he knew was responsible for the removal of his father and the Widow, and all at once, it consumed him. Alcorn was among the living. Surviving however he wanted. Needed.
A burly outline of man guarded the church’s entrance. Approaching him, the man eyed Dorn, Sheldon, and the mongrel hound.
“Ain’t seen you around here, what be your intentions?”
He had seen a man bound by wrist and neck, so Dorn knew that whatever they were doing was barbaric, possibly pugilistic in nature. Regardless, his objective would be sidelined until he dealt with Alcorn, and he told the man, “To see the primates and their games.”
“And what do you have to hock?”
Dorn didn’t hesitate to react, reached to his pouch. Pulled out the binoculars. The man grasped them, looked them over. “Nice. You, the girl, and the hound enjoy the wagering of skin.”
Defiled, angry. Lost. Starved of reason. The men and women within were unsightly. Their pungent scents clung to the air like two-week-old skillet grease. Dorn made his way to the right, hugged close to the wall where a pew ran. He was on the hunt. Followed it to the center of the church. Told Sheldon below the chattering mouths of broken teeth and split lips, “You and the mongrel keep yourselves here.”
Sheldon grasped his arm. “Where’s you going?”
“In search of a clean shot. Then we run like a feline with turpentine on its ass.”
Confused, Sheldon questioned, “What is this place? Who are these people?”
Dorn took on a serious tone, told her, “I’ve no idea, but at this moment, all I know is the man who murdered my father and the Widow is here, and I aim to avenge each of they’s deaths.”
“What about Cotto? The kids he’s enslaved? My mother, the others?”
“After I remove Alcorn, we focus on Cotto, find your mother and the others.” And he went off.
As he stood upon a pew, Dorn’s mind would not quit. Seeing Alcorn had rattled his nerves. Brought back a hurt he’d not realized was buried. Had thought was gone. It wasn’t. He worked his way behind the clamp of jaws slurring speech and the shadows of the wrecked, the absence of hygiene and kinship unless it involved the harm of others. All he could see was red. Wanted Alcorn centered between his crosshairs. He stopped and stood, waiting. Looked around. Over top of the mass of bodies, took in the hole. Floor that had been cut. Removed. The pit that had been dug out. The two lean hulks of men who stood within it, glaring at each other. Almost whispering back and forth. Far off to Dorn’s right, to the front of the church was an altar. A man came before it, children guarded him. Within their grips were tools for dividing and mincing. They appeared bloodless. Pale as intestines. The man was robed. Frail. And when he spoke, mouths ceased speech. Sound clamped. “Tonight we see two old adversaries. One of which murdered Bellmont McGill. The other was unbeaten till he met this murderer. They’s two men who’ve been under the wire. Hidden from sight and sound for many, many years. But they’ve a flame to rekindle tonight. One represents me and my followers, Chainsaw Angus.”
Men and women clapped and hollered. The Methodist stepped away. From behind him came a man with arms of spilt ink, skulls and insignias that represented death. Racial divide and hatred. He’d a female with a mashed eye, barely clothed. Several men sporting red suspenders and rifles. Van Dorn could close his eyes and still recognize the tongue. The image from where it came. Shape of age. Still stealthy. Thick. Sculpted. This lurch of man placed himself before the crowd that beckoned for pugilism. Anger fed Dorn’s confidence, he shook his head, you son of a bitch, took in the hint of age beneath his eyes, the purpling sags. Head like a kiwi’s rin
d. Rough and whiskered. Alcorn spoke, “Though I’m less agreeing upon the mixing of skin pigment, I’m all about the parchment of flesh. The brutality of two hides wrecking one another in the name of dominance. But in these times without filament, it’s all we got.”
Alcorn paused his words. Took in the mass of men and women. Eyes glanced back and forth amongst one another. Killed my father. I’m no killer, but wrongs has got to be righted. Dorn pulled the hem of his rifle’s strap. The butt nestled into his swollen ache of shoulder. The .30-30 was pointed down. No eyes were upon him. Dillard the Aryan Alcorn began to speak once more in some crazed oration, “And tonight the Alcorn clan is represented by Ali Squires. One of the most brutal and savage—”
Dorn lifted the rifle slow. This is for you, Father. Blacked-out sound. Viewing only Dillard’s shape. Pinning his complexion within his crosshairs. You can do it, Dorn, you can do it. Syllables fell from lips like a television with no volume. Memories of Horace floated. The smile he rarely showed to others, but always to Dorn. The roads they traveled, his map of life and all the lessons it held. The warmth of a father’s protection. Dorn’s index weighted the trigger.
* * *
Angus was riddled by the pulse of taking one’s life with the swipe of a single movement. Traffic wheeled outside the panes of glass with scents of grilled meat reeking from inside, where the kitchen’s rusted and banging exhaust fan distributed the scents.
He’d watched this man eat here on Thursdays. Short. Locks the shade of a tire tube. Skin stained the shade of canola oil. Tailored in a black suit, he entered at the same time each week. Ordered a rare cut of marbled rib-eye soaked in pineapple. Seasoned by pepper, garlic, and soy sauce. With a side of sweet potato, butter, and cinnamon. Bud Light Lime bled from a tap, frothed over the rim of an iced mug. Something Angus’d not tasted in years, beer.
Entering Fredrick’s, a mom-and-pop restaurant, Angus wore a John Deere ball cap over his shaved head, white Hanes with lean tatted arms hanging from the sleeves. Sight covered by aviator glasses to mask his opal sockets. Seated, he ordered black coffee. Waited with clock hands calculating in his mind.
After weeks of watching. Sitting outside the restaurant where inside, walls were decorated by paintings and photos of surrounding nature, old cars, and men shooting pool, huffing on lung cloggers, Angus was ready for the test. Zhong sat several tables away, glancing at the newspaper, wiped his lips. Folded his paper upon the table. Scoot of chair marred across tile. He went to the restroom. Angus waited for the bathroom door to close. Followed. Stood outside the hall’s entrance. Clatter of dishes from the kitchen behind him. Thump of heart and rattle of nerves. When the sound of the bathroom door’s lock clicked, Angus timed the exit of Zhong. Made it appear accidental, the hallway was small, room for a single passage. Zhong ran into Angus. His head meeting his pecs. Angus’s left palm met Zhong’s chest. A quick pat against the skeletal bone that protected his heart. Exhale of air. Release of vibrating energy. His right guarded just below the navel. Zhong blinked uncontrolled. Stood unbalanced for a split second. Fought to gather his bearings. Knowing he felt something. Tried to shake it off as he eyed Angus. His own eyes reflected by aviator lens. Coughed. Excused himself. Angus apologized. Went into the restroom. Washed his hands. Looked in the mirror. Inhaled deep. Exhaled, slow. Waited for a count of thirty Mississippis. Exited. Sat at his table. Never made eye contact with Zhong. Could hear the man eating. Coughing. Clearing his throat. Angus finished his coffee. Laid a Lincoln on the table. Walked out the door.
In his vehicle he waited. Timing. It was all about timing. When Zhong came out, he reached to his jacket’s pocket. Shook a smoke from a pack of Winston Reds. Then his eyes wadded to the scope of baseballs. Crimson split the whites. The pack fell from his grip. Hands lost grip strength. Something the shade of ketchup spewed from his lips. Both hands met his chest. Orbs sought confirmation on the sidewalk from trees. The sky. Then the parked vehicles. Found Angus’s outline in his truck. Dress-slacked knees cracked against pavement. Zhong screamed, “No! No!” Tried to point. His frame went face-first into the sidewalk. He lay flaccid. Loss of movement. People came from inside the restaurant. But found no flux or action within his frame as Angus drove away, understanding the surge of energy he’d transferred from one body to the next. Had timed the kill. What Fu had trained him to do. Mastery of his internal. But also to kill Mr. Zhong. To free Fu from this man’s restraint. Just as he freed Angus from his restraints. But also a test of his skill thus far in his training. It would be dishonorable for Fu to murder the man who’d freed him.
Now, with the oration of Alcorn overhead, Angus approached Ali. A once unbeaten bare-knuckle god until he fought Angus. Who now pondered if he’d do the same to him, or if they could work together. Rid themselves of this enslavement. Angus had no other choice. He spoke to Ali. “You and me, we can bond. Toss this barbaric blood feud for rural pleasure. Be rid of this ritual. Go our separates.”
“I know what transpired last time I made contact with you. My ass got pulped.”
“Time brings change. I ain’t the same man I used to be.”
“So says the man who beat and left me for dead, handed me my only loss in a bare-knuckle fight way down in the hills of Kentucky.”
“You appear to have healed pretty fair.”
“Fuck you!” Ali coughed as he snapped a thick herculean left jab. Torqued his hips. Angus turned his cheek, dodged the attack. “Looks like you still train,” he said to Ali. “Quicker than last time.”
“Ten times better than when we first crossed skin,” Ali spit back.
Oration of the Methodist’s words rang overhead with the badgering of feet and mouths.
“All the more reason to work together.”
“No doing. Trust your cracker ass about as far as I can throw you, that ain’t too goddamn far.”
Angus came with the backs of his hands, knuckled Ali’s chest, knocked him backward. Ali coughed, swung a wild right hook. Angus rolled his elbow, came forward, drove a claw into Ali’s throat. Eyed Ali. Whispered, “If it’d redeem you, I’ll let you beat my ass. Just get the goddamn blade from above for scalping. That’s our tool for exiting the pit, you knucklehead motherfucker.”
Ali bared teeth. Raised his head back, flexed his throat. Brought his hand atop of Angus’s wrist. Applied pressure in a single motion. Angus rolled his elbow. Circled his hips and came with a backhand as if holding a teacup. Made Ali’s lips juice with blood. An explosion pierced the air. Stopped Ali and Angus dead in their tracks. Tense, each looked up. Caught a glimpse of what used to be Alcorn’s face. A smear of skull and organ painting the Methodist. Alcorn fell forward. Hit the podium, bounced to the floor. Everyone looked to where the shot rang from. Angus ran to the pit’s wall. Kneeled, laced the fingers of right and left hand, shouted at Ali, “Step your ass in, I’ll anchor you up. You can pull me out.”
Ali hesitated for a split second. Metered the situation. Ran. Placed his left foot into Angus’s hands. Angus lifted. Ali sprung. Grabbed a leg from above. Pulled himself out of the pit. Turned. Laid upon his stomach. Didn’t think twice. Returned the favor. Couldn’t reach Angus. Looked. Viewed the lumber used for a bridge. Grabbed it. Muscled its rough-cut heft down into the pit. Angus came up it. People were disheveled. Total chaos. Looking for where the carbine fire came from. The Methodist pointed to the fighters. Words never escaped his lips.
From the entrance came automatic gunfire. Limbs. Faces. Screams. Chests parted in a maddening explosion of reds. In the frame stood an outline of stubbled skull leading what appeared to be rural children, only their faces were covered by masks made of skin, hand stitched. The leader’d an archaic amount of ink about his face and arms. In his left grip he held the decapitated head of the man who’d guarded the entrance to the church. In his right a machete dripped the said man’s insides from the blade. He’d an automatic rifle strapped over his back.
Angus made eye contact with the man, a hint of familiarity. The name Manny sciss
ored in his mind, expanded into paper cutouts, and imploded his identity. The man tossed the head out into the church, where it ricocheted off kneeling and falling bodies, landed in the pit. His eyes scanned the room. Glazed over Angus. Came back and metered into him. The leader was Cotto and he smirked. Pointed his machete at Angus, offering the recognition of knowing he was the man he’d been hunting all these months. And from the pulpit the Methodist screamed, “It is he, the man bearing the crown of thorns. He’s the one who’s slaughtered fathers, whored our women, and took our children, enslaved them. Trained them to be killers!”
* * *
Sometime after Horace handed Manny’s ass to him in front of Alcorn, Horace told Van Dorn, “Taking a man’s life offers nothing for the soul. Pressures the psyche of the moral. Lifts the status of the immoral. Pushes the good-natured to cross that line of the criminal, the bad-natured, helps them to realize what they already believed, that the removing of another’s life holds the next tier on the status ladder, that’s how men become cold-blooded killers.”
And Van Dorn asked, “Think he’ll come back to kill you?”
And Horace told him, “Being belittled in front of another drives some men to think irrational, to commit vengeance. In the end, it’s less about retribution, more about ego than power. No, it’s not Manny that concerns me, it’s Alcorn.”
“But why?” Van Dorn asked.
“’Cause Alcorn saw himself through Manny, a reflection, not the other way around. Alcorn lost face.”
Now, all these years later, spent brass glanced off the pew to the carved and scratched floor, surrounding sound was crazed static and lost breaths hanging in lungs. A live round was chambered into the .30-30 with the pulse of hand on the lever and index on the trigger. Viewing the combustive spray of Alcorn’s profile. The slow slant of frame, the actions were reminiscent of Gutt long ago in the mom-and-pop mart with Horace and the Widow.
Dorn lowered the .30-30. Expanse of heart vined blood through his frame with the noise of his environment slowly arcing louder and louder with chaos. His ending the air that came from Alcorn’s lungs had to do with all that his father had taught and told him. Taking away the life of the good while the bad kept breathing was immoral, and how Dorn felt was neither good nor bad, only a rush of knowing he’d seared his father’s killer.
