Fist First

by Nigel Mustard

  ‘I think I’m in love with you Frank.’ She whispered, crying little tiny tears the size of grains of arborio rice.

  ‘I’m not capable of love, Chloe. I’m a ruthless and dangerous man, and you’re best to just damn well forget all about me. I can protect you, but I can never love you.’

  ‘I… I know, I guess. I guess I knew as soon as I saw you on that train. But you won’t stop me loving you, that’s for sure.’

  She fainted.

  Stoker packed some of her things into an overnight bag – essentials only. He found her car keys and carried her under one arm down to her car – a Dodge Viper muscle car. He gently but firmly threw her into the passenger seat and walked round to the front of the car, calmly spinning the keys around his finger without dropping them.

  The car had serious horsepower , but that didn’t phase Stoker, who really was an excellent driver.

  He drove into the night – to find a motel.

  To find a safe haven.

  Hell – maybe to find himself.

  Chapter 12.

  Stoker ended up making no progress in finding himself, partly because he found a motel within twenty minutes of leaving the apartment complex, and partly because his brain kept drifting away, putting together the pieces of this rich and complex tale and coming up with potential outcomes.

  Chloe had woken shortly after leaving her place. He let her kiss him once, then told her to be quiet so he could concentrate on the damn road.

  They arrived at an Express-9 Motel. The receptionist asked no questions. Good. That suited Stoker. No questions meant no lies. No lies meant to remorse. No remorse meant... well, anyway, lying wasn't good.

  He paid for a week’s rent in cash and led Chloe to the room. They made love twice before he finally left, patting her head before leaving in silence. She wept for hours, before fainting.

  He took her car, driving fast back into the city – occasionally even breaking the speed limit. Stoker was a risk taker. He spat on the rules.

  You see, he had started to piece together some of this sordid tale, and he realised that Magnelli had probably worked out who he was, and was probably sending grown men to harm him, or worse, obliterate him from the very face of the earth.

  Stoker reminisced backwards to his days training as a deadly Karate expert. His sensai, Sensai Wilson, had always told him:

  ‘In order to disrupt the path of an enemy, one must first disrupt one’s own path, to align one’s own path to that of the enemy. Then, and only then, can one materially alter that of the enemy’s path.’

  These simple words had stuck with Stoker throughout his life since. And now he was about to act. He was going to go to the one place that Magnelli would not expect him to go.

  He was going to go in Magnelli’s face.

  But first of all, he needed some help from an old friend.

  Rooster was a homeless black man who Stoker maintained a friendship with. Stoker had lost count of the times that old Rooster had helped him out of a bind by providing some information. Rooster had his nose close to the streets, metaphorically. And literally since he slept in a cardboard box.

  Later that evening, Stoker knocked on the top of the particular box he expected Rooster to be in.

  ‘Now look-y here, officer, I damn well told you I ain’t been beggin’ agai… well dammit Frank, how the hell are you?’

  ‘Not bad, considering I’m being hunted by the damn Mafia. How are you?’ Replied Stoker.

  ‘Livin’ in a damn box you white fool!’ The remark was not racist because it was said in jest – Stoker was not offended in the slightest. ‘How do you think I damn well are?’

  ‘I guess, Rooster, I guess. Look, I need some intel on Thomas Magnelli. Do you know him?’

  ‘Do I know him? Do you know your own momma? O’ course I do, he runs the damn city now! Don’t tell me you all caught up in that cat’s claws now Frank?’

  ‘Hmph.. Looks like I might be.’ Replied Stoker, coolly.

  ‘Oh Lawd. Well what are we gonna do about that?’ Replied Rooster.

  ‘I need to know where he is likely to be, right now.’ Replied Stoker.

  ‘Right now? He likely to be down his abbatoir – cookin’ up rat’s legs and cat’s heads into that dirty Magstar dog food he makes.’ Replied Rooster.

  ‘How many men will he have there?’ Replied Stoker.

  ‘Normally about fifteen. But the streets been tellin’ me recently that he been collectin’ men over the past few hours for some kind of job. Maybe twenty five, thirty men at this particul’ time?’ Replied Rooster.

  ‘Hmph. Thirty. I like those odds.’ Replied Stoker.

  ‘Jesus Frank, don’t be tellin’ me yo’ thinkin’ of goin’ down there yo’self? All alone?’ Replied Rooster.

  ‘I’ve been on my damn own my whole life, Rooster. You know that. What the hell else am I supposed to do?’ Replied Stoker.

  ‘Jesus Frank – you the toughest sumbitch I ever did meet. But that’s just suicide, goin’ down there all on yo’ lonesome.’ Replied Rooster.

  ‘You wanna come with me?’ Stoker joked, perfectly pitched. Rooster laughed.

  ‘Oh lawd, Frank, no. I’m too old for that shit these days. Remember the time we took down the Cardozo cartel together? I still got dat bullethole in my damn ass!’

  Stoker reached down for an inverted handshake and patted Rooster easily on the shoulder.

  ‘I’ll never forget that, Rooster. I owe you one. Now, is there anything you can tell me about this abbatoir that might help me get the upper hand on Magnelli’s goons?’

  ‘Place is a damn fortress, yo’. I don’t be thinkin’ there any way in without causing an alarm… unless…’

  ‘Unless what goddammit?’

  ‘Unless that old security fence at the back remains unguarded? Used to be a rumour on the streets that a white boy like yo’ could sneak under the fence and maybe get to the back entrance without settin’ off any damn alarms… I don’t know Frank, I got a lotta respect and a lotta love for yo’, yo’ like my white brother. I don’t want yo’ dead.’

  A single tear dropped from his eye. A tear that had been ejaculated due to the fierce love and respect of an African American man who lives on the streets for a Caucasian police officer. Hardly an everyday or clichéd occurrence.

  ‘Thanks Rooster. You may have just given me the intel I need to make this work.’

  The men embraced.

  Stoker slung Rooster a creased twenty dollar note.

  He left the alleyway with a relaxed stride.

  Suicide?

  Perhaps.

  Add that to the damn long list of things that Stoker wasn’t scared of.

  Chapter 13.

  Magnelli arrogantly stood facing a line of ten men. The men were all large and looked dangerous.

  ‘I sent in three boys to do a man’s job. They failed. I’ve learnt from that. You have been chosen as tested fighters from your respective gangs across the City Of New York. Congratulations. Impress me, and you’ll soon rise in my organisation. Let me down, and you will find me ruthless and cold hearted. Let me demonstrate.’ He gestured towards a door in the corner of the room.

  Hitoshi kicked open a side door and dragged behind him three bodies. One pale skinned – a Caucasian. One dark skinned – an African American. And one hybrid of the two – the Phillipino kid.

  Yeah. You guessed it – the kids from the train.

  He held the left feet of each man with his right hand, and held the right foot left on the leg(s)of the other with his other hand – his left. But they were not dead bodies.

  They were alive bodies!

  The bodies kicked with their legs and screamed with their mouths and begged the Oriental monster to let them go.

  ‘Please let us go! We didn’t mean to screw up!’ …are the kind of things they were saying.

  Magnelli continued:

  ‘These three morons were sent to rough up an 18 year old girl. They couldn’t even finish the job, bec
ause one man.. ONE MAN… kicked the crap out of them. They let me down. Hitoshi. Show these gentlemen how we deal with failure.’

  Hitoshi grunted and bowed. He unsheathed his monstrous samurai sword and with a few deadly cuts lacerated the skin of the three men, who had (quite understandably) begun howling with pain.

  Hitoshi pulled the hair of the men and punched their legs until some of the new recruits couldn’t watch any more. Magnelli insisted that they all remained focus on the diabolical butchery.

  ‘Keep looking, gentlemen. If any of you turns away, you’ll be next.’

  Hitoshi sliced off the hands and feet of each of the three young men with deft flicks of his katana sword.

  Their screams rang through the whole warehouse like the screams of a losing coach at some kid’s little league game.

  How long is ten minutes?

  0.166667 hours.

  600 seconds.

  600,000 milliseconds.

  Now, imagine going through 600,000 milliseconds of torture at the hands of a deranged Japanese Samurai. Gruesome torture – torture too diabolical for this author to commit to the page – not through a lack of imagination, but through common damn decency.

  Eventually Hitoshi put the three out of their misery. He bagged up the remains and left the room in the normal way.

  All ten of the remaining men stood silently. They were in shock.

  Magnelli continued to speak words:

  ‘Any further questions?’

  The lack of response was the response he wanted.

  ‘Here is your target.’ He handed out Polaroid photos of Stoker’s face. ‘Anybody recognise him?’

  The tallest man stepped forward. He must have been well over six feet. He wore a hood pulled down over his face and a black duffel coat.

  ‘Hmph. Liking looking in the damn mirror.’

  Magnelli took a step back. Who was this guy, and why did he think it was OK to encroach on the personal space of a Mafiaman?

  ‘Stay in line there.’ Said Magnelli.

  Another step.

  ‘I said stay in line - I mean it.’ Said Magnelli.

  Step.

  ‘Are you deaf? One more step and you’ll be dead meat, asshole.’ Said Magnelli.

  Step.

  ‘HITOSHI?!!’He screamed.

  The tall man pulled back his hood and revealed a known face… the face of Frank Stoker!

  Chapter 14

  Stoker had been hiding in the line up the whole time!

  ‘My… god…’ uttered Magnelli, before being shoved by Stoker and flying five feet in the air, landing on the other side of a rusty canning machine.

  Suddenly Stoker was surrounded by five or six of the remaining line up.

  ‘My beef is only with this shmuck,’ he said, coolly, pointing at Magnelli, ‘All of you leave, and none of you wake up in the hospital… if you wake up at all.’

  Magnelli was seething, furious with angry rage.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT YOU MORONS….KILL HIM! HITOSHI!?’

  The first few came for Stoker at once. But this was as easy as knocking down skittles at a bowling alley.

  Stoker swatted the first two away with a couple of open handed slaps, before executing vicious Karate Chops on the remaining three. He hadn’t knocked anyone out (yet), but that flurry had bought him enough time to get some space. He sprinted over to the biggest and meanest looking one of the line-up, and punched him square between the eyes with all the strength he could muster.

  What you have to understand about Frank Stoker, is that his strength is not that of a normal man.

  The snap of the guy’s neck told Stoker that he was dead. Broken neck.

  Stoker shrugged. Collateral damage.

  1 down, 8 to go.

  He was rushed now by two Mexican men – they were decent sizes and clearly used to working as a team. Stoker smiled.

  He absorbed the blow from their tackle, spinning 360 degrees in the air like a frog, and landed with all his weight driving into one of their chests – courtesy of Stoker’s size 16 knee. Wind left the crook’s body like wind leaving a bag.

  The other was quick, and grabbed Stoker round the throat from behind. The classic reach-around. But Stoker had been subject to this manoeuvre dozens of times from dozens of different men of every creed and colour, in countless bars up and down and around America. He simply bent over and flicked the guy over his right shoulder, leaving him sprawling on his back in front of him.

  Time to fight dirty.

  Stoker shoved two of his ten fingers into the eye holes and eyes of the man beneath him. Poor bastard wouldn’t see again.

  Stoker shrugged. Collateral damage.

  He stood up and saw three men running for the door. They wanted no more part of this.

  ‘Hell, can you damn well blame them?’ He thought, inside his brain.

  6 down, 3 to go.

  Stoker faced up to a tattooed Irish bareknuckle boxer. The boxer wore torn green denim jeans and his knuckles were scarred and inked with green clover symbols. He was entirely bald, obviously apart from what hair remained on his head.

  He threw a few mean jabs which Stoker comfortably absorbed with his cheeks and throat. Stoker struggled to get close enough to land any damage. This guy was quick.

  Sensai Wilson’s words came back to him.

  ‘Refocus, apprentice Frank Stoker... Eliminate the easy targets, as the swallow eliminates the toad.’

  He shoved the Irish into the wall and span on his heels to face the other two goons. He calculated, with surprising efficiency bearing in mind the considerable pressure he was under, that he had approximately 4 seconds before the Irishman was on his feet and back on him again.

  What can you do in 4 seconds?

  Kiss your wife?

  Turn your blinkers on or off?

  Drink a sip of iced tea?

  In four seconds, Frank Stoker had unleashed a brutal bombardment of fist bombs into the faces of the two onrushing assailants.

  The first was knocked out by a savage right hook, and was killed stone dead by the follow up left haymaker as he was falling to the floor.

  The second fared better – he managed to remain conscious after the first jab to the chin, but was reeling after the second elbow to his sternum. The left handed uppercut from Stoker sent him to the Promised Land.

  Four seconds. Five punches. Two dead punks.

  That’s what Frank Stoker can do in four seconds.

  8 down, 1 to go.

  The Irish was indeed back up and circling Stoker in a sinister dance, like a viper circling a female viper.

  Stoker smiled at him. He asked, coolly:

  ‘Where did you learn to box? You know your stuff.’

  The Irish replied, in a disgusting Irish drawl:

  ‘Oi learned to foight in Belfast City, foighting British coppers and killin’ ‘em regular loik… and I was the I.R.A.s taaap boy – foighting yankee dags loik you befar breakfast.’

  He smiled, revealing a row of yellow teeth, carelessly stained by tobacco and alcohol abuse.

  Stoker realised that this was not a man to underestimate. So he purposely didn’t.

  ‘You ready, chief?’ Asked Stoker.

  ‘Aye. Reckon you’ll give me a challenge, ya big bastard.’

  They went about it, two men hammering each other with reckless abandon. They went at it in every position and every style – two warriors coming together in the time honoured way. The room became a coliseum. Magnelli was an unwitting Caesar, watching desperately and hoping his gladiator would win.

  They fought for twenty minutes, and no man could gain an upper hand. They had landed nothing short of two hundred punches on each other’s faces and throats, but still they both came back for more.

  Tough guys.

  Eventually Stoker noticed his opponent slowing. His fists hung slightly lower, and his eyes became glazed like butter.

  Stoker had seen this hundreds of times in hundreds of bar fights. Even those guys who co
uld match Stoker’s speed failed when it came to stamina. Stoker outlasted all men. Stoker always came first… and last.

  ‘Any last requests?’ Stoker asked, kindly.

  The Irish knew what was coming. ‘Aye. You’re the toughest damn bastard Oi eva’ met. Gad bless ya. See ya in hell!’

  The Irish waded towards Stoker with lazy haymakers. Stoker easily batted them away before driving his knee into his belly. He felt three or four ribs snap.

  Good.

  He judo chopped the side of his neck, and saw his body go limp on one side.

  Good.

  He sent a brutal elbow into his temple, and saw his eyes roll 360 degrees in his head, before his brain stopped living.

  Good.

  Stoker shrugged. Collateral damage.

  He turned 360 degrees to face Magnelli. But Magnelli wasn’t there. He had been replaced with the toughest looking man Stoker had ever seen.

  A 7 foot Oriental rippling ball of muscle. And the man held a bat.

  And the bat was flying towards his face.

  And the bat was flying hard.

  And the bat was made of steel.

  And the bat still moved relentlessly towards his face.

  And Stoker was knocked out cold, for the first time since 1993.

  Chapter 15.

  The private jet landed in John F ‘JFK’ Kennedy airport at dusk.

  ‘Who cares?’ you might think.

  Well, be patient and you’ll find out.

  The door swang down like some kid swinging on a swing.

  ‘Kerchunk’ said the hinge as the bracket turned in the mechanism.

  Written on the side of the plane, in golden writing, was simply the word:

  SPANG

  A Chinaman with a pointy beard and a bowler hat poked his head out of the plane furtively. He wore a tuxedo and shiny leather shoes (on his feet).

  The air hostess addressed him politely.

  ‘Welcome to America, Mr Spang’.

  She bowed, in the oriental fashion. He bowed back.

  Behind the Chinaman stood four goons, and behind each of them, stood another four, and behind each of them stood another four. Never a more sinister troupe of death jugglers has ever been seen. Eighty four Chinamen, half dressed in white suits, half in black. Each carried a black guitar case and a cardboard tube.