The Savage(45)

Pain came from the tiny spiked steel tips that numbered more than a body’s points of pressure. Poking into arterial bends, the terminals of touching, walking, twisting, and breathing, leaving Chainsaw Angus’s frame in a state of immobility and dark frays of unseen feelers prodding and directing his torso into unknown surroundings until a hiccup of an inhale brought a fit of coughing, and there he sat. Lids batting like moth wings to a Bic of embering light, sectioned by the confines of four concrete walls and a lean-cut Asian man with hands behind his back. One palm holding the other’s wrist, starched white oxford shirt untucked, gray dress slacks down bony knees. Thick measured specs made his eyes appear like a squinting, goggle-eyed bass and his wind-parted locks were of a hue that didn’t represent anything bright. All Angus could muster was “Of what breed are you, motherfucker?”

Bringing his right hand from behind him, middle finger meeting thumb, one print sliding across the next with pressure creating the clicking sound of a snapping finger. “Up! Up!” the Asian man ordered, lifting his other hand to the ceiling above. “You must become erect, stand!”

It was the testing of Angus’s abilities.

Coming to his feet from the chair, Angus was unsteady, his mouth parched and chalky with the taste of crumbling cordite and rotted eggs. His sight burned. The Asian approached him. Angus towered over the miniature frame, who did not bat his view nor flinch upon Angus’s lurching shape. Angus yearned to bring pain and hurt to the ones who’d done this to him, he wanted out of here, wherever here was. And he did what he knew best, other than cooking good crank: he was a master fighter. An unbeaten bare-knuckle boxer who’d at one time been both feared and respected.

Feinting a left jab that hid Angus’s right uppercut, the Asian man swiveled his hips, caught the underside of Angus’s right triceps with his left knee, smiled. Created a bridge that held Angus’s arm trapped for seconds until the Asian lightly grabbed Angus’s wrist. Applied pressure. Extended his left leg, speared his foot into Angus’s lung point.

At an awkward posture, Angus tried to twist from the Asian’s hold, only to find the pause of his breath. Eyes blurred. Insides stiffened with ache. Gritting his teeth, Angus was unable to inhale or exhale without pain.

The Asian released Angus. “I am Fu. Do you not remember your beating of Jarhead Earl in McGill’s barn?” Angus grinned, recalled the cloudy vision of branding a young man’s face with knuckles. Until a tiny individual took to the air with a crazy-ass kick that logged down across the rear of his neck, then someone forgot to pay the light bill, ’cause they got shut the fuck off. And Angus told Fu, “You’re a goddamned dead chink fuck. The loot I was in the process of robbing from McGill, where be it?”

Fu shook his head.

Angus bared his teeth and growled as he attacked once more with a strong jab. Fu angled Angus’s attack away. “Anger is weakness. Disrupts your flow. Disrupts your attention to what is countering your attack. Your anger must be fuel, not your fight.”

Clamping Angus’s throat, Fu used his free hand to grasp Angus’s testicles, gave a quick tug, Angus felt the heave in his gut. Fu smirked. Released him and asked, “Have you found sanction?”

By his third attempt, Angus was spent with irritation, dropped to the solid surface, and said, “Why’ve you brought me to your layer of belittlement? Is there a point to your ways of showing me your mastery?”

“In you is a fire that needs to be tamed. Your anger is your strength and your weakness.” Fu palmed his heart with his right hand. “You require change internally. Your elements are disorganized. You’ve wasted your skills on fruitless endeavors.”

“This some kinda fuckin’ intervention?”

“No, it is a second chance to breathe, correctly. Internally.”

“What, chinks breathe differently than redneck cracker motherfuckers?”

“Internalists call it reverse breathing. Or muscle tendon changing and marrow washing. Unblocking meridians within one’s body, to create a positive flow without restriction, offering balance and building of one’s internal strength.”

Seated within the concrete walls, Angus’d little option. Chunks of brain matter came down the rinse cycle of his memory; last he remembered he was involved with Bellmont McGill’s bare-knuckle free-for-all, the Donnybrook. Trying to get this crank back. Which got him bartered into a deal to fight. Then all hell broke lose. He decided that McGill’s loot was a much bigger gain than the crank. Chanced a decision to kill McGill and rob the joint with Johnny Earl, an unbeaten fighter accompanied by some old shape of mutton. Purcell. When the chips were tossed to the table’s center and everyone showed their cards, Angus didn’t wanna share the loot. Came to the conclusion that he’d kill Jarhead Earl and the old man. Somehow this razor-eyed Fu showed up and took Angus from all of that.

“Render me an explanation, Mr. Fu, how is it that you came to be my savior at the Donnybrook?”

“Only refer to me as Fu.” Fu paused and said, “In due time you shall know all there is to know.”

Angus’s insides cinched. A clawing pain was reeling him out, he was beginning to shake. Feeling uneasy, as though he could vomit, he looked Fu in the eye. “I need a damn bump.”

Fu looked beyond Angus, ignored his request. Glanced to the rear corner wall. “You’ve a cot. A table. Clothing in the trunk beneath the cot. Toilet and shower with amenities to the rear of this area. On the table is a bowl. That bowl is your lifeline.”