The Savage(97)

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 in side, 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 ap proached 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.