Resurrection

Chapter 22 : A Feeling of Grief

The details of how the first order of this wannabe bunch of skinheads became the Disciples seem like your typical played-out coming of age gangster story. It only took a matter of weeks- a few more bouts with hard liquor and a couple of bail outs and the minions were eating from the palm of my hand. The drinking marathons were one inroad, but the reality of what we were creating wasn't fully realised until the first day of training.

A sleek, hardy and slightly distressed timber floor had lain at our feet like the blank canvass of beautiful innovation. The fresh scent of hardwood fused together with the musty smell of ageing damp permeated our sinuses as we breathed in the first moments of our temple's conception. The concrete walls held the rusted metal roof in a tight embrace, showcasing a number of graffiti murals ranging from the usual "Damo sux cocks" to something a little more inspired. Each one of my disciples stood on parade, soldiers of misfortune awaiting a mac ten burst from their drill sergeant. They seemed eager, hands flexed by their side.

"Run at me!" I hollered at Brown-finger. (I'll let your imagination dance wildly trying to conjure up how the little scamp earned that nickname)

Brown-finger faltered for a brief moment, charging at me in a bull rush, his eyes darting wildly in confusion. He tried to punch out in a style only a deranged MMA fan could conjure. Like many of his new order, he was quick to try for success without the discipline of years of training. This young Skywalker was reckless with his ambitious brawling movements which were clumped together in a series of poses. My first lesson was a short kidney punch which quickly took his breath and sent him sprawling at my knees. My right knee gored his face and slammed against his cheekbone and jawline, flaying skin and jarring bone in a brutal display of efficiency and bloodlust as his artistic splatter ordained the timber flooring like a Pro Hart conception. I smiled briefly, watching eagerly on as the students remained divided- some grinning back admiring my craft, while others were gawking- half wondering when I would make a mark out of them. This was not the gang of rabble rousers I first met on the gusty streets of Reading.

"Two moves and down tumbles young Brown Finger. I am hardly surprised. Technique was sloppy as expected, hand speed ridiculously slow and no footwork at all. Not exactly a fight at the colosseum." I remarked.

Two disciples yanked him off the floor and dragged him over to the side. He was still gasping for air the entire time. Each breath desperately trying to inflate his lungs as his head took a weighted downturn. Brownfinger eventually lifted his head and looked me in the eye.

"Yet there is still some pride in this lad. When do you want another beating?"

"Whenever you want." His stoic reply could only deliver the much needed comic relief as people around him nodded approval and grinned from ear to ear in a Cheshire cat logo.

"That is the attitude we are looking for. But that seems unnecessary Mr Brownfinger. Of which I must say- sounds like a terrible recording name- though you do have some character in any case."

The rest of the day was filled with a series of training exercises and a combination of boxing moves, wrestling and the odd bit of Kung fu fighting. The kicks were not fast as lightning- really as fast as an arthritis ridden anteater doped up on antihistamine- but a sensei can dream. At this rate, I was very much in the same league as Alqaeda- enough gentle persuasion at the beginning without too much preaching; for I did not want to scare away these young prospects away. They had a greater purpose which needed to be slowly revealed so that before they knew it, it had encircled them, embraced them and squeezed any last breath of individuality out of them before they were ensnared in the serpentine body of manifest destiny. They were the fools of fortune, obedient walkers staggering up the path of least resistance. But before we engaged in more pontification, we had heads to crack and egos to maim.

****

Cue another Rocky training montage- each 80s anthem song like Eye of the Tiger blaring away while you watch each sequence of athletes getting progressively better, a few broken bones here and there, with some strange excuses given to hospital doctors, nurses and interns. An amber haze of drinks in between and several bouts of horrorshow violence erupted in our ringside of doom daily as each disciple grew confident. Imagine crisp pages of calendars fluttering by and alarm clocks howling as the months continued to frantically flick past.

At the end of this montage stood Izzy, bathed in sweat, testosterone and a number of scars to embalm his wooden physique, Neanderthal and hungry. The young lion bared his teeth and stared down at the pack leader: yours truly. He sized me up and we circled around each other, hovering like buzzards competing for a rotting piece of meat. The blisters on his feet, combined with the barely healed scars revealed this man's true character- the ebbs and flows of manifest destiny pushed against the present revealing his potential – he could make a great sidekick to my masked vigilante because he was willing to push himself beyond.

Without clouding myself with the whirlwind of future potential, I needed to focus because before I could blink, I would be bivouacked by the blurred bloodstorm of blows raining down on my body if I had become careless. Adam's body under my guidance had continued to excel and the strong muscular system provided the well oiled machine I had used to harden the once soft skin as well as the previous host's resolve. Every flicker of martial arts, brawling and military training my conscious and subconscious mind had picked up over the centuries flashed through my mind in algorithmic fluctuations, even proposing levers and trigonometry into the mix as it scrambled for the perfect strategy. Imagine a young Neo being jacked into the Matrix with a hacker frantically uploading new fight data.

Not everybody was unworthy.

Sure, the lay person: A common man who would rather lay up and play his Xbox one while filling his face with swarms of corn chips and pints of ale (maybe not all in that scenario) – this man would be my bitch along with every MMA wannabe. The serious contenders were my evolutionary kryptonite. For instance, I would never have wished to stand toe-to-toe with William Wallace, for fear of losing my head in a flash of serrated Toledo.

Izzy lashed out in defiant exuberance, signalling the initiation of our deadly tango. I could feel my own electrical surge of adrenalin pulsing through me: my bloodwork screaming at me to charge ahead. My beta cells were working overtime to up the extra glucose needed- it was as if my host body was already anticipating the violence to ensue. My hands reflexively answered, glancing a blow away from my face and jarring against my wrist. My counter was swift, allowing me to open up a quick uppercut to his gut. Unlike the others, Izzy was quick to learn from his mistake and decided not to go on the offensive anymore.

I sidestepped to the left and jabbed outwards, trying to make contact but my counterpart was quick to block and parry away my attempts almost effortlessly. I landed a combination- a hailstorm of blows, raining a series of jabs and hooks before he caught the last one and countered with an uppercut to my torso. The boy was learning and he understood the importance of breaking down the opponent through body punches, like sawing the wood of a grand oak tree. He landed a few jabs on my chin, hoping to knock me out. Izzy noticed that I was off balance and started to charge at me. With a flurry of fanciful footwork, I feinted away and threw him to the ground. He scrambled to his knees but was stopped in his tracks when his head received a ringing invitation from my right heel. Fireworks, sparks and assorted pyrotechnics would fill his head as he fell to the floor. I wrestled this potential cadaver to the floor and put a choke hold on him. He tapped my arm and the panic in his eyes told me he yielded. As much as I enjoyed watching the torches go out in a man's eyes, I felt the slightest tingling feeling of remorse before releasing my hold and smiling my approval.

The boy could die if you don't let go.

"Don't be disheartened young Lion; It was a valiant effort. This was the closest I have been to defeat in a long time." I offered.

I stretched out my arm and let him up, patting him on the shoulder in the mean-time.

The strangest of sensations emanated throughout my being- a growing soulful psoriasis itching under the surface.

What was I becoming?

Nothing really. This wasn't some Dorian Grey regurgitated fan porn- I wasn't exactly showing any real warmth- merely some mutual respect. They needed the rod spared occasionally for real progress to follow. In a miniscule moment, I felt the grief of a nervous father knowing the inevitable destruction of their family members. This could wait, as life could not spare my tiny seeds of doubt.