Mad Dog - III

As his left foot cracks through the air, I sidestep it and run the tip of my house key at the back of his ankle. It cuts through his jeans and shreds his walking muscles like wet meat.

Blood gushes out the cut.

I watch him fall to the ground, then kick vainly with his remaining right. I take care of that too, and stomp on the kneecap he conveniently extended for me. Crack.

What satisfaction. Like Autumn leaves underfoot.

Mr Normal watches me come closer, realising a bit too late that he should do something about it. I notice him withdraw a bundle of talisman paper from his leather coat. As he raises it between his fingers, however, Yuura charges forth, ramming into him with all her bodyweight.

Carried straight out of the room, Mr Normal crashes into the house’s wooden wall. Bits of wood splinter on impact. The collision draws out a mighty thud and shakes the structure itself.

He crumples like a sack of rice. Yuura kicks him right in the face. When she’s done, I do it too, just for the experience and not to feel left out.

I spend the next second looking around, only for Yuura to open the door next to her, and reveal an empty room with a chair.

“Find Nobu, and find your magic trinkets. I did not see him upstairs, so check the other side of the first floor.”

With the smallest of nods, Yuura leaves and goes to check the first floor.

After that comes the difficult part.

I hear a sudden turn of a doorknob. Zhang and another man exit from their room. Senior Stillwater. He stands tall, with black hair in a topknot, and an expression of apathy on his face. Like someone who’s seen too much to care.

Even in the heart of winter, he wears a revealing white tunic and pants, lined with brown fur at the edges. This man has the vibe of a seasoned predator. Just below two metres. Strong forearms, too. And scars covering every surface of his skin; the mark of blades, bullets, and nails, just from the ones I can identify.

His eyes drift to Mr Emo and Mr Normal. “Were you responsible for the man on the floor?” Stillwater says, with a lack of obvious feeling.

I nod. “Yes. Though, according to Japanese law, I acted in self-defence, since he attacked first. Meaning he’s the one at fault.”

“I see. That was most discourteous of him.”

“FUCK YOU!” yells Mr Emo from the ground.

“Yep.”

The man gives Mr Emo a sad look before turning back to me. We share a glance. A long appraisal, so to speak, sizing each other’s intentions, strengths, and everything else.

“Good sister. A fire burns in your heart, does it not?”

“Yep.”

“It burns in your eyes, hands, and legs. It yearns for the chance to do battle and remains thus unquenched. So forgive me for asking, but would it be possible…” he continues, with equal parts interest and apathy. “Would it be possible not to fight at all?”

Not fight? Not?

“In the first place, what do you hope to accomplish by fisticuffs? Are we not creatures of reason? The gift of heaven is the gift of resource, and the gift of resource is, to man, a means of cultivating one’s goodness. What good is there in two creatures, much less two of one country, to do battle?”

“Good question.” I stop to think about his point, and his very long sentences and very long words. “Let me explain: If you’re the Tearer, and I defeat you, it means I become famous. And if you’re the Tearer’s minion, and I defeat you, it means I can force you to tell me who the Tearer is so I can become famous.”

“Do you deem that good?”

“Of course. If I’m famous, it means I have more money, and if I have more money, it means I can pay my hospital bills from fighting and make even more money. I have it all solved. It’s like Yin-Yang, money feeds into fighting, fighting feeds into money. And the goodliest thing in the world is my success.” I think of a way to insert Taoism into my dialogue. “That’s my tao—my way. Yeah.”

A drop of liquid rolls down his left eye. “Forgive me daoshi,” he mumbles, with all the solemnity of a monkey with his banana stolen. “It seems you were correct after all. Humanity has long since transgressed our virtues.”

Across the house, a sound like scattered furniture enters earshot. The man, lifting his brow in acknowledgement, turns his gaze to Zhang.

“Brother Zhang, would you know who this lady is?”

Mr Emo replies before he can. “She—she knew Zhang’s name!” His leg squeezes blood with every word. “She said she worked with the bastard! She said Zhang sent her!”

Zhang looks annoyed. “Me making a mistake and leaking my identity somehow doesn't mean I betrayed this whole operation, dumbass. She's obviously a friend of the other two and came here to rescue them.”

“Liar! Liar! Y-You Inner-Mongolian flat-headed farmer who disgraced his second dog by sodomy bastard—”

“Irrespective,” the man continues, placing a firm halt on Mr Emo’s insults. “Irrespective of Zhang’s loyalty, it remains rather obvious that we have more pressing issues at hand.” He fixes his eyes on me, big balls of apathetic darkness. “If I’m to understand your way of life, would it be correct to assume that money is a primary motivating factor?”

“Yep.”

“Then, what do you say to joining our cause?” He gives a quick look at Mr Emo’s leg before turning to me. “We offer appropriate pay, dental coverage, and paid maternal leave, if it comes to it. With your martial abilities, I have no doubt that you’d make a worthy addition to our circle.”

Considering his proposal, I flex my back ever so slightly and stop to scratch my chin. It is not a bad offer, consistent payment, the opportunity to relish in hand-to-hand violence, and more make it good, even.

Still in my train of thought, it comes as a bit of a surprise when the man grabs Zhang by the nape of his neck. Lifting him a hands-breath above the ground. Squeezing tight enough to force a gasp from Zhang and tinting his skin a shade too red.

This man isn't any normal human, I can tell. The muscles used for such a manoeuvre are nothing short of gorilla power. I’d know. I can do it. And I’m 30% gorilla.

“Consider this your job interview,” he says, with a lack of expression. “From your lack of grief over this man, it appears obvious that you are simply comrades in circumstances. That, I find forgivable. Humans must work together to benefit themselves. And without such strings as ‘emotion’, it stands to reason that you have no grounds to save this man before you.”

“I could go to prison. That’s a pretty logical reason not to kill someone.”

“Not to worry: We have methods of disposal invisible to the Japanese government.”

“Hmmm.”

I’m at a loss for words. This is really quite tempting. Zhang’s kinda funny, so it’s a bit sad to murder him out of the blue, but we also just met, so it won’t feel that bad. But also, killing’s kind of an ugly thing; if they bleed out, that’s not my problem, but finishing them off is a bit dirty.

“What would I do in this job?”

Zhang squeezes out a few, choking hagagahrh words. “Stand… around… and, not do shit…”

“You traverse a set route. You keep an eye out for trouble—”

Zhang somehow doesn't die. “How much fighting…. As-ask.”

“How much fighting will there be, big man?” I think of a better question. “When was the last time Zhang got into a fight?”

“I am uncertain.”

Zhang raises his hand, a shaking wrist in the motion of a ‘two’. “Months,” he manages. “Two months…”

“Two months ago…”

My voice shakes. I feel a bubble of sadness on par with the day my mom forgot to pack me lunch with rice.

I shake my head in pity. Two months. Two months without a single fight, battle, or opportunity to get my hands a bit bloody.

What’s the point of money if it can't pay for hospital bills?

I decide now and forever to spurn that way of life. My knees bend. My nostrils go big, and draw in an even bigger wave of air.

I study my prey closer and assess its current condition. I try to find a weakness, a something, a limp or weaker muscle that'd give me the opening to cut him open.

Head. Torso. Groin. Diaphragm. Head again—there!

I find it in his eyes. Yes. A little heavy. A little dim. Tucked away behind their supposed indifference is weakness. The flicker towards Mr Emo's still-bleeding leg, the pity of an old dog towards a wounded puppy. I decide to make use of that.

“I cut your friend’s artery. He will die. If you don't get him to a hospital, he will die.”

I move closer to Mr Emo, and keep my foot over his body. A splotch of blood comes with my last step. I bare my teeth with a wide smile.

“If you let Zhang go, I'll spare the prey before me. I'll let you call an ambulance.”

The big man doesn't react. At least not before I take my key , and run it along the skin of Mr Emo’s leg—gently, tugging on a bit of skin like little pinch of crab. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

Without a word, he releases Zhang. Scrambling for air, the man edges to me and pats my right shoulder. The big man—my prey remains still, planted to the ground, with his body unturning.

“Thank you,” he says. “May I permit myself to heal this comrade of mine?”

“Sure. Ambulance, heal, whatever you need.”

I see him reach into his pocket and retrieve a yellow talisman. He raises the paper to eye-level and ties a string around it, before fastening it to his forehead. The writing on it reads like a load of scribble, a dozen small characters, squiggly lines, and weird symbols I can’t recognise.

“What now?” asks Zhang, tapping me on the side.

“We beat him up and find out who the Tearer is.”

“That’s…” Zhang stops, mouth half-open, brain trying to come up with an answer.

A series of footsteps comes from behind, revealing a panting Yuura, with sweat on her brow. She does not have a good expression. I look at her, the empty space next to her, and come to a conclusion on my own.

Yuura shakes her hands in the air. “Nobu’s gone. He-he’s gone!”

“I see. So he has already acquired the strength to escape.”

Zhang watches her expression, twitching his lower lip a little. “When you went around the house, did you see anyone else?”

“No—w-why?”

“Aw fuck.” Zhang clenches his hand, and sort of punches the air. “Fuck.”

“Stop being vague and just tell me, where is Nobu?!”

As the two bicker on and on, the sound of movement comes from the big man's general direction. Looking at the two, I see the big man tend to Mr Emo, resting two fingers near the cut.

Somehow—the blood stops pouring out. The cut’s still there, open, and all, but what's inside just refuses to leave. Like it’s frozen.

Zhang’s mouth tightens. A line of thin red. “I'll explain later. Now's the time to get the hell out of here.”