by Varian Wolf
He led me to the boxing closet where I found everything I needed. Tape, gloves, mouth guards, head gear –even a pair of shorts that fit me big but would do when the drawstring was pulled as tight as it would go. I took off the blood crystal and then my shirt. I was going to change right there in front of him, a trick I liked to pull on guys before fighting them, but he turned away, embarrassed.
I got a show though. Mark got his shirt off and got a look at his bod in better light. He wasn’t built like a my-body-is-one-giant-rubber-band boxer. He was ripped, and the tattoo sprawling down his spine all the way from his hairline to the-devil-knew-where like some wicked tangle of alien plant life only accentuated his stellar physique.
“You want music?” he asked, “I find it gets me going.”
“Sure.”
“Any requests?”
“You got P$C?”
“Uuuh, no. I don’t think we have that.”
“Metallica then.”
“Got that.”
He put it on, had me approve the volume, we warmed up and got into the ring.
He rolled his head, bounced on his feet. I invited him in.
After a little dancing, trading a few jabs and a nice, failed left hook, him hitting me good in the shoulder while I blocked, and me planting a couple of good ones on his chin, he actually whooped –like a wild Indian.
“You’re pretty good,” he said
“Foreplay.”
“Oooh.”
I feinted and jabbed my way in until I had my opponent where I wanted him –close enough to bite, and started killing his body the way boxers do. We didn’t have a ref to break us apart, so I finished by planting an uppercut on his chin, then stepped back, realizing that I had pulled that last punch. I didn’t pull punches. Annie Eastwood didn’t pull punches.
He looked pretty dazed for a second, then shook it off and grinned through his mouth guard.
He came back in with a surprisingly adept combination. I took them. Then I laughed. I answered it, schooled him –again pulling most of the punches. We moved around each other, trading pain the way boxers do, trading intimacies.
Somewhere in the middle I realized something totally weird. I realized I didn’t want to kill Mark. I wanted to fight him, wanted to plant my padded knuckles in all the painful places, wanted to know just how to hit him, what he could stand, what made him hurt, and what made him tick, but I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted to play. Neither sentiment was Annie Eastwood’s style. Was this what I had heard other fighters talk about for years –that business about the Sweet Science being almost a kind of lover’s dance –and not the kind you have with a cleaver in the kitchen with your cheatin’ baby daddy? I had always just wanted to eat my opponents alive and had nearly done so to some of them. This soft approach wasn’t like me. Like I said, it was totally weird.
We roughed each other up some. He was a pretty good beginning boxer –way too strong for me to let him hit me much. I was an infighter, and he preferred to keep a distance where his long arms could operate to their best advantage. I was good on my feet, clearly the superior at the technical aspects, but he clocked me so good I saw lights. If he’d been as big as Max I might’ve been killed, but he was little for a guy. We eventually called a draw, mostly because I was about to keel over.
“That was great,” he said. “You could teach me some stuff. I’m not so up on my skills in the ring.”
We began de-gearing. I stood gasping for air.
“You want to try it barehanded? A little on the floor?”
“You kidding?” I said, still catching my breath.
“No, but if you’ve had enough…”
“Let’s do it, iron chef.”
“Iron chef!” he laughed.
I wasn’t going to let him outdo me that easily. I still had stamina left. I’d run a few miles on one of those treadmills later.
“You want to suit up?” he asked.
“Suit up?”
“Body armor?”
Huh? “No, let’s just see what you got.”
“Okay.”
And Mark proceeded to kick the living hell out of me.
Oh, he didn’t hurt me –not permanently, but I found out that what he meant by fighting barehanded was something totally different that what I meant.
“What is that?” I asked after he’d thrown me about five times and pinned me about six.
“I practice San Shou, Judo, and Jujitsu, mostly.”
“You’re mostly whupping my butt.”
“You’re a street fighter,” he said, “and a very good boxer. This is what I do.”
He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Show me that thing that you did with that other thing,” I made the motion of using my own arm as an axis point to flip me over my own head and land me flat on my back.
“Oh, that’s basic. No problem.”
He proceeded to show me, several times, and I actually got it and did it to him, and he didn’t even mind. We eventually had to stop because of the nimbus cloud on my head that was now obscuring my vision. It had ejected the sweatband right off my head like it was spring-loaded.
“Whew! You’re a quick study,” he said, getting up.
“Not too good at much else.”
“You should take up a martial art. I saw your weapon,” he noted the lump of clothing beneath which the handgun lay. “You’re Miguel’s protector. It would be smart to learn.”
“It’s not exactly like that. I didn’t exactly interview for the job.”
“Hey, none of us did. But we learn pretty fast.”
“Have you ever actually had any problems? You know, with the baddies?”
“Not the real baddies. It’s just people trying to break into the house or rip us off for yard equipment mostly. It’s laughable, considering what we train for. Those petty thieves don’t know what they’re getting into.”
“Yeah,” I said, spying an opportunity. “Like you wouldn’t be able to handle them, with everything else lurking around.”
He laughed. “There was this guy once who climbed over the wall. I don’t know what he was after. He probably thought he was going to make off with some great stuff, but he couldn’t get back out. He was so scared we didn’t have the heart to call the police. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days, so we fed him and let him out the front door.”
“Sure he wasn’t a witch?”
“If he was, he wasn’t a coven member yet. He didn’t have the tattoos.”
Tattoos. Interesting.
“I noticed yours.”
“Oh, yeah. That mother hurt like nothing else I’ve ever…but it was a good thing I got it. I noticed, if you don’t mind my nosiness, that you don’t have one. Are you a user?”
“What? Like drugs? Hell no.”
“No, no. I mean magic. Are you a magic user?”
My instincts told me not to answer that question. I wondered if this was one of those things that it’s best not to discuss with strangers. Was I supposed to have one of those big-ass crazy tattoos for some reason? And why would not having one mean I should use magic? Did he mean like witch magic? I barely knew what the hell any of that shit was anyway.
My instincts always erred on the side of distrust, but I really wanted to know this stuff. I didn’t feel threatened by this guy, except maybe in a cooking contest. Even when I fought him I didn’t get the slightest vibe that he wanted to hurt me. He could if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to.
To hell with my instincts. I’d learned them from child molesters and street thugs.
“I don’t do any magic. From what I’ve seen, that shit’s evil.”
Mark looked at me with awe.
“You don’t do any magic, and you don’t wear protection? Are you naturally immune or something? I’ve heard that some people are.”
“I’m not that I know of. I’ll be honest, Mark,” since Andy knew all about me anyway, “I’m pretty new to this whole thing –like it doesn’t need ironing yet n
ew. I don’t know what your tattoo is for, and I only got the better of the witches I fought because I got the drop on them. I don’t know any magic, and I don’t know anything about magic, except that it’s been a pain in my ass so far, and it’s pretty much a pain in the ass to vampires. That’s all I know.”
“So you’ve only been Miguel’s protector for a little while?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, you need to get protection soon then. If you hang around a fella like our Andy long enough, and you aren’t protected, then you’re going to get the bad end of the dark stuff. This tattoo on my back –it’s proof against everything but the real nasty stuff. The average witch out there would have a really hard time using magic to put me to sleep or cloud my mind or poison me. You don’t have an earthvine, and a witch can whisper in your ear and make you think you’re hearing voices for days, or sprinkle a little powder on the ground, and you walk in it barefoot, and, boom, you’re out so cold that people will bury you thinking you’re dead, and you’ll wake up in a coffin and suffocate to death. It’s nasty stuff. You really need to get protection.”
Holy shit.
“You can’t use magic if you’re protected, but what witch is going to teach someone who hangs out with a vampire anything?”
Did vampires use magic?
“So why don’t vampires get these tattoos? Seems like it would be logical.”
“They can’t get them. Ink won’t stick –you know, with the healing.”
“Oh yeah, that.”
“Some stuff doesn’t work on them anyway, with that whole nullification thing, so we need it more than they do.”
“Nullification thing?”
I had to ask. I had to.
“The preternatural aspect. The reason they don’t have reflections or show up on video. I’m no authority, but it’s like they’re magic themselves –so magic they cancel out other magic when they’re too close to it, unless it’s specifically targeted at vampires.”
“That’s pretty fucking cool.”
He agreed with innate enthusiasm.
“So where do you get one? Is there some tattoo artist specializing in magic protection?”
“Andy brought in a specialist. He said you have to get them exactly right, or they don’t work. They go on your back because your back is supposed to be a guide to the right proportions on each person, starting at C-7 on your neck. He said that where he came from they sometimes used scarification. They cut the skin instead of dyeing it. I’ll bet that hurts like crazy.”
Tattoos, magic, protection, scars, nullification – how long had I been walking around on the planet and not known about this stuff? I could learn a lot from this guy, and with that gym…maybe hanging around Andy’s place wouldn’t be so bad –at least, possibly, during the day.
“Does Andy sleep all day?” I asked bluntly.
“Like the dead,” he said without irony. “But yesterday he woke up early and went out during daylight. It wasn’t like him, but weirder things have happened.”
“I bet.”
“He’s been pretty off since your man showed up. I think our man’s got it for him bad.”
“I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”
“Hey, would you like me to do something about that hair? We have a salon at the other end of the house.”
“A sal…Of course you do.”
“Get showered and we’ll take care of it.”
“And you’re going to do what with it, exactly? Make hexes at it? Beat it with a machete?”
“No, silly, I’ll braid it back up. I do Max’s all the time. Anything you want. If you want the cornrows back, or if you want something new…”
“I’ll take that shower.”
I grabbed up my things. I had to get away from Superman for ten seconds at least, or I was going to go completely, irretrievably insane.
I took a long, cold shower, which meant I was under the water about seven minutes and dressed in three. Revived by my ten minutes in private, I emerged to face this weird wonderland and its strange inhabitant once more.
We went to the salon, where I let him attack my hair. It was his funeral. But as I looked in the mirror following much pulling and twisting on his part, I was stunned to silence by the perfectly neat rows of corn on my head. They were even tighter than the lady in Chattanooga –who did this for a living, had made them. Max must have some kind of unruly hair to have gotten this guy so good. Mark was an artist.
“Whew!” said Mark, washing his hands, “You have a sumo wrestler of a do on your head. Call me next time you need it done. I could use the workout.”
“Are you saying my hair is not the worst in the house anymore?”
Max had wandered in. He too was much more clothed than he had been the previous night.
“Oh no. Yours is still terrible. It’s just nice to have a new challenge.”
I regarded Max warily, anticipating hostility after my threats to his manhood, but he proved my suspicions as off the mark with him as they had been with Mark.
Max produced a DVD from the bag hanging from his shoulder.
He announced with excitement, “Are you finished? I got the new Jet Li.”
“Awesome. We are so finished,” said Mark, throwing down his hand towel, “Let’s go! Oh, you interested?”
He looked at me.
Ordinarily I would have declined quickly, but I was tired, and I was clean, and I’d just had my hair done…
“Sure,” I said, “What else have I got to do?”
11
Yell Fire
“Hahaha! Did you see that? Do you know how hard that would be to do?” Mark exclaimed, leaping from the couch after Jet Li had done some completely crazy martial arts shit on screen. My drink almost spilled on the white upholstery, “I could train for forty years and never be able to do that.”
“Ridiculous,” said Max. “Put a wire in your butt crack, and you could do that tomorrow.”
“Oh no, he’s not on a wire. He can just do that. He’s just that good.”
“What? You think that was real?” Max went on, gesturing with his drink, “He just jumped like eight feet off the ground.”
“He bounced off the wall. That’s something they do. It’s real, I’m telling you.”
“You don’t get leverage off a wall,” said Max, his gesture of irritation nearly spilling my drink.
“You don’t think so?” said Mark, standing on the couch in indignation, nearly spilling my drink, “By gosh, I’ll show you.”
He vaulted from the couch, nearly spilling my drink again.
“Good then. Go on, show us,” said Max, “Show us how Jet Li reverses gravity.”
“I will!”
“Could be a vampire,” I said.
“Could be magic,” said Max.
“Movie magic.”
Then, by gosh, if Mark didn’t get leverage off the wall and do some crazy martial arts shit.
“That wasn’t eight feet,” said Max.
“That’s my point!” said Mark, back on solid carpet. “It’s so obvious!”
“What’s so obvious?” I asked.
“Don’t start that again,” said Max.
“But it makes perfect sense,” protested Mark.
“What makes perfect sense?” I asked.
“That Jet Li is a werewolf,” said Mark.
A what?
“Jet Li is not a werewolf,” said Max.
“But why not? My dad’s sensei was a werewolf.”
A what?
“Your dad’s sensei was not a werewolf.”
“He so was. He never aged. How do you think he won all those matches, kept fighting like he was twenty when he was sixty?”
“Werewolves don’t do things like that. They don’t draw attention to themselves.”
What don’t draw attention to themselves?
“Like anybody would have suspected him. I only knew because I know.”
“You just want to know a werewolf.�
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“You just think it’s farfetched because you’re from the islands. I lived in China. Werewolves were all over the town where I went to high school.”
What were all over the town?
Max waved a dismissive hand at Mark.
“Tell him, Annie,” Mark said. “Tell him how they’re all over the place, way more than vampires. Just because he hasn’t seen one doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Tell him.”
“I, uh…” What’s all over the place????
“If you don’t all stop talking about those hairy-dicked shapeshifters right now I am going to fire someone.”
Everyone stopped cold. The voice was Andy’s. He was leaning against the wall behind us in his white silk robe and white shag sandals, squinting like a mole out of its hole and looking about as happy to be vertical as an unearthed earthworm.
“Oh, sorry,” said Mark. “We didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Andy squinted disapprovingly in Mark’s direction. Even though there was no sunlight in the shuttered house, I got the feeling he couldn’t see too well. Then he squinted disapprovingly in my direction.
“If you’re going to be in this house, you’re going to have to put on something less shameful than that….ensemble. If you could even call it that.”
Guess he could see well enough.
“Max, buy some tasteful female clothing and put her in it.”
“Sure, Andy.”
Max left promptly.
“And no more hairy-dicks.”
Mark shook his head vigorously.
Andy departed.
I turned to Mark. Ordinarily, the Andy encounter would have monopolized my attention, but something else had taken precedence.
I demanded of martial arts boy, “Were-fucking-wolves???”
He looked at me worriedly, gesturing toward the direction Andy had gone. He picked up the remote and clicked open the door, urging me to follow him outside.
As soon as we were on the patio, he said, “You didn’t know?”
I threw up my hands to the god I didn’t believe in.
“Fucking no!”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“It’s just that…that the werewolf thing is kind of a big deal. It’s not something you just tell people about.”