Old Dogma New Tricks (The Elven Prophecy Book 2)

by Theophilus Monroe

  I looked at the woman I assumed he was referring to. I wasn’t sure where two o’clock was because I didn’t know what the fixed point was I was supposed to use to orient myself. “Yeah, I mean. Of course, she is. But I’m with Layla. Don’t make me…”

  “You’re not going out with her, and it isn’t like she’d say yes. Remember, embarrassment is the point.”

  I sighed. “Fine. What do you want me to say?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get there,” Brag’mok said.

  I shook my head and took off toward the pretty girl. She was probably in college; I’d say she was in her early twenties. Since I was nearly twice her age, I was reasonably certain she’d find whatever Brag’mok was about to make me say creepy. But that was the point, right?

  “Excuse me, miss?” I asked as I jogged up beside her.

  The girl smiled at me. I mean, she was the sort of girl who would have intimidated me with her beauty when I was her age.

  Brag’mok told me what to say.

  “Are you a peanut M&M?” I asked.

  The girl laughed. “No. Why would you ask that?”

  Brag’mok told me the second part. I gulped.

  “Never mind. Have a nice day.”

  The girl scrunched her brow. “Yeah, you, too.”

  I shook my head and ran back to Brag’mok. “There’s no way I was going to tell her that. Totally inappropriate!”

  Brag’mok laughed out loud. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Are you a peanut M&M because I’d like to nut inside of you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “It’s called harassment, Brag’mok.”

  “But was it embarrassing?” the giant asked.

  “Even though I didn’t say it, randomly asking a beautiful girl if she’s a peanut M&M is humiliating. Maybe even more so since it was obvious, I chickened out on what was clearly a lame attempt at a pick-up line.”

  Brag’mok nodded. “Then perhaps we’ve succeeded. Only time will tell.”

  Brag’mok extended his open palm.

  “One thing’s for certain,” I said, removing my earpiece and laying it in his hand. “The fairy’s methods work. I’m not going to use my magic for anything trivial again. Hopefully, he realizes I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Brag’mok nodded. “Now, are you ready to fight?”

  I sighed. “I’m not going to use magic to hit you. Not like yesterday. For all I know, that was a part of what elicited the fairy’s wrath.”

  “No need for that,” Brag’mok said. “We have a different lesson to learn today.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “When you’re going against someone much larger and stronger than you,” Brag’mok explained, “your best bet is to use your opponent’s size and strength against him.”

  I scratched my head. “How do I do that?”

  “Momentum,” Brag’mok said, nodding definitively. “The larger your opponent, the bigger and stronger, the more momentum they have when they charge you or try to attack you.”

  “Which is precisely why it’s so frightening. When I first met B’iff…”

  Brag’mok cocked his head.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It was insensitive.”

  Brag’mok brushed his hand through the air. “Your first meeting with my brother was confrontational, was it not?” he asked. “I assume he overpowered you with his size.”

  “More or less,” I said.

  “Do you know what else has a lot of momentum?” Brag’mok asked.

  “Other than a giant’s body flying toward you?” I chuckled.

  “A ship,” Brag’mok said. “A giant ship is directed and steered by a small rudder. Be the rudder.”

  “Be the rudder?” I asked. “I mean, I get the concept. Something small can redirect the momentum, right?”

  “Exactly,” Brag’mok said. “And with a few moves, a step to the side, and a short push, you can use your opponent’s size and strength against him.”

  “Again,” I said, “the idea makes sense, but how do I implement that? How can I put that into practice in a way that works?”

  “If I’m charging after you,” Brag’mok said, “you don’t want to leap out of the way. I’ll still have control of my momentum, so you’ll waste the opportunity. But if you’re in a wide stance, if you pivot around your back foot, then when you evade my charge and give me a small shove, you can redirect me. Perhaps into a tree or a rock.”

  “And if you’re trying to punch me?” I asked.

  “Again, you pivot on your back foot, you use the force of my body that I’ve focused into the punch, and push me using the momentum I’ve channeled into the strike.”

  “The concept makes sense,” I said. “Pivot, don’t jump away. Be in a position to push you one way or another.”

  “In the direction of my momentum,” Brag’mok said, repeating his point.

  “Right,” I said. “But in a real fight, it happens fast.”

  “Which is why we need to practice,” Brag’mok agreed.

  The giant clenched his fist and drew it back.

  My eyes went wide. I tried to dodge, but he clocked me right upside the head. I crashed to the ground.

  “Dude!” I exclaimed.

  “Next time,” Brag’mok said, “pivot.”

  “That’s what I did!” I insisted.

  “No, you didn’t,” Brag’mok said. “Not properly. Here, try to hit me.”

  “My punch isn’t going to hurt,” I said. “Not without magic.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m going to show you the move.”

  I nodded. I cocked my fist back and swung it. For a giant, Brag’mok moved gracefully. With a single motion, he swung his back foot around, pivoting on his front. He blocked my punch with one arm, even as he swung himself around it, then pushed me on the backside of my arm and shoulder, leaving me once again with a face full of grass.

  I rolled over and brushed myself off. “All right. It’ll be a lot harder for me to do. My fist is smaller than yours. Your fist is harder to dodge.”

  “Bigger targets are easier to strike. Don’t focus on avoiding my punch. Focus on using it, moving around it, so you can use my strike against me.”

  I nodded. “All right. Just try to avoid hitting my head this time. I’m sure you gave me a concussion last time.”

  “No, I didn’t. You’re fine.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Brag’mok clenched his fist, but this time, he didn’t draw it back as far. It came hurtling toward me faster than before, but I knew what to do. I swung my back foot around. Used his punch against him. That was the strategy.

  I probably wasn’t as graceful as he’d been, but I raised my hand, guarding my face with my forearm, as his punch grazed my block. Then, I used my blocking arm and my other hand to push with all my force in the direction of his momentum.

  Brag’mok stumbled, then hit the ground.

  He turned over, grinning. “And if this were a real battle, if you had a blade in your opposite hand, you could end me here and now.”

  I nodded. “Or I could just get a gun.”

  Brag’mok shook his head. “Elves use magic, remember? A gunshot wound, while more devastating to your medical doctors, is nonetheless a small wound. With magic, it heals more easily than a wound from a sword or a knife. Particularly if the blade strikes an artery.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “So, what’s next?”

  “Practice,” Brag’mok said. “Last time, I still clenched my fist. I gave you a chance to anticipate. We need to do this over and over until it becomes a reflex.”

  I nodded. “Brag’mok. Any word on Layla or what’s going on with the elves?”

  Brag’mok shook his head. “Not really, but I suppose no news is good news. If your girlfriend has gotten herself caught, or worse, killed…”

  “Brag’mok, please!”

  “Sorry. I’m just saying. She’s the most important elf on New Albion. If anything h
appened to her, if she was even spotted, I’d have heard something.”

  “All right. Let's keep practicing. I want to get this move down.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  We probably did the move a hundred times in less than an hour. I took a few punches at first, enough to leave me with a black right eye.

  It was only Tuesday. Hopefully, it would be gone before church on Sunday. Holy Cross had put up with a lot from me. I wasn't sure how they’d respond to the idea that their pastor was training to become a world-saving MMA warrior. Then again, I could always blame it on a baseball.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. I was notoriously bad at playing catch. Ever since I was a kid and I made the mistake of turning my glove palm-up to catch the ball my dad had tossed, causing it to roll up my glove and into my face, I’d had an irrational fear of flying balls.

  You’d think after the day I had, I’d feel the same way about fists, but all things considered, it wasn’t as bad as you’d think, taking a giant’s right hook. Of course, I was sure he was holding back. It still hurt enough to inspire me to pick up the pivot move quickly, but it didn’t hurt so badly that I was left cowering in the fetal position in the middle of Forest Park, either.

  I was getting there. One move down, a hundred more to learn. But progress was progress, right?

  Maybe I wasn’t going to be the next Bruce Lee, but I could certainly kick the ass of yesterday’s version of myself.

  Jag would be proud.

  Hopefully, he’d be satisfied, at least, when I met him at the gym to re-do my back workout, sans magic assistance this time.

  I’d had enough nonsense from the fairy that I wasn’t about to cheat a second time. Not to mention, when I spotted a fifty-burger on my credit card activity statement for my wasted session, I was determined to get my money’s worth this time.

  A shit-eating grin split Jag’s face as I walked into the gym. Of course, he was waiting for me.

  “What happened to you?” Jag asked.

  “Shaved my head,” I said. “I just got sick of dealing with split ends.”

  Jag tilted his head. “I don’t care why you changed your hair. I was talking about the black eye.”

  “You should see the other guy,” I quipped.

  “Does he have a thing for clichés too?” Jag smirked.

  I snorted. “I took a right hook from a giant.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was something much less cool than that,” Jag said. “But since you’re dating an elf, and you’re all wrapped up with prophecies and whatnot, I’m inclined to believe that you got into a tiff with a giant.”

  I smiled. “There’s a reason Layla wants me in fighting shape.”

  “Ready to do this right today?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was kind of an ass about it.”

  Jag shrugged. “No skin off my back. I got paid.”

  “Right,” I said. “No sense in wasting another half a Ben Franklin on trying to show you up.”

  “This isn’t about me,” Jag said. “Don’t make it about me. You’re never going to look this good.”

  I snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Seriously,” Jag said. “You’re pushing forty, right?”

  I nodded. “Your point?”

  “I’m not saying you couldn’t build some serious mass, but I’ve been working for years to craft the masterpiece that is my body. Even if you work that hard and that long, at your age, your testosterone levels will be significantly diminished.”

  “I’m sure they already are,” I said.

  Jag nodded. “T-levels start declining in the thirties for most men. More rapidly for sedentary men.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “Thankfully, my goal isn’t to look like you.”

  Jag nodded. “I encourage SMART goals: specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, and I don’t remember what the hell the t means.”

  “Time-based?” I offered.

  “Whatever,” Jag said. “Looking like me might be a specific goal, but it’s not measurable since sexy is subjective. And it wouldn’t be realistic or achievable.”

  “You’re so encouraging.” I rolled my eyes.

  “And if I’m honest, it’s not the best goal, given your purpose. Don’t worry, we’ll build you some size. We’ll get huge. That’s the most important thing. But we also need to focus on strength and agility. Layla said to train you like a fighter.”

  I nodded. “Well, I’m ready. Let me just get changed.”

  I was already in workout-appropriate clothes due to my sparring session in the park, but I preferred shorts and a tank top in the gym. Not to show off my guns, which were more like peashooters, but because it kept me cool.

  I met Jag back at the chin-up bar. When I was in high school, I used to crank those things out like nobody’s business. I didn’t think I’d done a chin-up or pull-up since. Not minus the assistance of magic, anyway. The workout the day before didn’t count.

  I jumped up and grabbed the bar. I was surprised how much just gripping it hurt my hands.

  “No kipping. Keep your body still. The focus is on pulling all the weight, making you stronger.”

  I nodded. I braced my core and tried to hold my body still. My legs flailed a little, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I grunted as I pulled my chin up to the bar. Then I lost my grip and fell to the floor.

  “Good,” Jag said. “That counts as half a chin-up.”

  “Half?” I asked. “I got all the way up.”

  “Half the effort is on the negative. That’s the way down. Some lifters believe you achieve more gains, in fact, on the eccentric contraction than the concentric one.”

  I bit my lip and nodded. I’d been called eccentric before; that wasn’t new. Not language I was used to using when it came to exercise, though.

  Of course, as a minister, I’d probably used the word “exorcise” more often than “exercise.” Not that I’d had any confirmed cases of demon possession, but there were a few exorcisms in the New Testament that popped up a couple of times a year on the lectionary, which was our schedule of Bible readings for each Sunday. A couple of times a year was more often than I’d done any exercise in years.

  Until Layla.

  I sighed. Damn, I missed her. And I was worried about her.

  “Try again,” Jag said. “This time, relax your body. You tensed up last time. That takes extra energy. And don’t let go when you get to the top. Let yourself down slowly.”

  I nodded. I managed to get one full chin-up in, and it burned like a bitch when I let myself down. “Woo, you’re right,” I said. “I can feel it when I go down slow.”

  “For every exercise we do,” Jag said, “I want you to focus on that. Explode into the work, slow and controlled on release.”

  This time I didn’t challenge his best guess of a twenty-pound dumbbell for my rows, and he was right. The more I focused on controlling the release, the more it hurt.

  I wouldn’t admit it, of course, but it felt good. Like all that pain, letting it out was also a stress release.

  I finished a set of ten reps, first on the right, then on the left.

  “Good,” Jag said. “We’ll do three sets of these. One minute rest between sets.”

  I nodded. “Feels pretty good. I noticed you didn’t make me do deprecations today.”

  Jag grinned. “I figured you were probably beating yourself up enough since you cheated yesterday.”

  I nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve been through since. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Good,” Jag said. “Since you’ve already outworked your yesterday’s version of yourself.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, he was a pussy.”

  “Such a wimp,” Jag said, grinning from ear to ear. “And tomorrow, you’ll feel the same way about today’s version of you.”

  I smiled. “I hope so. But I’m not going to worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow has enough worry for itself.”<
br />
  “Isn’t that the Bible?” Jag said.

  I chuckled. I hadn’t even realized I’d quoted Jesus there. “Yeah, after Jesus talks about how God takes care of the lilies of the field and the birds of the air. He tells his disciples to stop worrying about what to eat and drink because if God takes care of the birds and lilies, why would they doubt that he’d also take care of them?”

  Jag smiled. “Good advice. I don’t know about lilies, but I do know a pansy when I see one. Stop talking and hit that next set.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, snickering.

  All in all, I didn’t lift a fraction of the weight I’d lifted the day before, but I worked the hardest I had in a long time. And it felt good. Really good.

  “Make sure you’re getting plenty of protein. At least one gram per day for every pound of body weight. That’ll maximize your muscle development.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Jag. So, what are we hitting tomorrow?”

  Jag smiled. “Ever been to a gun show?”

  “So, it’s arm day tomorrow?” I asked.

  Jag narrowed his eyes and looked at me intently. “Do you have tickets?”

  “To the gun show?” I asked.

  Jag nodded slowly.

  “Yeah, so it’s arm day tomorrow.”

  Jag maintained focus, staring me down, as he retrieved his credit card reader and plugged it into his phone.

  “Fine,” I said. “It’s the gun show tomorrow.”

  “You still owe me fifty bucks.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  My sponsor had recommended keeping a gratitude list. It was hard to harbor resentments—a major source of problems for most alcoholics—if you focused on what you were thankful for. He suggested getting a little pad of paper, writing down everything I could think of that I was grateful for, and adding something to it every day. It didn’t have to be huge. Didn’t have to be particularly profound.

  Maybe it was simple, like having oxygen to breathe, that the Earth keeps spinning, or the sun hasn’t gone supernova yet, or something subtle and overlooked like the beauty of the trees and the sky.

  Whatever. It didn’t matter because a gratitude list wasn’t about things.