the creature’s neck. He came back with a right hook, stopping the still-traveling head going one way and sending it back the other.
A double punch to the chest forced the creature to re-shift its weight, allowing him some breathing room underneath it. Like lightning, he came across the zombie’s head again, this time knocking the thing off him.
Bruce flipped onto his feet, kicked the creature in the head then raised his leg to stomp it into oblivion. Just as his foot sped down, the zombie opened its mouth. Bruce quickly adjusted and allowed his foot to stomp hard right beside the creature’s head. He brought his other foot to the other side and squeezed the skull between his feet.
With an animalistic cry and a quick twist of the hips, he broke the zombie’s vertebrae and the momentum was enough to tear the decaying flesh around its neck, severing the head from the body.
The cage stunk of blood.
Bruce spat on the creature as the crowd cheered.
Gung fu is gung fu, he thought. It’s not child’s play.
17
The Old Man Just Sits There
E nter the Dragon, Mick thought. “Man, that was good.”
Jack nodded. “Ayuh.”
It was probably a safe assumption that Jack won as well. When Bruce fought, it was a no-brainer. Even the very few times the spry Chinese guy was challenged, he quickly was able to pull through. Bruce was the man. Pure and simple.
Mick checked the old man next to him for any sign of emotion. The old timer was as still as a lead weight, eyes still hidden beneath those giant dark sunglasses, head faced forward, hands still on his cane.
Is he a prop placed here to throw me off? Mick wondered. He nudged Jack, and whispered, “What’s this guy’s story?” He thumbed over to the old man.
Jack took a gander. “Don’t know. Seen him around here. Sits wherever like most of us. Never talked to him. Never heard a name. From what I hear, he never speaks. Could be a mute.”
“Friendly?”
“Don’t know.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Hm.” Mick stared at the old man. The guy hadn’t moved. “He’s not dead, is he?”
Jack let out a loud chuckle. “No. I think I might have seen him scratch his nose earlier. Could have been my imagination, too, though.”
“Haven’t even seen him reach for his Controller.”
“Me neither, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Part of being here, right? You don’t just come to watch. That’s for the folks at home.”
“Yeah.”
“How old do you think he is?”
Mick let his eyes follow the deep creases in the old man’s face. You could stick a coin in there and it’d hold. “Probably dead-hundred and ten.”
Jack chuckled again. “Maybe Santa’s gone anorexic and he’s sitting here. That hair is white, man. White-white.”
“Like snow.” Mick leaned back to the center of his seat. He didn’t know why the old man bothered him so much, though that non-movement was definitely a big part of it. The guy could be a mannequin in a department store no problem. Put straw on him and stick him in a garden and your crops would be one hundred percent safe.
Mick leaned over a couple inches toward the old guy. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Jack watching him. Mick took a deep breath. To himself: “Okay.” To the old guy: “Hi, how are you?”
The old man didn’t reply.
“Name’s Mick.” He held out his hand.
The old guy nodded.
Movement. Good. He’s alive. He let his hand linger in the air a couple moments before taking it back. “Having a good time?”
The old guy nodded.
“Can I get you anything?”
The man shook his head slightly.
“Okay, well, you just let me know. I’ll be right over here.”
The man didn’t respond.
“I said, you just let me know, ’kay? I’m right here.”
The man didn’t nod.
Probably part deaf. “Okay, then.” He went back to Jack. “Well . . . he’s alive.”
“Yup.”
“Doesn’t talk.”
“Nope.”
A pause. “Wanna say something?”
“Nah. Besides, he’s too far.”
“Too
A double punch to the chest forced the creature to re-shift its weight, allowing him some breathing room underneath it. Like lightning, he came across the zombie’s head again, this time knocking the thing off him.
Bruce flipped onto his feet, kicked the creature in the head then raised his leg to stomp it into oblivion. Just as his foot sped down, the zombie opened its mouth. Bruce quickly adjusted and allowed his foot to stomp hard right beside the creature’s head. He brought his other foot to the other side and squeezed the skull between his feet.
With an animalistic cry and a quick twist of the hips, he broke the zombie’s vertebrae and the momentum was enough to tear the decaying flesh around its neck, severing the head from the body.
The cage stunk of blood.
Bruce spat on the creature as the crowd cheered.
Gung fu is gung fu, he thought. It’s not child’s play.
17
The Old Man Just Sits There
E nter the Dragon, Mick thought. “Man, that was good.”
Jack nodded. “Ayuh.”
It was probably a safe assumption that Jack won as well. When Bruce fought, it was a no-brainer. Even the very few times the spry Chinese guy was challenged, he quickly was able to pull through. Bruce was the man. Pure and simple.
Mick checked the old man next to him for any sign of emotion. The old timer was as still as a lead weight, eyes still hidden beneath those giant dark sunglasses, head faced forward, hands still on his cane.
Is he a prop placed here to throw me off? Mick wondered. He nudged Jack, and whispered, “What’s this guy’s story?” He thumbed over to the old man.
Jack took a gander. “Don’t know. Seen him around here. Sits wherever like most of us. Never talked to him. Never heard a name. From what I hear, he never speaks. Could be a mute.”
“Friendly?”
“Don’t know.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Hm.” Mick stared at the old man. The guy hadn’t moved. “He’s not dead, is he?”
Jack let out a loud chuckle. “No. I think I might have seen him scratch his nose earlier. Could have been my imagination, too, though.”
“Haven’t even seen him reach for his Controller.”
“Me neither, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. Part of being here, right? You don’t just come to watch. That’s for the folks at home.”
“Yeah.”
“How old do you think he is?”
Mick let his eyes follow the deep creases in the old man’s face. You could stick a coin in there and it’d hold. “Probably dead-hundred and ten.”
Jack chuckled again. “Maybe Santa’s gone anorexic and he’s sitting here. That hair is white, man. White-white.”
“Like snow.” Mick leaned back to the center of his seat. He didn’t know why the old man bothered him so much, though that non-movement was definitely a big part of it. The guy could be a mannequin in a department store no problem. Put straw on him and stick him in a garden and your crops would be one hundred percent safe.
Mick leaned over a couple inches toward the old guy. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Jack watching him. Mick took a deep breath. To himself: “Okay.” To the old guy: “Hi, how are you?”
The old man didn’t reply.
“Name’s Mick.” He held out his hand.
The old guy nodded.
Movement. Good. He’s alive. He let his hand linger in the air a couple moments before taking it back. “Having a good time?”
The old guy nodded.
“Can I get you anything?”
The man shook his head slightly.
“Okay, well, you just let me know. I’ll be right over here.”
The man didn’t respond.
“I said, you just let me know, ’kay? I’m right here.”
The man didn’t nod.
Probably part deaf. “Okay, then.” He went back to Jack. “Well . . . he’s alive.”
“Yup.”
“Doesn’t talk.”
“Nope.”
A pause. “Wanna say something?”
“Nah. Besides, he’s too far.”
“Too
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