|
|
|
|
|
The Face: Tournament of Death, Chapter Three
My plane departed from Westgate International at the excruciating hour of 7am in the morning. The boss was merciless in providing me with the cheapest, back row seat in coach, within a small, jam-packed commercial airliner…and no in-flight movies. It would be a thirteen-hour flight, and I had prepared myself by bringing a small laptop along with some theatrical DVD’s. However, before taking a trip down movie-lane, I decided to brush up on my most recent expose; an article about how a local woman had found half a finger in her beef stew at famous fast-food restaurant chain, Mendy’s. “Hmm, it’s just not like it used to be…” I said to myself. With that said, I closed my laptop and rested my eyes, while reclining my chair, ever so slightly, against the overbearing wall behind.
Within the innards of a Chinese City lay a small airport, sitting next to the bustling ghettos filled with lower-class citizens. A young, slightly bulky, dark-skinned man, sporting a black vest, blue shirt, black pants, along with a gold chain around his neck stepped out of the airplane and onto the stairs that led below. Hung upon the chain was a golden letter, sparkling with shiny gems fitted into the small holes that decorated the interior. The letter read “D.” He cracked his knuckles and rubbed his smooth-skinned head, viewing the surrounding area, silently. An Asian stewardess led him to the baggage claim, where he received his bags. He then proceeded to pay an errand boy to carry his luggage, and they proceeded to a traditional, Chinese man-powered carriage.
According to the brochure I retrieved from the seat before me, I was headed to the Pudong district of Shanghai, China. I was amazed to see the littered pollution that lay about the street and atmosphere, as a clouded gray sky blanketed the ghetto slums of the street in a very detailed picture. “Almost as bad as that chemical factory in Manchester,” I said to myself. The main attraction was of course ironically, the pleasurable Hanoi Islands. I was to be transported there by boat from an inner harbor of the Pudong district, which possesed a name I could not pronounce.
Hundreds of miles away, Joseph Bell was waiting by a small dock packed with literally dozens of old, dilapidated Chinese boats, and even scattered about the water were yet hundreds more, housing poor, almost homeless and struggling citizens.
A medium-sized lugsail had just pulled in, manned by about a dozen young, uneducated sailors, though not of the bulky kind. Most of them were scrawny, barely surviving the ravages of starvation, yet still, they worked hard. Joseph showed his identification and boarded the boat, and sat patiently for the other passengers to arrive. “How many more on the list?” he asked one of the sailors. The young man mouthed something that he could not understand, and Bell turned his head, and looked in the water, realizing his communication efforts were futile.
Just then, at the corner of his eye, Joseph caught sight of a familiar face. It was the dark-skinned man, wearing the golden chain around his neck, who had arrived at the lugsail next. “Devon, how’ve you been, man?” The other man’s solemn face slowly transformed itself into a smile. “Hey, Joseph! I’ve been doin’ alright. How long’s it been? five years since the marines?” Joseph nodded in agreement. “What you’ve been doing after all that time?” He wondered. “And what brings you here?” Devon folded his arms, and gave him a mystified look. “You mean you haven’t heard? Well, then, I’ll shed some light for you. After becoming the middleweight champion of the nation in boxing, I decided to seek new heights with this so called Tournament held in these Hanoi Islands,” he explained. “I even have my own hip-hop album,” he continued.
“Ah so you’re the ever-illustrious Shadow ‘D’?” he asked. “Looks like you’ve been hitting the big time. Unfortunately for me, my hot streak ended. I used to be on top with Bell Corporation, but one journalist implicated me in a crime that I wasn’t even involved in…tearing my empire to shreds.” D sat down on a wooden crate. “Sorry to hear that.” Joseph shrugged his shoulders. “Well, that’s why I’m here, to win this tournament and get back on top,” He aspired. “Well, you may just have to settle for second place,” D replied. “We’ll see,” Joseph stated.
“So whaddya know ‘bout this Shran-guy?” D asked Bell. “Not much,” Joe answered. “I just know he’s the one who’s been holding this tournament for years, and that he likes to live big.” D shuffled his feet and looked out towards the many creaking, rocking boats that overcrowded the docks. “They don’t live so big out there,” D pointed out. Joseph looked out to the harbor as well, and said, “Same ol’ Devon, same ol’ Devon.”
In addition, four tournament participants had already boarded before they had, at a different dock from another harbor. A gruff, scruffy looking man, walked around with hands behind his back, arrogantly eyeing his opponents. “C’mere,” D told Joseph. Bell complied. “Y’know who that is? That’s Allan Larcen, from New Zealand. Looks like this Shran guy’s gonna get quite a collection for his tournament,” D explained.
They scanned the area for more entrants. “Who’s that guy?” Bell asked, pointing to a brown-skinned fellow, with dark black hair, that spiked forward from the front. “Hmm, I’ve heard of that guy. He’s a legend in Thailand. He’s Edom, a Muay Thai master, or so they say.” Bell rubbed his chin. “Muay Thai, eh? Never heard of it.”
Bell tried his luck once again. “Know that guy?” he inquired, aiming his finger toward a young, Asian man wearing a white Chinese martial arts outfit, buttoned down the middle, and large cuffs hanging from the sleeves around the wrist. “Dunno,” D stated. “Never seen him before.”
Finally the lugsail set off on course for the Hanoi Islands. More boats would arrive to the districts to receive contestants for the tournament as well as added members. Unknown to them, a silent, but deadly young woman, dressed in a slick, shiny purple outfit, with long high heels that reached just below her knees, was watching and eyeing her target from the depths of the small barge.
And out of that barge came a young peasant sailor, carrying a basket of fresh apples. Being bored, and seeing an inferior being foolishly parade himself about the deck, Allan Larcen kicked the basket out from underneath the sailor’s hands for amusement.
Joseph and D turned their heads to the ruckus and shook their heads in disapproval, but reverted their heads and ignored the clash. Larcen then kicked the sailor down, and crushed an apple beneath his foot. Looking for more trouble, he strode across the galley, scanning each soul. He spotted the young Asian man, dressed in his martial arts attire and walked toward him.
Larcen thrust his fist forward, stopping just a few inches form the man’s neck. He then produced another maneuver, with elbow in air, demonstrating his powerful physique. He spoke, in his thick, garbled, New Zealand accident. “Do I bother ye?” Young Samuel Lee Kim turned his cold shoulder and looked at him. “Don’t waste yourself,” he scoffed in his Chinese accent. Unabashed, Larcen inquired, “What’s your style?” Sam hesitated, and replied with question. “My style?” He looked upward and downward then at Larcen again. “You can call it, the art of fighting…without fighting,” he replied. Larcen was perplexed. “The art of foyting…wid’out foyting?” he asked. “Show me some of it,” he then demanded.
Sam turned away from him to leave his sight. “Later,” he said. But Larcen would not let him leave. He held a hand on his shoulder preventing his attempted escape. Kim turned back to him, with a solemn look upon his face. “Alright,” he conceded. He then looked around at the crowded, small deck filled with passenger luggage and various crates of wood. “Don’t you think we need more room?” Sam wondered. Larcen seemed to not understand. “Where else?” he questioned. Sam looked around the waving waters, and in the distance through the fog, he spotted a relatively small piece of land. He pointed the small beach out to the arrogant battler. “That island, over there…we can take this boat,” he said, aiming toward a lifeboat connected to the side of the lugsail. “All right,” Larcen agreed.
D and Bell watched the entire conversation from their posts. Suddenly, a feminine voice spoke from behind them. “Hmm, this should be interesting…a dog fight,” her sleek, cold, tone sliced through the air. The young lady retrieved their attention, as their heads turned toward her. “Hello, boys, my name’s Kristy Collombo,” she greeted them, with great and undeniable deceit…
To be concluded... |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
