ONE YEAR AGO - AMERICA
Indianapolis, East 34th St / Sutherland Avenue
The Firdèlyand Apartments, Block B
FLOOR 21, ROOM 10 -- ROOM 12
19:00 PM / 7:00, Friday, May 2nd
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"Queixada!" Charley saw his Cocorinha and quickly redirected his left leg down towards his shoulder blade. "Uncle -- Armada!" Charley's uncle thrust out his right foot and the Moonbearer caught the kick, spinning twice around and predicting a mid-air body slam. His hands grabbed the two bamboo poles that were protruding from the pair of green training mats, and the boy pushed to the right, instantly making his superior relative fall to his left. The boy was laying down on the wooden floorboards, his eyes were 90% closed and he could barely even see the older male's silhouette. Charley twitched his fingers and watched as his uncle bent down to check, then front-flipped and delivered four knee hits to his uncle's neck.
"Playing dead, hmmm? You cheating bastard!" NyAAAaaaaH!!!! Charley gripped his elbow muscle and double checked to make sure he hadn't broken it. He immediately glanced over his shoulder at the metal bump-lined baton. He moved his gaze upwards and saw his uncle's dark grimace bashing waves of hatred into his soul.
"M-m-Markus?" Markus Fell dropped down to the ball of his one foot, the other foot currently losing the presence of a black metal-heeled combat boot. Now shoeless, he removed his socks and removed the evil look from his face. "THIS, CHARLEY! THIS... This is what your enemies will do. This is what an enemy will BE. Ruthless, indomitable, unpredictable, and antagonizing. They will plan to murder you, they will relentlessly attempt to murder you, and the day shall come where they will succeed in murdering you, prior to laughing in your STALE, LIFELESS FACE -- ABOUT MURDERING YOU!" "No... n-no, Uncle Mark... My clothes..." "Oh, blood.. yeah they're, they're stained. Let's change you. I don't want my favorite nephew being uncomfortable in his own apartments. You're rich and I'm a legal guardian." The urge to resist smirking at that final sentence became strong for both parties. AHEMMM. hack, hack
A final cough arose from each humanoid, as the doors to the walk-in closet automatically slid open. "Be nice when Firdèlyand's rebuilt. You can swap not sleeping in apartments... for not sleeping in a mansion. Whenever we train for 10 hours, you do make a bloody mess."
"Well, I guess it allows me to learn from my mistakes." "You shouldn't be making mistakes by now, then." Markus held up a green tuxedo over his nephew's nude torso, and secretly admired the tattoo on the boy's back. He opted to ignore it. Gotta let the kid have fun some day, right? "My suit! My sleeves expose my weapons. I need to be stealthier." "Well Char-char, maybe we can get the personal tailor to fit some old era clothes for you. 1800's perhaps? Rural Japan sounds delightful... Ninja... Samurai... all manner of pleasant men and women protecting us with their OWN weapons. Katanas, Tessen, Tanto?" "Uncle, when I said I wanted to inspire people... I mean--" "I know. But you've definitely improved. Just sign up for more combat classes!" "I'm already 'fluent' in.... sigh Capoeira, Jiu-jitsu, Kung Fu, Taekwondo, Kajukenbo, Dim Mak, Kyokushin, Pugilism, Ninjutsu, Vale Tudo, Krav Maga... And that's ignoring linguistics knowledge. I did say I'm fluent." "Fifteen years training... You're 16 now. It's quite impressive."
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"Nope, it's..." I glanced into the mirror and began matting my hair and brushing it backwards, "a bunch of time applied wisely and fruitfully. My loved ones doing all they can, in order for me to be as secure and happy as possible." drrrrk drrrrk. drrrrk drrrrk. "Let me answer that, Charley. Be back right away."
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PRESENT DAY - ENGLAND, UNITED KINGDOM, GREAT BRITAIN, EUROPE.
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WEST BROMPTON SW10, LONDON, RANGO ROAD, STEEP STREET
Kento-Kamma Kourts, Royal Oaksbridge Tennis Klub
Seat 7B, Stand 2A, Table 09
23:14 PM / 11:14 PM, Tuesday, April 5th, 2016 (Manuel's 17th Birthday)
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JOEL EVERWEST
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My sweater and tracksuit trousers were ever so lightly swaying within the breeze of the tennis courts. The current match was Rafael Nadal versus Andy Murray, Tim Weir versus Jack Devine and Greg Weir versus Conor Smith. I kicked my feet up onto the chair in front of me, and my daughter's pretty face was caught in a lovely grin. "Hey, princess. Are you cold?" Her polo shirt was barely covering the crease of her elbow, and her full forearm was exposed to the cold air of the Spring night. "Naw daddy, I'm goo'h, thank'z thou'gh!" "Hey nigger, shut up or I'll shut you up! Tryin' ta' watch this damn first round! First game of tonight! Fuckin' niggers, man..." My face rapidly began to heat up and I clenched my fists, subsequently cutting my palms upon hearing this appalling language. I stared over my seats at the culprit and became aware of which row he was sat within. The same one as mine... He was a Caucasian teenager, most likely thirteen years of age, and he was wearing a red jacket with the hood pulled over his head. He probably had a shit haircut anyway. I took four deep breaths and turned back around, clutching my daughter's hand without raising either of our arms. I thumbed the pistol inside of my waistband and clicked my shoes together, suddenly becoming way calmer thanks to the simple piece of metal held in my black jeans pants. It could either kill someone, or protect them. Luckily, I wasn't opposed to either outcome of choice on that particularly fateful night.
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ŐÑË HØŮŘ ŁĄŢÊŔ
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PLAYER SET MATCH POINTS MURRAY, ANDY 1 2 +15 (x 1) NADAL, RAFAEL 1 2 +0
I glanced back down at my impeccably pale white sneakers. My favorite player was losing... damnit! I stopped slapping the edge of my chair with my left hand and was still holding Gretel's hand with my right. Her mother, Karli, was currently at the nightclub, and she was almost always pre-occupied with a new work colleague or.... client, this did make some huge wads of dough, but we were bored of the "happy family" routines. I wouldn't be happy unless I got a divorce. She wouldn't be happy unless my daughter and I were both out of the country together.