I decided meditation just wasn’t for me after that. Listening to my mark might not be for me either; it didn’t seem like the best influence.
Freddie called later that day to tell me that his arm was good enough that we could start training the next morning. Thank fucking god. I needed a distraction, and I needed something that made me feel like I was preparing myself that didn’t involve murdering people.
Anita and Caleb looked at me differently after the meditation session, and I hated it. They tiptoed around me like they thought I was possessed by a fucking demon or something. I hated it because they might not be too far off base. I didn’t feel like the mark had control over my mind, but what would that even feel like? Crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy, and mind-controlled people don’t know that they’re being mind-controlled. The only comfort I got was from the fact that the mark was telling me to kill people. I figured that, if it already had majority rule in my head, then it wouldn’t need to ask. This cancer only having a 49% stake on my brain cells wasn’t exactly a warm, cozy thought, though — especially when I still had so much unused real estate on my body for the mark to progress through. I was nowhere near done with it.
But, at least for now, I could focus on learning how to punch people.
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“Alright, Big Boy, you’re gonna learn some combos today,” Freddie and I stood on either side of a heavy bag that hung from the gym ceiling. His right shoulder still looked swollen, and he clearly couldn’t move it like he used to, but he still threw combos at the bag with incredible speed and precision. His shoulder made a popping sound after he threw a particularly nasty right hook. I winced at the sound, but he didn’t.
I tried to copy his combo — it was a simple jab, jab, right hook. The heavy bag almost separated from the ceiling when I hit it, but my form was sloppy. Comparing my punches to the machine-like blows that came from Freddie, I felt like a drunk, roided-up child. Freddie seemed to agree.
“God damn,” he said, “you might be the biggest waste of potential I’ve ever seen.”
“My mom’s said something similar before,” I said.
“How old are you now? 31? 32? If you would’ve come to me ten years ago, I would’ve made your ass the greatest fighter in the history of combat sports. You hit like a damn truck already, even though you look like someone just dug you up out of the ground. Put a little muscle on you and teach you how to punch straight, and you’re gonna be a monster, let me tell you.” He assumed his boxing stance. “First, you need to spread your feet out a little more. Then, you need to make sure you use your whole body when you throw a punch. There’ll be a lot more force that way. With how much damage you did with that sloppy ass punch a couple weeks ago,” he rolled his shoulder and it popped again, “you’re liable to kill somebody with a proper punch. That counts as an automatic KO, I think.”
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I smiled weakly. He didn’t know how right he was. I wished he hadn’t brought up killing. I was trying my best to forget about it. Sometimes, I would still think about those burnt bodies — bodies that I burnt — and the ones that weren’t quite dead yet. The sight of Newt, my father, with a gaping hole in the back of his head forced its way into my mind’s eye; the empty eye socket of the Iron Granny who did it to him was an unpleasant sight in my head as well. I was sick and tired of death in all of its forms, but there was still so much of it left to be dealt out.
“Hello? Big Boy? You there?”
Freddie had been trying to show me how to throw an uppercut, but I wasn’t paying attention. I did my best to follow along, but I was on autopilot for the rest of the session.
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I felt a little better at night. The night was starting to become the most peaceful time for me, since I could be a fucked-up, bloodthirsty abomination alone, away from people. I did agree with the mark on one thing: I needed to learn how to use my sludge powers before I needed them. So I stopped going on my late night walks — I was afraid I’d see Keaton and the Crooners again anyway if I resumed them, and found an abandoned warehouse to practice sludge magic in.
Unlike the slime, the sludge had to be used at a much closer range, at least for now. I couldn’t project it nearly as easily as slime, which came out of my hands with almost no effort. Instead of shooting out of me, the sludge fell out of me in thick globs and splattered nearby — the farthest I could get it to shoot was three or four feet, and that took a lot of effort.
It felt much more natural to use it to augment hand-to-hand combat. I let the sludge collect around my hands like gloves and could throw heavy, sticky punches that covered my imaginary opponents in black goop, ideally causing more damage and slowing them down.
I also checked to see if the sludge was flammable. I stepped outside of the warehouse and flicked a little drop of sludge onto the parking lot. It burned even hotter and for even longer than the slime. That was good; if I covered someone in enough of this stuff, I could turn them into the Human Torch pretty easily.
At around five o’ clock in the morning, I decided to call it a day and head back home. It was only a twenty minute walk or so, especially since I didn’t take any time to enjoy the scenery. I walked as fast as I could — which was pretty damn fast — past anyone and anything I came by. Except, annoyingly, I walked past something that was hard to ignore.
A tall, ginger-haired man was harassing a tiny, young woman who appeared to be waiting for a bus. He said a few things in a heated tone that I couldn’t quite make out, and she tried to run, but he grabbed her arm. She screamed and he yanked her to the ground. I didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish — was he mugging her, trying to kidnap her, or just felt like hurting someone on this warm Houston morning? It didn’t really matter; what kind of asshole would I be if I just walked by a scene like that?
“Hey, Carrot Top! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I yelled from the other side of the street.