Five Deadly Rebels, a Kung Fu Sci-Fi Scripted Podcast. Hosted by Ian Tuason. Music by Wu-Tang Clan producer, Cilvaringz. This is Episode 9, I Choose Violence.
“And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666.”
The Book of Revelations 13:17-18
Chapter 31: A True Lie
The number 1555 burning in his brain, Buck throws himself into the maze of locker units, adrenaline surging, heart throbbing, feeling as if he’s watching a small, white ball bouncing on a roulette wheel, moments before winning the biggest bet in the history of big bets.
He charges down an alley of storage unit doors lining both sides. His boot soles strike the pavement like a drumroll. Blue metal doors whip by him in a dizzying haze, as the numbers above them increase like the relentless ticking of a stopwatch—575, 576, 577.
Buck shoots out the end of the alley, skidding to a stop, finding himself staring up at the facility’s front wall of brown bricks, sprawling out into the distance to Buck’s left and right. He turns his head to gaze across the paved ground between the front wall and the row of metal paneled storage buildings running adjacent from it, all perfectly parallel.
He turns his head the opposite way and sees a mirror image of the scene before, the white paneled ends of the buildings standing like a line of soldiers staring at the brick wall, identical, the same distance apart.
Feverish, Buck flails around a corner and sprints into another alley of units, his heart pounding in time with the thud of his boots. The numbers above the doors on his left climb higher—620, 621, 622—and descends on his right—681, 680, 679.
Buck launches out of the alley’s end, his momentum grinding to a halt, and finds himself standing in a wide, open area of flat pavement stretching out to his left and right across the entire length of the facility, extending to its side walls on opposite ends, a hefty distance apart.
On the other side of the sprawling strip of pavement, stands another storage unit building, identical to the others, but much, much longer. Its white metal walls and rows of blue metal doors stretches alongside the expansive pavement cutting through the facility from end to end.
Buck squints under the rim of his bucket hat, now drenched with sweat, and tries to make out the numbers above the doors on the overlong building, but they’re too far to read.
The cool night air begins to fill with the chirping of birds, announcing the oncoming dawn, and Buck suddenly feels like his time is ticking faster.
He turns his sights towards the remaining rows of storage unit buildings running adjacent from the front wall, yet to be surveyed, and bolts past the ends of them, peaking only at the first two units at the mouths between each building.
He passes unit 700 facing unit 799, then 800 facing 899, 900 facing 999, 1000 facing 1099, 1100 facing 1199… Then he reaches the last building, its long row of locker doors facing the side wall of the facility.
Buck sees the first door bearing the number 1200 over it, and peers deeper down the row stretching out into the front corner of the fortressing wall—about fifty doors by his quick count. Unit 1555 can’t be here, he thinks to himself, then gazes across the paved expanse towards the facility’s longest storage building at its brink.
Bolting across the open pavement, Buck jars to a full stop at one end of the lengthy building and looks at the number above its first door—1251.
Buck sprints along the length of the building, his eyes focused on the numbers.
1301.
1302.
1303.
Fatigue begins to bite into Buck’s muscles, his harsh breaths ripping into his lungs, his long strides slowing down as his vision blurs at its edges. He fights through it, the thought of the ledger in his grasp carrying him through the strain.
1356.
1357.
1358.
Buck’s heart lurches with every unit he passes, the growing numbers fueling his drive. He runs and runs, all of his senses attuned to the number 1555 blazing in his mind.
He lowers his head for a final dash, pushing through his exhaustion until his knees begin to buckle under his weight.
Slowing to a trot, his heartbeat thundering, his breath panting, Buck takes a few staggered steps forward then raises his head, looking up at the final unit at the end of the long building, and then his heart sinks into his stomach, seeing the number 1401 painted above its door.
“Can’t be,” he whispers to himself as he plods around the end of the building in a wide arc. His heart begins to pound again as he peers down another row of storage units stretching out along the backside of the building, its blue metal doors all staring at the brown bricks of the facility’s sprawling back wall, extending far into the distance, too far to see.
An image of the ledger balancing on his palm, its gold plating glimmering, flashes into his mind, and launches him into a mad dash down the row of lockers.
The bricks to his left blur, the blue doors to his right flicker like a zoetrope animation.
1454.
1455.
1456.
His eyes fixate on the numbers, willing them to jump higher, faster.
1492.
1493.
1494.
A thrill vibrates through his bones as he crests the 1500 mark.
He can feel the ledger closing in, so close. His one hand swinging wildly at his side tightens into a fist and he can already feel its gold-plated edges dig into his palm.
1529.
1530.
1531.
Suddenly, every fiber of his body begins to strain again, his boots clomping defiantly, pushing him forward as he forces himself beyond the limits of his endurance.
Each breath turns into a flame, scorching his lungs, but his dream of sitting at the same table of the world’s highest rollers ignites him onwards, overpowering the pain.
He pushes harder and harder until he nears the end of the row of lockers, and finally, he yields to the fire in his chest, slowing to a stop. Drained, he hunkers over and squeezes at his bent knees. He sucks in three deep breaths, then stands, willing himself to take a few more steps—only five lockers left in his sight.
One by one, he walks past each locker, his heart beating slower now, a strange calmness washing over him, mirroring the feeling he had in the Queens Casino when he was gambling for his life. He passes 1547, then 1548, then 1549.
Then his heartbeat starts up again, crashing into his ribs. Something doesn’t make sense. He plods past unit 1550 then stops to face the final locker at the end of the row, its overhead lightbulb broken, shrouding the locker door in a darkness that seems to consume the entire far back corner of the massive facility where the final unit nestles.
A shadow veils the painted number above the unit door, so Buck inches closer, seeing it now in the dim light of the night sky—1551.
“No,” he shakes his head, jolting around the corner of the building, checking its end wall, praying to see more blue doors, but only sees white metal paneling.
Desperate, he bolts around the other side of the building only to see its first unit again—1251.
Buck stands there, staring at the cold metal of the locker door that seems to stare back at him, indifferent.
“No, no, no. Mans can’t cap,” he shakes his head. “Can he?”
A low growl rumbles inside his chest. His foot lashes out, the steel toe of his boot crashing into the locker door with a thunderous crash, shaking the air then fading into silence and chirping birds.
Suddenly, a black cat with a red collar meows behind him. He spins around to see it sitting on the pavement, looking up at him.
“The fuck you looking at!” he swings his foot up at the cat, who drops its head low to the ground, frightened, then scurries away.
Buck turns his sights to the darkened back corner of the facility’s shielding wall. Defying gravity, he jogs up the bricks then perches himself atop the narrow point where the back wall meets the side wall, gravity back to normal. He turns to scan over the vast sea of hollow storage units—a maze of long, metal buildings—and Buck had reached its end.
Chapter 32: In the Hearts of Hard Men
The cable snaps from the fuse box. The utter blackness swallows the room at the speed of light—fast—even for the Biker, who whips himself forward at the Blinder the instant he realizes what’s happening. His designer dress shoe, now marred with scuffs, rams into the wall where the Blinder used to be—its concrete cracking from the impact—the echoes of the crack the only thing left to be heard in the sudden, blinding darkness.
An icy wave washes over the Biker, prickling his skin, sensing, or perhaps just imagining, the Blinder prowling around him, unseen.
The Biker draws in a deep breath, centering himself, then welcomes the darkness—a test of his true and absolute power.
“Coward,” the Biker calls out, reaching for a reply—reaching for a clue—but the Blinder doesn’t bite. His sight through the thick eyepieces of his mask permeates through the pitch blackness as if it were lit by the midday sun, as he watches the Biker lower his helmeted head and turn it from one side to the other, slowly, listening for any sound, both his arms stretching out, his hands canvasing the gloom as he treads through it.
The Blinder stalks the Biker like a wild cat, walking circles around him in total silence. His stolen breaths and lost sensation in his limp arm slowly return as he bends his arm at the elbow, then straightens it. He rolls his wrist and wiggles his fingers until more feeling comes back to them.
The Biker sweeps his arms in front of him, blindly. A loud clang and the shuddering of solid steel echoes in the black void as his wrist hits a support beam. The Biker spins around, his open hands gliding through the dark expanse, his fingers grazing cold air, listening for any murmur of movement or intake of breath.
Like a ghost floating in a moonless night, the Blinder creeps behind the Biker, footfalls soundless, breaths quieter than whispers, then in striking distance, the Blinder dips his left shoulder and turns his hips with all his force, unleashing an explosive left hook into the Biker’s side, burying his knuckles into his ribs, breaking three of them.
Reeling in pain from the phantom punch, the Biker snaps a lightning quick crane style hand strike harmlessly into the air where he anticipates the Blinder to be, but the Blinder is not there—not moving from the very same spot where he had landed his crushing blow, predicting that the Biker would only assume he would shift position after every strike—the correct maneuver from any seasoned fighter, but the Blinder, finally, is one step ahead of the Biker, not in speed, but in empathy.
The Blinder backs away, watching the Biker flailing kicks and punches into emptiness, and waits with the patience of a predator for his next opening.
The Biker gathers himself, once again listening for any sound from the Blinder, but only hears his own raspy breaths collapsing under three broken ribs.
Cloaked in darkness and silence, the Blinder once again lurks behind the Biker with feline grace, coils his steely muscles, his body tensing like a spring, then unloads a right hook into the Biker’s other side with demolishing precision, cracking two more of his ribs.
His breath forced from his lungs, the Biker flees his position in a blinding flash, gasping for air.
Centering himself a safe distance away, his shock dissipating, the Biker gives way to an angry fire slowly kindling inside him as he shifts his form into a leopard style kung fu stance, summoning the essence of the aggressive beast—a hunter in the darkness.
The Biker, his hands half-closing, his fingers bending at his second knuckles, his thumb pressing against his fingertips, his palm hollowing like a leopard’s paw, his breaths turning shallow and quick like the panting of a cornered animal, searches his instincts and maps out a memory of the space around him from before his world went dark. Then suddenly, he explodes into a frantic windstorm of feral attacks, swirling through the confined space at an unbelievable speed.
The Blinder jolts backwards, away from the Biker’s barrage of erratic blows, almost slamming his back into a wall—a potentially fatal mistake that would have unveiled his position. He shuffles across the floor, fleeing from the Biker’s savage assaults—circular, downwards, upwards, embodying the ferocity of a leopard attacking its prey from above and below with unpredictable agility.
A flying kick, like a leaping leopard pouncing on its prey, whistles through the air beside the Blinder’s ear, dangerously close. The Biker’s blitz of low sweeps, high kicks and leopard paw swipes, seems to expand throughout the locked quarters, incapacitating the Blinder, understanding that one misstep, one lucky graze of contact, could consume him into a frenzy of mauling attacks fueled by a leopard’s drive for survival.
Unable to predict the Biker’s wild movements, his tsunami of assaults surging closer and closer to the Blinder, he desperately searches for any opening, any fleeting instant for a counterattack, but finds none—so he creates one.
The Blinder whistles.
With the instinct of a nocturnal hunter, the Biker springs towards the sound in a flash of motion, but despite his impermeable speed, the Blinder is already set in his cross body block form as the Biker releases an unimaginably quick spin kick, stunted by the Binder’s knee and elbow connected across his body.
The force of the kick sends the Blinder back pedaling before regaining his footing, but the Biker knows where he is now, and shoots into the Blinder like a streak of lightning, straight into the Blinder’s trap.
The Blinder, already side-stepping, winds up his hips and unloads an inside forearm block at the Biker’s leopard’s paw palm strike firing forward. The blade of the Blinder’s forearm bone clashes onto the Biker’s elbow at the exact moment his arm extends to its limit. The sheer momentum of the Biker’s strike snaps his own elbow back, folding his arm the opposite way with a loud crack that reverberates throughout the inky-blackness.
In the same motion, the Blinder’s hips still turning, he lifts his back leg up and around in a wide arc, plundering it down into the side of the Biker’s shin, snapping his tibia bone in half so viciously that one end of his shattered bone rips through his skin and dress pants—a white boney shard, wet with blood, juts out from the tear in his pants, his limp foot dangling, held to his leg only by muscle and flesh.
Before the Biker can fall, the Blinder dips low to the ground and launches up with a brutal upward elbow strike into the Biker’s chin, hammering his head back so hard that his helmet flies of his head, robbing him of his supernatural speed.
The helmet clatters on the ground as the Biker crumples onto the floor like a marionette, settling flat onto his back.
The Biker coughs out blood that shoots up and splatters back onto his maskless face.
The Blinder rises from his muay Thai stance, the rhythmic bouncing on his feet replaced by the heavy beating of his heart and labored heaving of his breaths.
The Biker turns onto his side of broken limbs and tries to push himself up with his one able arm, but rolls back onto his back, his once perfectly slicked bangs now hanging greasy over his closed eyes.
Suddenly, a low chuckle gurgles from the Biker’s lungs then slowly swells into bellowing laughter.
“It’s over, broski,” says the Blinder over the Biker’s hollow cackle.
“Then finish it!” the Biker snaps back, still laughing.
“You can’t follow me no way,” the Blinder says, turning his gaze to the storage unit’s door.
The Biker’s howling turns into quiet giggling.
“Sweety, you have no idea what to do with that kind of wealth,” the Biker snickers.
The Blinder stares down at the Biker, crippled, feeling almost sorry for him.
“Me, I got plans already set up,” the Biker’s tone turns dire. “Big ones—beyond your imagination. If we do this together, we’ll rule more than just Queens—more than just New York. You understand?”
“I got me own plans, broski.”
The Biker canvases the floor blindly with his one good arm, feeling around him for his horned helmet and gets inches close to it, unaware.
The Blinder walks silently to the helmet and kicks it away.
But the blunt sound of the kicked helmet is enough for the Biker to realize where the Blinder stands—very near.
The Biker plants his good foot onto the cement and shoots himself into a backspin, unleashing a Dragon’s Tail Whip sweep technique at the Blinder’s heel, throwing him off his feet, his back slamming into the hard floor.
And then the Biker is on top of him, grappling, feeling his way around the Blinder’s body, his touch becoming his sight in the absolute darkness.
The Biker switches to snake style kung fu, his lithe and writhing body slithering and securing the Blinder’s back before the Blinder can even realize the danger he’s in.
Wrapping his good leg across the Blinder’s belly, the Biker locks his good foot behind the thigh of his broken leg—still able from his knee up.
The Blinder thrusts down on the Biker’s leg trapping him when the Biker slithers his good arm under the Blinder’s chin and locks his palm over the bicep of his broken arm—crippled at the elbow, but his shoulder still strong.
Cranking his shoulder upwards like a lever, his good arm digs deeper, tighter, around the Blinder’s neck. The Blinder bashes his knuckles into the Biker’s arm but the chokehold is too deep. The Blinder’s cough reflex triggers but not even a single cough can escape the Blinder’s throat, slowly caving in on itself.
The Blinder scrambles to his feet, the Biker still wrapped around his back like a boa constrictor, squeezing the breath out of him—blocking the blood flow to his brain.
The Blinder throws a muay Thai uppercut over his shoulder, but the Biker’s chin is tucked under the Blinder’s shoulder blade. The punch does little damage to the hardest area at the top of the Biker’s skull, cutting a gash into his scalp—only a flesh wound.
The Blinder plows backwards, slamming the Biker against a concrete wall, but the Biker absorbs the impact.
The Blinder’s vision begins to dim, his world spinning, his blood robbed from his brain, his air stolen from his deflating lungs. He drops headfirst, driving his shoulder into the ground, attempting to slam the Biker’s head onto the cement floor. The Biker shifts his head over to the Blinder’s other side as his shoulder plumets into the ground, stunted.
Back on his hands and knees now, the Blinder’s vision fades. Sleep creeps into him as the Biker chuckles behind his ear.
“You could’ve had me, sweety,” the Biker snickers. “But you got a weakness…”
With the last of the Blinder’s fleeting strength, his vision completely gone now, he rises to his feet again.
“Your mercy,” the Biker whispers in his ear.
Staggering, the Blinder slogs forward a few paces then falls flat onto his hands and knees again—one of his hands landing on something smooth and hard—the Biker’s horned helmet.
The Blinder grabs the helmet with both hands, rises to his knees, and heaves the helmet over his shoulder. The longest horn on the Biker’s helmet plunges into his neck.
The Blinder pries the helmet’s horn out from the Biker’s flesh. A meter-long stream of blood spouts out from the Biker’s raptured jugular vein.
The Biker releases his body lock on the Blinder to slap his one able hand over the gash on his neck, and rolls onto his back, desperately pressing his palm into the mortal wound, but red runs like a leaking damn through his fingers.
The Blinder rises to his feet, hunkering over, coughing and gasping for breath, his hands grabbing onto his bent knees, his vision gradually returning.
He stares down at the Biker and sees, for the first time, a look of doom in his wide-open eyes.
“And you got a weakness, too, broski,” the Blinder whispers. “Your power.”
The Biker writhes and rolls onto his front, pressing his forehead into the cement, pushing his back up into an arch, inching his knees closer and closer under him, his broken arm dangling lifeless at his side, his good hand desperately clamping down on the slit on his neck. He rises up into a kneel, sitting back onto his heels, and looks up into the black abyss above.
The Blinder watches him, pity soaking into his chest then running down his body, like the Biker’s own blood pouring out through his fingers, drenching his black suit from its collar down to his black pants, the blood looking black itself, until it pools onto the ground in crimson around his knees, then slowly forms into a small river of murky red flowing across the cement floor.
The Biker tries to say something, more to himself than to anyone else, but his words come out in gurgles as he lowers his head, closes his eyes, letting his hand fall from his fatal wound to hang at his side, surrendering to a power beyond his command.
Only the gentle sound of blood trickling down the grated drain in the middle of the cement floor fills the dark oblivion and the dead silence.
To be continued next Wednesday in the SEASON FINALE of Five Deadly Rebels, Episode 11: A Bridge Over the River TIme, anywhere you get your podcasts. To learn more about the podcast, visit our website at fivedeadlyrebels.com. This has been a DimensionGate production.
