<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>
He isn't borderline old enough he is, same age as me and my main email address is still a Hotmail one
Dom.Dusk58008@AOL.com
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Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
STATUS: A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing 3 yrs ago
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Bio
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
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Dom.Dusk58008@AOL.com
<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>
Please, you think Dusk has enough money to own property? In this economy?
He has enough money for a Gmail account, and he's taking out a payday loan to get himself a replacement 'N'...
Dusk will get a moment of peace when he fixes this damn door.
The van drew to a rolling stop two parks down from the front of Liu's Fix-It.
Qing paused a moment and tapped the steering wheel, before finally finishing with a sigh. The total mental transformation needed to go from the situation he'd just experienced to back to home life.
The bell jingled overhead as he opened the door, and the buzzer sounded as his foot crossed the threshold.
The redundancy; the daily reminder of the change since they lost his mother.
"Ba!" Qing called out, in case the two warnings weren't enough.
They were, but he was busy. There was a regular at the cash register.
"I'm sorry. I should probably take my television somewhere else. We're moving house..."
"You're moving?"
"Evening, Mrs Wing." Qing tried to gently make his fresh presence known. His father's greeting was a slight hand raise, as his eyes never left the customer.
"Yes, across town. Chinatown. But it's a long way for the television, and our contact information wouldn't be the same. I don't still have the stub and it would be tougher to make it here. We received an offer for the place and since our neighbours were killed, it doesn't seem as safe anymore."
"'s fine." Bo Wen replied. "Qing can bring television when done. What happened?"
"So you're just gonna volunteer my van up as your shop's delivery service, lă obà..?" Bo Wen made another swatting hand gesture. He hated when he'd call him that. Qing knew and did it on purpose. Made him sound old, and at the moment he was too interested in Mrs Wing's story for the distraction.
"It was a sword..." She replied. "Truly horrible. Mr Zheng was butchered, I heard it from Mister Zhou's young son, Kim, who just passed through the police academy. Otherwise we would have never known how."
"A sword?" Bo Wen was taken aback. "Who kills someone with a sword in these times?"
"In this crazy city, it probably doesn't narrow things down as much as you'd think..." Qing glibly added, whilst starting to close around his father for the night. He was busy with a customer, if he didn't make some effort to close the store, the lights could well remain on long into the night.
The buzzer sounded again as he passed the entrance to bring in the shopfront sign. Accompanied by the bell.
A thought drifted through his mind from earlier, as he carried the sign back through the door with another buzz and a ding-a-ling.
"So who are you selling to, Mrs Wing?"
"I don't know. I was just told there was an offer present that was very generous, when I asked how much, the agent told us the amount."
"Hmm." Qing mused. He had his suspicions.
"It makes sense, we've had other neighbours selling up and moving as well."
"And your place was down on Phillips..?"
"That's right."
West of Brubaker... Qing clocked. Everything tied together.
Bo Wen looked at his son with curiosity. He didn't socialise with customers as much as he did, but when he did, conversation was seldom as stilted. As interrogatory. Singular short questions and answers.
"Just moving to Chinatown?" Bo Wen asked hopefully.
"Yes, we won't be strangers. But I was worried since I don't still have the stub..."
"Oh don't worry! Mrs Wing is regular!" He said, beaming widely.
"...And with the size of the television to take it across town."
"We could make you up another stub right now if you feel so bad about it..."
He felt the old man's eyes on him. They bore a hole in him which omitted Qing's deep sigh.
"...and I could probably run your television down to your new address when he's done with it."
"He could easily leave for you or husband, or your delightful young daughter Lian." The old man's hospitable smile was wide.
"Hey-- wait..." Qing finally realised what the old man was doing. He thought he'd just been pushing him into customer service, but, now he realised the depths of his ulterior motives.
"Oh, no. Lian's gone away for college. She's actually been doing really well with her studies..."
Qing sees the old man's face fall and brightens. Yeah, take that you sneaky old...
"Must be holidays soon though. Nice to have her home then? When are they?"
Oh don't you even think about it, you diabolical old--
"Yes, school holidays are again in a month's time..."
"Well that's great! Television take about one month for fix! You rememb--"
"But Lian will be taking an educational sabbatical. Along with a few of her friends, they're actually going away to intern at a series of very successful businesses in their corporate offices."
"Well, you heard the old man. Television should be fixed in one month. Hope it looks great in your new place. I'll bring it right over when its done. In one month." I pat my crestfallen father on the back, with my widest genuine smile, and revel in the fact that I 'won one' for a change.
Farewells are made and as Mrs Wing walks out into the night, Bo Wen hits Qing.
<"What is wrong with you?"> The old man barks at the younger one in Wu.
<"Me? Nothing. Don't involve yourself."> Qing replied in kind.
<"Lian is a delightful young girl."> He continues. <"I don't understand what you could possibly have against--">
<"She's currently pursuing a masters in Business Administration, minoring in Finance and is about to intern at Fortune 500 companies where she's going to be looking to make the connections required for continuing her career after graduation. I own a van and fix people's pipes, wiring, air conditioning or dry wall.">
<"She doesn't seem the kind who would think of--">
<"If she's not then she's a fool, and I don't think of her a fool. But besides the fact we are in two different worlds, my greater point was more that neither of us have the time.">
<"I have my business... and when I don't have my business, I have CLOSING YOUR business..."> He slapped the sides of the register to prove his point.
<"Do not use me for your excuse! You know full we-- what is it?"> Bo Wen saw Qing curse and re-open the register.
<"Ah! I told Mrs Wing I'd write her up a new stub..."> He pulled slips from the register.
<"Why? I said she's a regular and that it's not necessary...">
<"Yes, I know that. I know I didn't have to, except I said that I'd actually do it. And what you always say about customer service...">
<"Always deliver what you said you were going to do. Our word is our promise, And our promise is our bond. On it!"> He scrawled down the name, and stopped by the TV on the shelf to jot down the job reference number, before running out the door. The bell and buzzer's warning in his wake.
Phillips Street... Phillips Street... He repeated in his head as he ran down the city streets past every major corner.
She can't have gotten too far... She's just a sweet old lad--
Suddenly a scream punctured the night.
Phillips Street... West of Brubaker... It was a sword... Mr Zheng was butchered...
"Mrs WIIING!" He called out into the night, breaking into a sprint.
Hitting Phillips he turned the corner and caught sight of the old woman standing before him, frozen in place, staring down a backalley.
"Mrs Wing? Are you alright? I found you... Just made you... another stub."
The older woman raised her hand in silence and point down the alleyway. Qing turned his head to follow her raising arm, and at the end saw a lone figure wearing a balaklava standing on a fire escape. Steel's glint winking a reflection of the moonlight.
"The Muramasa blade thirsts tonight..." He held it drawn, with two hands. More a baseball player's stance than a samurai. The burden of the weight clearly foreign to the wielder, despite how light a katana would usually be.
This was not a man used to brandishing a blade, so he leant into that which was more familiar.
The Muramasa blade.
Where the tales and legends of historic lore met briefly with those told by and of his own family.
The Masamune and Muramasa blades, of peace and war, from famed Japanese swordsmiths of the generation gap between the Kamakura period and the Muromachi period. Masamune's came to be known for peace, compassion and respectable authority, whilst Muramasa's were renowned for razor sharp blades which could cut through anything and everything without discernment.
His great grandmother had once seen one up close, and later heard of its relentless thirst for blood in the rape of Nanjing.
Muramasa and Masamune were both actual people, however, and had a legacy of actual swords left in their wake.
Not all were truly Yoto - cursed weapons - but from his own family's experience he didn't doubt that they were truly out there.
Nor that he was watching one wink back at him, in the amateur hands of this man who threatened to quench its thirst all the same.
With one hand he gently moved Mrs Wing beyond the alley and stepped forth into the breach.
Everything he had ever learned about how to fight against weapons sounded off like a klaxon between his ears. In this place he would need all of it in a fight which would see him given no quarter.
In this place he faced death.
Breathe in.
"It thirsts for YOU!" The masked figure jumped down from the fire escape onto a dumpster.
Breathe out.
![]()
Qing advanced into the alleyway. Every natural instinct told him to stay between the swordsman and Mrs Wing, but he was determined to do the opposite. Qing made himself the bigger threat, his posture and his presence. Pushing beyond in the alley he would make the sword advance away from Mrs Wing, giving her the opportunity to flee. And for the swordsman to advance on Mrs Wing it would mean turning his back to Qing.
So he kept his distance and pushed further into the alley, maintaining a bagua circle. A stable core and hands pronounced, with fluid motion.
The man dropped from the dumpster and advanced on him.
He had less room to negotiate, worse for combat against a bladed weapon, and he could see Mrs Wing peeking around the corner at the entrance to the alley rather than taking the opportunity to run.
Great...
Below the swordsman's hip the scabbard dangled from a threaded cord. Nothing about him demonstrated any proficiency or respect for the weapon he brandished more like a bat than a blade.
It remained an extension of the man's body, but the body had an extra flawed 'joint'.
"I have already drawn the blade! It thirsts--!"
"You really... have no idea what you've got there, do you? No respect for what you're--"
"I have your end!!" He lunged forward and swung with both hands.
With a quick v-step, Qing effortlessly evaded the home run attempt. Gauging the distance and speed.
<"I don't even mean Muramasa..."> Qing spoke in extremely rudimentary Japanese.<"I mean a sword... in general... the weapon."> He switched to Mandarin.
The swordsman gave no inclination or suggestion that he understood or even cared what Qing was saying. Qing took note. He racked his brains trying to think of the Cantonese sentence he'd once heard his father use, before it came back to him.
<"Do you even know how to use that thing?"> He mimicked in Cantonese with an exaggerated twang.
Still no sign of recognition whatsoever.
"Hope you finished your last words, because the blade and I have heard enough!"
Another swing. This time larger, as he finished with one hand instead of two to extend his reach. Qing effortlessly kept his distance again, re-adjusting for the new range of the swing.
"I'll keep it to English for the ignorant. That sword costs a fortune and there's no way you know how to use it, let alone how to acquire one. How did you get it?"
"Since you're so interested, I'll let you see it up close!" Another v-step, allowing the blade to pass...
...and explodes through with a quick stride.
Qing put one hand on the wrist that held the blade and let the other drop by the man's hip. He grabbed the scabbard, and as the masked man panicked and whipped the blade back, Qing angled the saya between the pair, and the katana slid down it's perfectly crafted edge and sang as it drew first blood.
The masked man cursed as he cut himself. Qing responded with a clean sidekick to the solar plexus and the man flew back into bagged up garbage, struggling to regain his breath. The katana clattered to the bitumen.
Qing walked over to the weapon with the saya, never taking his eye from the masked man. He bent down to pick up the sword, and his head swirled. With sweet promises, and plans and visions of a future carved clean from it's means and stained with blood. He'd hold a force, a chi beyond reckoning, and anything he could want could be in reach. It wanted what he wanted. It knew him how nobody else did.
It understood the power and feeling of life's energies taken and put to use.
He looked at the man before them, in his bed of trash. What could this man really offer any kind of just world. He was about to take his life after all.
And he looked back down the alley. Mrs Wing peeked on still.
She was only a different shade of red.
"Mrs Wiiiing..! Run!" It took everything he had to release the blade. The katana clattered back to the ground.
He dropped to his hindquarters away from it as they both fell from each other. He felt hollow. And could only imagine how impossible it would have been if he'd actually drawn the blade from it's saya, rather than picked it up after it had freshly tasted blood.
He didn't have the energy to try again. And the masked man was now regaining his strength.
Qing turned and ran back down the alleyway. Never stopped looking behind them as he walked Mrs Wing home.
Qing walked back through the shop, as his father spoke into his phone.
"Thank you. Yes, he is here now. Thank you again." With a targeted aged finger he hung up the phone - new technology.
"That was--"
"Mrs Wing."
"Yes. She just want to know you got home safe. She said both ran into man with sword."
<"Not just a sword. It's a Muramasa blade."> Qing took things to Wu where his father would be more comfortable.
<"A Muramasa blade? Like Grandmother?">
<"Exactly. Like Great Grandma.">
<"Could it really--">
<"Oh. It was the real deal alright. Trust me on that. Cursed sword gets mighty talkative. And it's being wielded by someone local. American.">
<"You saw his face? You're sure? Mrs Wing said--"
<"He wore a mask. But he doesn't speak Japanese, Mandarin or Cantonese... so its a pretty good bet.">
<"You don't even speak Cantonese... Or Japanese."> The old man raised an eyebrow.
<"Do you even know how to use that thing?"> Qing mimicked once again, exaggerating the Cantonese twang even further. "I learned it by watching you, Dad!" He mimicked an old anti-drug PSA statement with an equal Americanised twang to his English.
<"And some of the Japanese they used to make us take in school stuck apparently. Congratulations, you didn't waste your money."> Returning to the good old Wu dialect.
<"A Muramasa blade... Do you think they know we're here?">
<"Who? The Japanese Imperial Army that Great Grandma was trying to hold out from in the Rape of Nanjing? I think they might be over it, Ba... Or the CCP who we fled from who have nothing whatsoever to do with an ancient Japanese sword? I'm pretty sure it's a coincedence.">
<"Still, it's worrying.">
<"It is. Someone or something has to stop the guy.>"
<"Well, it's a good thing we live in this city full of heroes then. Powerful people who are the best of American values!">
Qing pictured a flying man. Someone who could fire powerful beams from their eyes. A person who could lift a bus over their head picking up the sword. Looking out amongst the people. And what a 'hero' like that might see.
A different shade of red.
"Shit..." His English came back.
"What?"
I'm going to have to take care of this myself, aren't I?
"What?
"Oh, I've just got a phone call. That's all."
Qing pulled his phone out and answered it with the business name.
Qing paused a moment and tapped the steering wheel, before finally finishing with a sigh. The total mental transformation needed to go from the situation he'd just experienced to back to home life.
The bell jingled overhead as he opened the door, and the buzzer sounded as his foot crossed the threshold.
The redundancy; the daily reminder of the change since they lost his mother.
"Ba!" Qing called out, in case the two warnings weren't enough.
They were, but he was busy. There was a regular at the cash register.
"I'm sorry. I should probably take my television somewhere else. We're moving house..."
"You're moving?"
"Evening, Mrs Wing." Qing tried to gently make his fresh presence known. His father's greeting was a slight hand raise, as his eyes never left the customer.
"Yes, across town. Chinatown. But it's a long way for the television, and our contact information wouldn't be the same. I don't still have the stub and it would be tougher to make it here. We received an offer for the place and since our neighbours were killed, it doesn't seem as safe anymore."
"'s fine." Bo Wen replied. "Qing can bring television when done. What happened?"
"So you're just gonna volunteer my van up as your shop's delivery service, lă obà..?" Bo Wen made another swatting hand gesture. He hated when he'd call him that. Qing knew and did it on purpose. Made him sound old, and at the moment he was too interested in Mrs Wing's story for the distraction.
"It was a sword..." She replied. "Truly horrible. Mr Zheng was butchered, I heard it from Mister Zhou's young son, Kim, who just passed through the police academy. Otherwise we would have never known how."
"A sword?" Bo Wen was taken aback. "Who kills someone with a sword in these times?"
"In this crazy city, it probably doesn't narrow things down as much as you'd think..." Qing glibly added, whilst starting to close around his father for the night. He was busy with a customer, if he didn't make some effort to close the store, the lights could well remain on long into the night.
The buzzer sounded again as he passed the entrance to bring in the shopfront sign. Accompanied by the bell.
A thought drifted through his mind from earlier, as he carried the sign back through the door with another buzz and a ding-a-ling.
"So who are you selling to, Mrs Wing?"
"I don't know. I was just told there was an offer present that was very generous, when I asked how much, the agent told us the amount."
"Hmm." Qing mused. He had his suspicions.
"It makes sense, we've had other neighbours selling up and moving as well."
"And your place was down on Phillips..?"
"That's right."
West of Brubaker... Qing clocked. Everything tied together.
Bo Wen looked at his son with curiosity. He didn't socialise with customers as much as he did, but when he did, conversation was seldom as stilted. As interrogatory. Singular short questions and answers.
"Just moving to Chinatown?" Bo Wen asked hopefully.
"Yes, we won't be strangers. But I was worried since I don't still have the stub..."
"Oh don't worry! Mrs Wing is regular!" He said, beaming widely.
"...And with the size of the television to take it across town."
"We could make you up another stub right now if you feel so bad about it..."
He felt the old man's eyes on him. They bore a hole in him which omitted Qing's deep sigh.
"...and I could probably run your television down to your new address when he's done with it."
"He could easily leave for you or husband, or your delightful young daughter Lian." The old man's hospitable smile was wide.
"Hey-- wait..." Qing finally realised what the old man was doing. He thought he'd just been pushing him into customer service, but, now he realised the depths of his ulterior motives.
"Oh, no. Lian's gone away for college. She's actually been doing really well with her studies..."
Qing sees the old man's face fall and brightens. Yeah, take that you sneaky old...
"Must be holidays soon though. Nice to have her home then? When are they?"
Oh don't you even think about it, you diabolical old--
"Yes, school holidays are again in a month's time..."
"Well that's great! Television take about one month for fix! You rememb--"
"But Lian will be taking an educational sabbatical. Along with a few of her friends, they're actually going away to intern at a series of very successful businesses in their corporate offices."
"Well, you heard the old man. Television should be fixed in one month. Hope it looks great in your new place. I'll bring it right over when its done. In one month." I pat my crestfallen father on the back, with my widest genuine smile, and revel in the fact that I 'won one' for a change.
Farewells are made and as Mrs Wing walks out into the night, Bo Wen hits Qing.
<"What is wrong with you?"> The old man barks at the younger one in Wu.
<"Me? Nothing. Don't involve yourself."> Qing replied in kind.
<"Lian is a delightful young girl."> He continues. <"I don't understand what you could possibly have against--">
<"She's currently pursuing a masters in Business Administration, minoring in Finance and is about to intern at Fortune 500 companies where she's going to be looking to make the connections required for continuing her career after graduation. I own a van and fix people's pipes, wiring, air conditioning or dry wall.">
<"She doesn't seem the kind who would think of--">
<"If she's not then she's a fool, and I don't think of her a fool. But besides the fact we are in two different worlds, my greater point was more that neither of us have the time.">
<"I have my business... and when I don't have my business, I have CLOSING YOUR business..."> He slapped the sides of the register to prove his point.
<"Do not use me for your excuse! You know full we-- what is it?"> Bo Wen saw Qing curse and re-open the register.
<"Ah! I told Mrs Wing I'd write her up a new stub..."> He pulled slips from the register.
<"Why? I said she's a regular and that it's not necessary...">
<"Yes, I know that. I know I didn't have to, except I said that I'd actually do it. And what you always say about customer service...">
<"Always deliver what you said you were going to do. Our word is our promise, And our promise is our bond. On it!"> He scrawled down the name, and stopped by the TV on the shelf to jot down the job reference number, before running out the door. The bell and buzzer's warning in his wake.
Phillips Street... Phillips Street... He repeated in his head as he ran down the city streets past every major corner.
She can't have gotten too far... She's just a sweet old lad--
Suddenly a scream punctured the night.
Phillips Street... West of Brubaker... It was a sword... Mr Zheng was butchered...
"Mrs WIIING!" He called out into the night, breaking into a sprint.
Hitting Phillips he turned the corner and caught sight of the old woman standing before him, frozen in place, staring down a backalley.
"Mrs Wing? Are you alright? I found you... Just made you... another stub."
The older woman raised her hand in silence and point down the alleyway. Qing turned his head to follow her raising arm, and at the end saw a lone figure wearing a balaklava standing on a fire escape. Steel's glint winking a reflection of the moonlight.
"The Muramasa blade thirsts tonight..." He held it drawn, with two hands. More a baseball player's stance than a samurai. The burden of the weight clearly foreign to the wielder, despite how light a katana would usually be.
This was not a man used to brandishing a blade, so he leant into that which was more familiar.
The Muramasa blade.
Where the tales and legends of historic lore met briefly with those told by and of his own family.
The Masamune and Muramasa blades, of peace and war, from famed Japanese swordsmiths of the generation gap between the Kamakura period and the Muromachi period. Masamune's came to be known for peace, compassion and respectable authority, whilst Muramasa's were renowned for razor sharp blades which could cut through anything and everything without discernment.
His great grandmother had once seen one up close, and later heard of its relentless thirst for blood in the rape of Nanjing.
Muramasa and Masamune were both actual people, however, and had a legacy of actual swords left in their wake.
Not all were truly Yoto - cursed weapons - but from his own family's experience he didn't doubt that they were truly out there.
Nor that he was watching one wink back at him, in the amateur hands of this man who threatened to quench its thirst all the same.
With one hand he gently moved Mrs Wing beyond the alley and stepped forth into the breach.
Everything he had ever learned about how to fight against weapons sounded off like a klaxon between his ears. In this place he would need all of it in a fight which would see him given no quarter.
In this place he faced death.
Breathe in.
"It thirsts for YOU!" The masked figure jumped down from the fire escape onto a dumpster.
Breathe out.
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
Qing advanced into the alleyway. Every natural instinct told him to stay between the swordsman and Mrs Wing, but he was determined to do the opposite. Qing made himself the bigger threat, his posture and his presence. Pushing beyond in the alley he would make the sword advance away from Mrs Wing, giving her the opportunity to flee. And for the swordsman to advance on Mrs Wing it would mean turning his back to Qing.
So he kept his distance and pushed further into the alley, maintaining a bagua circle. A stable core and hands pronounced, with fluid motion.
The man dropped from the dumpster and advanced on him.
He had less room to negotiate, worse for combat against a bladed weapon, and he could see Mrs Wing peeking around the corner at the entrance to the alley rather than taking the opportunity to run.
Great...
Below the swordsman's hip the scabbard dangled from a threaded cord. Nothing about him demonstrated any proficiency or respect for the weapon he brandished more like a bat than a blade.
It remained an extension of the man's body, but the body had an extra flawed 'joint'.
"I have already drawn the blade! It thirsts--!"
"You really... have no idea what you've got there, do you? No respect for what you're--"
"I have your end!!" He lunged forward and swung with both hands.
With a quick v-step, Qing effortlessly evaded the home run attempt. Gauging the distance and speed.
<"I don't even mean Muramasa..."> Qing spoke in extremely rudimentary Japanese.<"I mean a sword... in general... the weapon."> He switched to Mandarin.
The swordsman gave no inclination or suggestion that he understood or even cared what Qing was saying. Qing took note. He racked his brains trying to think of the Cantonese sentence he'd once heard his father use, before it came back to him.
<"Do you even know how to use that thing?"> He mimicked in Cantonese with an exaggerated twang.
Still no sign of recognition whatsoever.
"Hope you finished your last words, because the blade and I have heard enough!"
Another swing. This time larger, as he finished with one hand instead of two to extend his reach. Qing effortlessly kept his distance again, re-adjusting for the new range of the swing.
"I'll keep it to English for the ignorant. That sword costs a fortune and there's no way you know how to use it, let alone how to acquire one. How did you get it?"
"Since you're so interested, I'll let you see it up close!" Another v-step, allowing the blade to pass...
...and explodes through with a quick stride.
Qing put one hand on the wrist that held the blade and let the other drop by the man's hip. He grabbed the scabbard, and as the masked man panicked and whipped the blade back, Qing angled the saya between the pair, and the katana slid down it's perfectly crafted edge and sang as it drew first blood.
The masked man cursed as he cut himself. Qing responded with a clean sidekick to the solar plexus and the man flew back into bagged up garbage, struggling to regain his breath. The katana clattered to the bitumen.
Qing walked over to the weapon with the saya, never taking his eye from the masked man. He bent down to pick up the sword, and his head swirled. With sweet promises, and plans and visions of a future carved clean from it's means and stained with blood. He'd hold a force, a chi beyond reckoning, and anything he could want could be in reach. It wanted what he wanted. It knew him how nobody else did.
It understood the power and feeling of life's energies taken and put to use.
He looked at the man before them, in his bed of trash. What could this man really offer any kind of just world. He was about to take his life after all.
And he looked back down the alley. Mrs Wing peeked on still.
She was only a different shade of red.
"Mrs Wiiiing..! Run!" It took everything he had to release the blade. The katana clattered back to the ground.
He dropped to his hindquarters away from it as they both fell from each other. He felt hollow. And could only imagine how impossible it would have been if he'd actually drawn the blade from it's saya, rather than picked it up after it had freshly tasted blood.
He didn't have the energy to try again. And the masked man was now regaining his strength.
Qing turned and ran back down the alleyway. Never stopped looking behind them as he walked Mrs Wing home.
Qing walked back through the shop, as his father spoke into his phone.
"Thank you. Yes, he is here now. Thank you again." With a targeted aged finger he hung up the phone - new technology.
"That was--"
"Mrs Wing."
"Yes. She just want to know you got home safe. She said both ran into man with sword."
<"Not just a sword. It's a Muramasa blade."> Qing took things to Wu where his father would be more comfortable.
<"A Muramasa blade? Like Grandmother?">
<"Exactly. Like Great Grandma.">
<"Could it really--">
<"Oh. It was the real deal alright. Trust me on that. Cursed sword gets mighty talkative. And it's being wielded by someone local. American.">
<"You saw his face? You're sure? Mrs Wing said--"
<"He wore a mask. But he doesn't speak Japanese, Mandarin or Cantonese... so its a pretty good bet.">
<"You don't even speak Cantonese... Or Japanese."> The old man raised an eyebrow.
<"Do you even know how to use that thing?"> Qing mimicked once again, exaggerating the Cantonese twang even further. "I learned it by watching you, Dad!" He mimicked an old anti-drug PSA statement with an equal Americanised twang to his English.
<"And some of the Japanese they used to make us take in school stuck apparently. Congratulations, you didn't waste your money."> Returning to the good old Wu dialect.
<"A Muramasa blade... Do you think they know we're here?">
<"Who? The Japanese Imperial Army that Great Grandma was trying to hold out from in the Rape of Nanjing? I think they might be over it, Ba... Or the CCP who we fled from who have nothing whatsoever to do with an ancient Japanese sword? I'm pretty sure it's a coincedence.">
<"Still, it's worrying.">
<"It is. Someone or something has to stop the guy.>"
<"Well, it's a good thing we live in this city full of heroes then. Powerful people who are the best of American values!">
Qing pictured a flying man. Someone who could fire powerful beams from their eyes. A person who could lift a bus over their head picking up the sword. Looking out amongst the people. And what a 'hero' like that might see.
A different shade of red.
"Shit..." His English came back.
"What?"
I'm going to have to take care of this myself, aren't I?
"What?
"Oh, I've just got a phone call. That's all."
Qing pulled his phone out and answered it with the business name.
Worn knuckles at ten and two.
Fresh panels of drywall and screws secured in the back.
Bright lights penetrate through the intermittent rain, too light to pool in the curbs or lead to the erection of umbrellas on the crowded streets.
Qing Yuan rubs the base of his palm with the fingertips of the same hand.
As traffic draws the car to a halt, he looks at the afflicted area.
No divot. The only sign of what happened, scorchmarks from the muzzle flare.
"I don't like that look you're giving me, Ching."
Breathe in.
The pressure of the gun surging into his core.
"Which is a shame, since I just learned how to say your name, and where you live. We coulda been best buds."
Breathe out.
Hands push down, that which is life swirls and surges, instinctually pushed to where he knows will need the energy.
"But I think I've got a better way to make sure you don't go cancelling those cards early..."
They find the threat. One moment. Death calls for him. Life stands in the breach.
He'd never done that before. Never used it in that way.
Fingertips run at the scorchmarks on his palm. The heat of the moment was all that remained.
And with the last of the dwindling embers of the life giving chi which he'd taken from his mother's killer dissipating as it effervesced in its finality.
The heat of the moment was all that remained.
I wanted to kill him...
To replace that which he lost. Even if only for a moment. The urge was there.
Worn knuckles return to ten and two.
And a forehead falls to twelve.
"Such a fuckup..."
![]()
The couple moved swiftly, not so much due to the current sprinkling, but the threat of a further downpour to come.
The irony of the most minor of inconveniences, which led them to the most life-changing of risks.
This corner, that back alley.
They were so close to home.
But of course they were. That is why they saw the steel gleam.
The blade in the moonlight.
The husband stood in front of the wife to protect her.
But that only decided the order in which they would fall.
The Muramasa blade drank well that night. They had not been the first course for the evening.
They would not be the last.
It ended with a hand on his shoulder.
Pulled back to reality as if his actions were all from a dream.
There were no martial arts present. He'd thrown all of his learning aside for raw brutality.
And it might be why the mashed pulp of a man in front of him right now was still breathing.
"Qing... Qing, the police are coming. I've called them."
The gun was slid across the floor by the entrance. The clip and loose bullet, in the other direction under shelving.
Floating, as if outside of his own body. He got back to his feet and dropped the remains of the man on the shop floor.
"Go get some fresh drywall and I-I'll ring you up. Y-You don't need to pay for that broken stuff. We'll write it off as damaged in the attempt. Just come over here and clean your hands up first." The cashier pulled sanitizer and wet wipes from a corner of the counter.
Qing Yuan cleaned the blood from his hands, using multiple wipes and dried them on the back of his clothes once the red was gone.
He floated back to the drywall and returned with new panelling, paid and left without remembering saying another word. Although he was certain the cashier never stopped filling the air with words, he couldn't rightly remember any of what he'd been saying.
He just felt the absence.
It was practically all but gone.
That which he took from his mother's killer, mere motes floating in a shallow pool of his own chi.
And as he'd doubtless replenish his own chi in the future, they'd doubtless only be further diluted in the future.
That was the thing, that which he took from others was always only a finite amount. But his own could always be harnessed, further cultivated, replenished and added to with time and effort in the principles of qigong.
He'd never done anything like it before. And now, what remained of it was almost completely gone... and after today, would probably barely be felt again. Before he left, he looked down at the beaten man, all that remained in him was life's breath. He could take that too.
He could.
The bell rang as Qing drifted away with his drywall and screws.
The masked white figure moved behind the airtight glass. The specially sourced manuka flowers bloom bright in their glass prison, obscured intermittently by winged workers.
Sterling Silver sat behind the display with a glass of scotch and dwindling ice, watching the display.
The worker in white took the top off of the box and a plume of angry life erupted in his face.
Silver scowled and got to his feet. Swirled his glass, to attract his worker's attention with the movement. The man looked up and saw his expression, a look of horror for disappointing his employer obscured only by the screen of his mask.
"After expenses, I paid over $10,000 dollars for that Ligurian queen... You hit the smoke before you open the box."
He never raised his voice, it would have made no difference with the multiplex airtight glass, but his point found it's way to the masked man nonetheless, who nodded nervously and hit a button on the wall.
Smoke descended from vents in the apiary. The anger left the life, and the bees were quelled, the masked figure carefully raised a frame of perfectly constructed honeycomb from the box, holding it aloft in display.
Silver sat back in his chair, drank and watched whilst the honey was extracted.
His phone vibrated with a white screen. He answered soundlessly.
"With the latest purchases, we should have 87% of the property for the new development under control by the end of the week."
"Understood." He hung up. There was no thanks. No sign of appreciation. This was another worker performing his function for the man as to be expected. He finished his drink.
The carrot had worked well. And the stick had encouraged many more to bite at the carrot.
Silver got to his feet and walked back to prepare a second. He removed the ice from the freezer of the mini-bar fridge.
It had almost worked too well.
He reached up above the shelf of select antiquities, with the noteably missing katana, to the liquor cabinet and the 30 year old Glenfiddich bottle that awaited another pour. There was a 50 year Glenfaracas that was awaiting him in celebration for once the new development was complete. But until that day, it's not done until its done.
He glanced at the empty blocks where the blade had once been.
It was remarkable how effective a gift in the right hands could be.
Of course, for appearances, he'd had it reported stolen.
It wouldn't do him well to be connected with the works of that specific sword.
He'd found one more willing worker and the Muramasa blade had done the rest. Made him... even more willing still.
And the police report should put a nice neat bow on things when the work was done and it was time to draw things to a close.
The masked figure drew another frame from the beehive.
Silver swirled his scotch and raised it once more to his lips. Always wonderful, the fruits of workers put to best use.
Fresh panels of drywall and screws secured in the back.
Bright lights penetrate through the intermittent rain, too light to pool in the curbs or lead to the erection of umbrellas on the crowded streets.
Qing Yuan rubs the base of his palm with the fingertips of the same hand.
As traffic draws the car to a halt, he looks at the afflicted area.
No divot. The only sign of what happened, scorchmarks from the muzzle flare.
"I don't like that look you're giving me, Ching."
Breathe in.
The pressure of the gun surging into his core.
"Which is a shame, since I just learned how to say your name, and where you live. We coulda been best buds."
Breathe out.
Hands push down, that which is life swirls and surges, instinctually pushed to where he knows will need the energy.
"But I think I've got a better way to make sure you don't go cancelling those cards early..."
They find the threat. One moment. Death calls for him. Life stands in the breach.
He'd never done that before. Never used it in that way.
Fingertips run at the scorchmarks on his palm. The heat of the moment was all that remained.
And with the last of the dwindling embers of the life giving chi which he'd taken from his mother's killer dissipating as it effervesced in its finality.
The heat of the moment was all that remained.
I wanted to kill him...
To replace that which he lost. Even if only for a moment. The urge was there.
Worn knuckles return to ten and two.
And a forehead falls to twelve.
"Such a fuckup..."
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
The couple moved swiftly, not so much due to the current sprinkling, but the threat of a further downpour to come.
The irony of the most minor of inconveniences, which led them to the most life-changing of risks.
This corner, that back alley.
They were so close to home.
But of course they were. That is why they saw the steel gleam.
The blade in the moonlight.
The husband stood in front of the wife to protect her.
But that only decided the order in which they would fall.
The Muramasa blade drank well that night. They had not been the first course for the evening.
They would not be the last.
It ended with a hand on his shoulder.
Pulled back to reality as if his actions were all from a dream.
There were no martial arts present. He'd thrown all of his learning aside for raw brutality.
And it might be why the mashed pulp of a man in front of him right now was still breathing.
"Qing... Qing, the police are coming. I've called them."
The gun was slid across the floor by the entrance. The clip and loose bullet, in the other direction under shelving.
Floating, as if outside of his own body. He got back to his feet and dropped the remains of the man on the shop floor.
"Go get some fresh drywall and I-I'll ring you up. Y-You don't need to pay for that broken stuff. We'll write it off as damaged in the attempt. Just come over here and clean your hands up first." The cashier pulled sanitizer and wet wipes from a corner of the counter.
Qing Yuan cleaned the blood from his hands, using multiple wipes and dried them on the back of his clothes once the red was gone.
He floated back to the drywall and returned with new panelling, paid and left without remembering saying another word. Although he was certain the cashier never stopped filling the air with words, he couldn't rightly remember any of what he'd been saying.
He just felt the absence.
It was practically all but gone.
That which he took from his mother's killer, mere motes floating in a shallow pool of his own chi.
And as he'd doubtless replenish his own chi in the future, they'd doubtless only be further diluted in the future.
That was the thing, that which he took from others was always only a finite amount. But his own could always be harnessed, further cultivated, replenished and added to with time and effort in the principles of qigong.
He'd never done anything like it before. And now, what remained of it was almost completely gone... and after today, would probably barely be felt again. Before he left, he looked down at the beaten man, all that remained in him was life's breath. He could take that too.
He could.
The bell rang as Qing drifted away with his drywall and screws.
The masked white figure moved behind the airtight glass. The specially sourced manuka flowers bloom bright in their glass prison, obscured intermittently by winged workers.
Sterling Silver sat behind the display with a glass of scotch and dwindling ice, watching the display.
The worker in white took the top off of the box and a plume of angry life erupted in his face.
Silver scowled and got to his feet. Swirled his glass, to attract his worker's attention with the movement. The man looked up and saw his expression, a look of horror for disappointing his employer obscured only by the screen of his mask.
"After expenses, I paid over $10,000 dollars for that Ligurian queen... You hit the smoke before you open the box."
He never raised his voice, it would have made no difference with the multiplex airtight glass, but his point found it's way to the masked man nonetheless, who nodded nervously and hit a button on the wall.
Smoke descended from vents in the apiary. The anger left the life, and the bees were quelled, the masked figure carefully raised a frame of perfectly constructed honeycomb from the box, holding it aloft in display.
Silver sat back in his chair, drank and watched whilst the honey was extracted.
His phone vibrated with a white screen. He answered soundlessly.
"With the latest purchases, we should have 87% of the property for the new development under control by the end of the week."
"Understood." He hung up. There was no thanks. No sign of appreciation. This was another worker performing his function for the man as to be expected. He finished his drink.
The carrot had worked well. And the stick had encouraged many more to bite at the carrot.
Silver got to his feet and walked back to prepare a second. He removed the ice from the freezer of the mini-bar fridge.
It had almost worked too well.
He reached up above the shelf of select antiquities, with the noteably missing katana, to the liquor cabinet and the 30 year old Glenfiddich bottle that awaited another pour. There was a 50 year Glenfaracas that was awaiting him in celebration for once the new development was complete. But until that day, it's not done until its done.
He glanced at the empty blocks where the blade had once been.
It was remarkable how effective a gift in the right hands could be.
Of course, for appearances, he'd had it reported stolen.
It wouldn't do him well to be connected with the works of that specific sword.
He'd found one more willing worker and the Muramasa blade had done the rest. Made him... even more willing still.
And the police report should put a nice neat bow on things when the work was done and it was time to draw things to a close.
The masked figure drew another frame from the beehive.
Silver swirled his scotch and raised it once more to his lips. Always wonderful, the fruits of workers put to best use.
Tyres briefly lurch to a halt as a handbrake is ratcheted on.
Well worn knuckles rap against a solid apartment door.
"Oh... Are you the one here to fix our toilet..?"
![]()
Qing Yuan is escorted through the apartment to the problematic facilities. It's a two bedroom apartment, but little more. Combined laundry and bathroom. The kitchenette only has one sink. And as his tools are put down to get a better look at the offending commode, it's next to a joint bath/shower with browning drain, and horrible curtain.
From elsewhere outside of the bathroom the television is blaring.
"So it's--"
"Not flushing properly, and flooded onto your floor. Yeah, I see that. I've got an auger in the van too, but hopefully we won't need that."
The resident stands in the doorway behinds the work pensively. She's rubbing her arms standing awkwardly.
The waterflow is killed with the tap behind the bowl. Hit the flush and... nope.
"Do you have a bucket? Even... a big bowl?"
The resident disappears for a moment, leaving space for the tension to breathe.
I spot something on the bathroom countertop next to the toilet and air freshener and things start to make more sense. A sigh of disappointed recognition leaves me.
A familiar voice comes from the television, and I make my way out, still waiting on the resident's return.
They're interviewing public figures who made an appearance at the memorial of one of those heroes who just passed. The Mountain.
The well coiffed hair of Sterling Silver adorns the screen.
"He was... well, as his name described, a mountain of a figure. Strong and unyielding. A majestic, high-symbol for all to see, and now we who remain have the difficult question of 'where do we go from here?', 'what can we as people do for our fellow man to raise us up in the shadow of what has just been taken from us?'..."
Silver was a real estate mogul. He'd built major developments in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles.
Then, for some reason, he set his sights on Calder.
"...well, something tells me the people of Hudson, are going to be very pleased in the coming days, at an answer we have for them."
The resident handed him a big salad bowl. A deep furrow had creased Qing Yuan's brow related to what he was watching.
No. Not the tactlessness of Silver in using this somber moment of a public memorial to spotlight himself and his plans. The man was known to be a self-aggrandizing textbook narcissist. That was the least surprising thing that just took place. He just couldnt put his finger on it.
He took the bowl back to the toilet and began to bail out the water in the toilet bowl into the bathtub.
The description of the Mountain?
Water drained.
No... sounded scripted. The 'questions'?
More water drained down the bath.
No. More rhetoric.
Enough water this time that the bathtub gurgled.
"...well something tells me the people of Hudson..."
He put the bowl down and grabbed the plunger.
That was it... He'd never actually heard the man refer to the place as Hudson. He'd use the name Calder, but never Hudson. He'd always use an old term for it...
He began forceful use of the plunger, as the mogul's past words rang back in his ears.
"...the Devil's Playground..."
It had stood out, because it always stuck in his father's craw. The old man hated to hear anything negative said about his new home. And Silver had a tendency to never do anything but. So what cha--
"Has he tried to buy you too?"
"Hmm..?"
The resident was back behind him in the doorway, arms crossed, probably from a combination of the cold and not knowing what to do with her hands with the stranger in her home.
"Silver. I have friends who live in Hudson too. He tried to buy their place, they didn't sell, but a bunch of their neighbours did. Kids had just started school and they'd put too much work in trying to find the perfect place to get them zoned for it. I was just thinking... since you're out of Hudson too. Maybe he'd tried--"
That'd make sense. Making moves to buy up swathes of land for a big development... and now he's probably bought enough it was time to stop talking down the area's reputation. Incredibly transparent when you had enough of the pieces to make the picture.
"No. But we wouldn't be in a hurry to move anyway."
"You might be too far away anyway. My friends, they're west of Brubaker, and further south than your shop."
"Could be that too."
He pulled the plunger clear and the water drained.
"Oh! You've fixed it!"
"Uh! I've unclogged it enough that the water's draining." Qing Yuan said, with a 'not-so-fast-there' tone.
He waited until the basin was drained and then set to work undoing the PVC piping behind the bowl.
"You can't flush these." He said, jerking a thumb to a packet of wet wipes that were sitting on the bathroom countertop.
"Uhh... It says they're flushable." She replied.
"It does. But you shouldn't. All they have to do is demonstrate that a clean wet wipe will flush down a clean toiletbowl without adverse effect. But they're denser that toilet paper. They don't break down, and the fibres, they get caught on..." Qing Yuan looked down the S-bend he held in his hands.
"Uhh... are you flushing cooking oil down your toilet?"
"Well you can't tip it down the sink. They say it's no good for the pipes."
Qing Yuan's eyes doubled in size at the response.
"Not good for the-- what do you think a toilet is..?"
"Well yeah. But the pipes are... I dunno... Aren't they bigger?"
Qing Yuan chose to ignore the question to avoid insulting the customer.
"I've got some degreaser in the van. I'm going to clean this... and hopefully we can get you away without needing to buy a whole new S-bend and trap. If we can, we can save you... somewhere between twice and three times your money. And then after that, you're not going to flush anything weird down your toilet again."
Qing Yuan pulled over out the front of the hardware store.
He could probably pull some of the stuff for the job tomorrow from the shop, but if he bought it here he'd immediately be able to produce a quote on the drywall and fixings used.
Plus it would already be in his van.
The bell rang overhead as he walked in. He gave the cursory nod to the counter, before raising his eyebrows in silent gesture that he knew where he was going for what he wanted and what he'd be buying would be quick.
It was already dark and not long before close of business.
He didn't hear the bell again, whilst he was fingering the selection of dry wall screws finding the desired lengths and gauge.
A few minutes later he shuffled to the front of the store with the sheets of board and selection of screws.
The man in front of him flashed steel, and his demeanour immediately swung the atmosphere. The energy in the shopfront changed.
"Empty the till! Gimme all the damn cash that's in there! Go! Go! Go! Now!"
The man behind the register nodded, looking as beset upon as he currently should do. He flashed a glance at Qing Yuan who did his best to look stony faced.
The glance was intercepted by the man with the gun. Qing Yuan internally swore.
"You! Not so fast!" He swung the gun from being pointed at the cashier, to pointing it at Qing Yuan.
"I'm carrying drywall. I'm not doing anything fast."
"Funny. Stay right where you are."
"This isn't really a great idea. I mean, he's going to give you what's in the registers, but it's probably not that much. Places like this... they do bank runs before nightfall. And most of their business is by tradesmen. And unless they're doing questionable business under the table, most don't pay by cash. They pay by card. Because it makes it easier to do their accounting."
"Shut up!" The man got more agitated. "That's it, I'm robbing you! Gimme your wallet!"
"Sure. Sure, that's fine." Qing Yuan pulled his wallet out and dropped it on the floor between the two men discussing the finer points of robbing a hardware store.
The man with the gun scooped it up. "Yeah. I got your money. How'd'you feel now, smart guy?"
"Well... there's only like fifteen bucks cash in there. Like I said. I was gonna pay all this stuff off by by card. Which I'm gonna call up and cancel the second we're done here." Then he stopped and called out to the cashier. "Oh! I'm gonna have to go by store credit now, this time. That's ok, right? You guys recognise the van?" He pointed out the window to his car.
The cashier rapidly nodded very nervously.
"Hey! Don't you answer him! You get me my goddamn money!" The gun swung back to the front counter.
The gap between Qing Yuan and the armed man had now halved, but the man was agitated and the weapon was being swung wildly.
"And you... 'Qu-ing Yoo-an Loo'... from..." as he read his address back to him, from his drivers licence in his wallet. "...you won't be stopping any payments, if you don't want me to come around your house later, you're gonna let me have a good time on your dime."
A vision played out before his eyes, his mother again in the shop. Silhouetted strangers.
Another vision... this time his father. An unexpected stranger.
"It's pronounced 'Ching'. 'Ching Yw-ahn.'"
Am I about to kill this fucking guy for pronouncing my name wrong?
Qing Yuan had subtly placed the drywall on the ground and leant it against his leg earlier. The space was halved. The man with the gun wore hubris like a fine robe, believing none could possibly threaten the power of a gun.
No. It'd be for my father if I did it... but the fact that I'm considering that as a possible reason is close enough to crazy as is.
First he'd have to dissipate the rage. He breathed, and let life flow its natural course through his personage.
"I don't like that look you're giving me, Ching." The man said, sticking the gun in his ribs. "Which is a shame, since I just learned how to say your name, and where you live. We coulda been best buds. But I think I've got a better way to make sure you don't go cancelling those cards early..." Qing's hands dropped fast, recognising the sudden danger.
Qing Yuan slid back on the linoleum on his heels and lay on the dirty hardware store floor. The drywall dropped.
"Plus... I think it'll get this guy's attention better. Now where... Is... My goddamn money?" His attention now fully on the cashier behind the counter.
"Hopefully, you realise now, that I am DONE with everything other than putting... my money... in my goddamn hand... I have the gun. And you can clearly see I'm not--"
Ching-- ching- ching...
A flattened bullet was flicked onto the countertop and rang the service bell that was resting there.
"Aww shit..."
"You cracked my drywall panelling, threatened family, and made me let go of something priceless to me that I can never get back." Chi swirling, aglow behind muscles tense with promised purpose.
"A fucking gray. Alright. I didn't understand the situation. I shouldn't have shot you. Ok?"
"Shooting me was the least offensive thing you've done to me today."
The man removed the clip, dropping it on the ground, and emptied the chamber. Hands raised.
"Look! There! I'm unarmed. OK. I shouldn't have shot ya. I could have handled things differently."
"It was also the dumbest thing you did. And that was quite a list."
"Hey! I said I'm unarmed, you heroes aren't supposed to--"
"I don't see any heroes here..."
A glowing fist clubbed the man into unconsciousness.
Well worn knuckles rap against a solid apartment door.
"Oh... Are you the one here to fix our toilet..?"
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
Qing Yuan is escorted through the apartment to the problematic facilities. It's a two bedroom apartment, but little more. Combined laundry and bathroom. The kitchenette only has one sink. And as his tools are put down to get a better look at the offending commode, it's next to a joint bath/shower with browning drain, and horrible curtain.
From elsewhere outside of the bathroom the television is blaring.
"So it's--"
"Not flushing properly, and flooded onto your floor. Yeah, I see that. I've got an auger in the van too, but hopefully we won't need that."
The resident stands in the doorway behinds the work pensively. She's rubbing her arms standing awkwardly.
The waterflow is killed with the tap behind the bowl. Hit the flush and... nope.
"Do you have a bucket? Even... a big bowl?"
The resident disappears for a moment, leaving space for the tension to breathe.
I spot something on the bathroom countertop next to the toilet and air freshener and things start to make more sense. A sigh of disappointed recognition leaves me.
A familiar voice comes from the television, and I make my way out, still waiting on the resident's return.
They're interviewing public figures who made an appearance at the memorial of one of those heroes who just passed. The Mountain.
The well coiffed hair of Sterling Silver adorns the screen.
"He was... well, as his name described, a mountain of a figure. Strong and unyielding. A majestic, high-symbol for all to see, and now we who remain have the difficult question of 'where do we go from here?', 'what can we as people do for our fellow man to raise us up in the shadow of what has just been taken from us?'..."
Silver was a real estate mogul. He'd built major developments in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles.
Then, for some reason, he set his sights on Calder.
"...well, something tells me the people of Hudson, are going to be very pleased in the coming days, at an answer we have for them."
The resident handed him a big salad bowl. A deep furrow had creased Qing Yuan's brow related to what he was watching.
No. Not the tactlessness of Silver in using this somber moment of a public memorial to spotlight himself and his plans. The man was known to be a self-aggrandizing textbook narcissist. That was the least surprising thing that just took place. He just couldnt put his finger on it.
He took the bowl back to the toilet and began to bail out the water in the toilet bowl into the bathtub.
The description of the Mountain?
Water drained.
No... sounded scripted. The 'questions'?
More water drained down the bath.
No. More rhetoric.
Enough water this time that the bathtub gurgled.
"...well something tells me the people of Hudson..."
He put the bowl down and grabbed the plunger.
That was it... He'd never actually heard the man refer to the place as Hudson. He'd use the name Calder, but never Hudson. He'd always use an old term for it...
He began forceful use of the plunger, as the mogul's past words rang back in his ears.
"...the Devil's Playground..."
"...well, what more could you expect from the Devil's Playground."
"...I suppose that's what people have come to expect from the place that was once known as the Devil's Playground..."
It had stood out, because it always stuck in his father's craw. The old man hated to hear anything negative said about his new home. And Silver had a tendency to never do anything but. So what cha--
"Has he tried to buy you too?"
"Hmm..?"
The resident was back behind him in the doorway, arms crossed, probably from a combination of the cold and not knowing what to do with her hands with the stranger in her home.
"Silver. I have friends who live in Hudson too. He tried to buy their place, they didn't sell, but a bunch of their neighbours did. Kids had just started school and they'd put too much work in trying to find the perfect place to get them zoned for it. I was just thinking... since you're out of Hudson too. Maybe he'd tried--"
That'd make sense. Making moves to buy up swathes of land for a big development... and now he's probably bought enough it was time to stop talking down the area's reputation. Incredibly transparent when you had enough of the pieces to make the picture.
"No. But we wouldn't be in a hurry to move anyway."
"You might be too far away anyway. My friends, they're west of Brubaker, and further south than your shop."
"Could be that too."
He pulled the plunger clear and the water drained.
"Oh! You've fixed it!"
"Uh! I've unclogged it enough that the water's draining." Qing Yuan said, with a 'not-so-fast-there' tone.
He waited until the basin was drained and then set to work undoing the PVC piping behind the bowl.
"You can't flush these." He said, jerking a thumb to a packet of wet wipes that were sitting on the bathroom countertop.
"Uhh... It says they're flushable." She replied.
"It does. But you shouldn't. All they have to do is demonstrate that a clean wet wipe will flush down a clean toiletbowl without adverse effect. But they're denser that toilet paper. They don't break down, and the fibres, they get caught on..." Qing Yuan looked down the S-bend he held in his hands.
"Uhh... are you flushing cooking oil down your toilet?"
"Well you can't tip it down the sink. They say it's no good for the pipes."
Qing Yuan's eyes doubled in size at the response.
"Not good for the-- what do you think a toilet is..?"
"Well yeah. But the pipes are... I dunno... Aren't they bigger?"
Qing Yuan chose to ignore the question to avoid insulting the customer.
"I've got some degreaser in the van. I'm going to clean this... and hopefully we can get you away without needing to buy a whole new S-bend and trap. If we can, we can save you... somewhere between twice and three times your money. And then after that, you're not going to flush anything weird down your toilet again."
Qing Yuan pulled over out the front of the hardware store.
He could probably pull some of the stuff for the job tomorrow from the shop, but if he bought it here he'd immediately be able to produce a quote on the drywall and fixings used.
Plus it would already be in his van.
The bell rang overhead as he walked in. He gave the cursory nod to the counter, before raising his eyebrows in silent gesture that he knew where he was going for what he wanted and what he'd be buying would be quick.
It was already dark and not long before close of business.
He didn't hear the bell again, whilst he was fingering the selection of dry wall screws finding the desired lengths and gauge.
A few minutes later he shuffled to the front of the store with the sheets of board and selection of screws.
The man in front of him flashed steel, and his demeanour immediately swung the atmosphere. The energy in the shopfront changed.
"Empty the till! Gimme all the damn cash that's in there! Go! Go! Go! Now!"
The man behind the register nodded, looking as beset upon as he currently should do. He flashed a glance at Qing Yuan who did his best to look stony faced.
The glance was intercepted by the man with the gun. Qing Yuan internally swore.
"You! Not so fast!" He swung the gun from being pointed at the cashier, to pointing it at Qing Yuan.
"I'm carrying drywall. I'm not doing anything fast."
"Funny. Stay right where you are."
"This isn't really a great idea. I mean, he's going to give you what's in the registers, but it's probably not that much. Places like this... they do bank runs before nightfall. And most of their business is by tradesmen. And unless they're doing questionable business under the table, most don't pay by cash. They pay by card. Because it makes it easier to do their accounting."
"Shut up!" The man got more agitated. "That's it, I'm robbing you! Gimme your wallet!"
"Sure. Sure, that's fine." Qing Yuan pulled his wallet out and dropped it on the floor between the two men discussing the finer points of robbing a hardware store.
The man with the gun scooped it up. "Yeah. I got your money. How'd'you feel now, smart guy?"
"Well... there's only like fifteen bucks cash in there. Like I said. I was gonna pay all this stuff off by by card. Which I'm gonna call up and cancel the second we're done here." Then he stopped and called out to the cashier. "Oh! I'm gonna have to go by store credit now, this time. That's ok, right? You guys recognise the van?" He pointed out the window to his car.
The cashier rapidly nodded very nervously.
"Hey! Don't you answer him! You get me my goddamn money!" The gun swung back to the front counter.
The gap between Qing Yuan and the armed man had now halved, but the man was agitated and the weapon was being swung wildly.
"And you... 'Qu-ing Yoo-an Loo'... from..." as he read his address back to him, from his drivers licence in his wallet. "...you won't be stopping any payments, if you don't want me to come around your house later, you're gonna let me have a good time on your dime."
A vision played out before his eyes, his mother again in the shop. Silhouetted strangers.
Another vision... this time his father. An unexpected stranger.
"It's pronounced 'Ching'. 'Ching Yw-ahn.'"
Am I about to kill this fucking guy for pronouncing my name wrong?
Qing Yuan had subtly placed the drywall on the ground and leant it against his leg earlier. The space was halved. The man with the gun wore hubris like a fine robe, believing none could possibly threaten the power of a gun.
No. It'd be for my father if I did it... but the fact that I'm considering that as a possible reason is close enough to crazy as is.
First he'd have to dissipate the rage. He breathed, and let life flow its natural course through his personage.
"I don't like that look you're giving me, Ching." The man said, sticking the gun in his ribs. "Which is a shame, since I just learned how to say your name, and where you live. We coulda been best buds. But I think I've got a better way to make sure you don't go cancelling those cards early..." Qing's hands dropped fast, recognising the sudden danger.
BANG!
Qing Yuan slid back on the linoleum on his heels and lay on the dirty hardware store floor. The drywall dropped.
"Plus... I think it'll get this guy's attention better. Now where... Is... My goddamn money?" His attention now fully on the cashier behind the counter.
"Hopefully, you realise now, that I am DONE with everything other than putting... my money... in my goddamn hand... I have the gun. And you can clearly see I'm not--"
Ching-- ching- ching...
A flattened bullet was flicked onto the countertop and rang the service bell that was resting there.
"Aww shit..."
"You cracked my drywall panelling, threatened family, and made me let go of something priceless to me that I can never get back." Chi swirling, aglow behind muscles tense with promised purpose.
"A fucking gray. Alright. I didn't understand the situation. I shouldn't have shot you. Ok?"
"Shooting me was the least offensive thing you've done to me today."
The man removed the clip, dropping it on the ground, and emptied the chamber. Hands raised.
"Look! There! I'm unarmed. OK. I shouldn't have shot ya. I could have handled things differently."
"It was also the dumbest thing you did. And that was quite a list."
"Hey! I said I'm unarmed, you heroes aren't supposed to--"
"I don't see any heroes here..."
A glowing fist clubbed the man into unconsciousness.
Qinglian Village - Late 1937 - The Road from Shanghai to Nanjing
Leather boots rhythmically beat the compressed dirt, a musical accompaniment to destruction.
A sign stood before them by the village's entrance.
病
<"Sir..? Sir, what do we do?">*
<"Kano?!">* A translator quickly appeared from among the ranks to confirm the site on the ground.
<"'Sick'. It could be a ruse. An attempt by the hogs to avoid the slaughter that awaits them.">*
<"Then we push on. Advance!">*
Leather boots once again found their percussive rhythm of doom.
A sudden stop after the unit rounds a corner.
A corpse. Left on the side of the road. Bloated, greying drawn flesh leaving contorted facial features.
<"Sir?">*
<"Contact command.">*
The body wasn't alone. Up the path, a line of equally drawn bodies, strewn on the side of the path demonstrably. A second sign for any who were unable read the language of the first.
A message was sent. Enquiries for how to handle this new Chinese obstruction.
<"The call is made! Until we receive our orders... ADVANCE!">*
Leather bootfalls once again beat out their disciplined percussion, as the line of bodies along the path were apparantly not to be the only one.
As well as the line of strewn graying drawn corpses along the right of their path, another line up ahead was beginning on the left of the path.
Not a living soul had yet been seen or heard from up ahead at Qinglian Village.
Here they found only death. And not by their hands.
It began to unnerve many, despite the rhythmic footfalls never losing their tempo.
There was no complaining to the officer class. But the eerie silence, as the Japanese 13th Division advanced through piled dead on both sides, only gave power to the uncomfortable horror of what they were immersed in. The sound of the flies was audible. And the smell...
<"Sir! Command...">*
Communication was brief and expected. Push on. Show no quarter. Prince Asaka's order to 'Kill all captives' remained in play. However the marching was halted and men were to advance at a more comfortable pace.
And then, the two lines of death narrowed.
So slowly at first, it took a while for the men to perceive it.
Then there was murmuring amongst the more braggadocious of men. Those whose claims sought only to firm their own resolve and counter the chill of the moment.
<"Our contest continues..?">*
<"Of course. If only these wily Chinese hadn't killed themselves, I'd already have you beaten to one hundred kills.">*
<"All by the sword though, right?">*
<"Of course... I am familiar with the rules of our contest.">* The soldier drew a katana and looked at the reflection of his blade in the sun.
<"You must know that you have no chance. For afterall, mine is a genuine Muramasa blade. Even now, as I have unsheathed it, it hungers for blood.">*
Ahead, it was finally visible. The two lines of dead converged in the path before them. Culminating in a pile that crossed their path entirely.
The officer at the head covered his nose and mouth as he received new orders.
<"Halt!">* His other hand raised to the heavens. <"We have new orders from Command! The Imperial Prince has wisely confirmed, it is not above the devilish Chinese to have infected their own people with a biological weapon so as to sow disease into our ranks! We are to return to the main road and continue AROUND Qinglian Village. This is a direct order! We must keep our strength for Prince Asaka and the Emperor!">*
And then a cough was heard from the pile.
A small, young, feminine cough.
Eyes snapped to the pile, scouring the mound of flesh for any movement to see where life still dwelled.
<"Sir?!?">* The call, a plead for wanton violence from the soldier who already had his katana drawn.
<"Stand down you fool! If you fall ill for failure to comply with this direct order, and spread it through the Imperial Army I will have you executed myself! I will not have my men lost because of a single Chinese who didn't realise she was dead yet!">*
The grimace of the soldier as he once more sheathed his katana, indeed hungry enough to 'bite at his own blood' as he returned it to his saya. Its bloodlust would have to be satisfied with this meagre taste today.
From somewhere within the morass of flesh the girl coughed once more. Stronger now.
Being sick herself, she had been entrusted to keep moving the dead out herself, so as to not further the infection. It was difficult work, particularly whilst she was still sick herself. But the only alternative was to risk the healthy. To doom the living.
But death did not come for Qing Yuan Liu's great grandmother that day.
* Japanese
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
F L O W S T A T E
Dive deep.
That's what my father had said.
We only get maybe a hundred years, on a planet that's had four and a half billion years, in a universe that's seen almost fourteen billion years.
Life flows into us and we flow into life. So we might as well dive deep.
Of course that's now why I'm making the painstaking drive through peak hour Calder traffic to get to Chinatown from our shop and home out of Hudson.
"You don't come thousands of miles to America to surround yourself with a pale, somewhat offensive imitation of aspects of back home. Dive Deep."
Which would be great, but it's where most of my business is.
Well, you might doubt he actually said that, but he can actually be pretty profound when he's speaking Wu.
Slightly less when he's speaking Mandarin.
But you come to a new country speaking broken english, people think you're dumb. Even if you technically speak four languages and have a shop in a foreign country where you can fix damn near everything except your broken english.
Probably why he was always on my case to not just learn one trade, but how to get by doing and fixing EVERYTHING. The one thing tougher than that immigrant work ethic is that 'son of an immigrant, I-didn't-come-over-here-with-fourteen-bucks-in-my-name-walking-both-directions-in-the-snow-for-you-to-slack-off' work ethic.
So that's why I'm rushing over to Chinatown now to fix a toilet.
Forgive me, in this instance, if I don't 'Dive Deep'.
Still... plus-side, this time's not extended family. There's a regular bill of service after this job.
Tomorrow I've got a major dry-walling job less than two blocks away from this one.
So that means sparring with Calder's peak traffic twice more. In the thick of it both ways.
Young couple want to partition off a new room for a nursery. So there'll be the drywall, the paint... Install a new light.
'Almost everything can be repaired. If you know what you're doing and use appropriate care.'
Makes sense that he'd say that.
The people down my father's line. They have a-- well...
They're well equipped when it comes to looking after themselves. And taking appropriate care.
My grandmother... she discovered she could localise her body's life force energies to heal maladies, and even prevent them from happening. She studied numerous techniques, philosophical, spiritual and physical in nature... Daoism, Buddhism, Confucianism... as she accumulated a wealth of knowledge that would become the basic tools my ancestors have passed down our familial line, a bank of knowledge which has been added to through the generations. Qigong. That pursuit of knowledge saw our very family pursued.
My father, for example, developed a technique which allowed the very projection of a portion of life force.
Probably sounds kind of Star Wars. But it's true.
Redirecting and focusing a small portion of qi, or chi, and sending that power forth in a controlled explosive strike.
It exhausts him afterwards of course... I mean, he's ejecting part of his very life force.
I've kept my own personal addition to that knowledge bank of qigong quiet, though.
What I'm capable of is the very fear, baseless at the time, which saw my family persecuted by the government until we could find a way across the Pacific. To the promises of a freer tomorrow.
Understandable... I mean it scares the Hell out of me, I can understand why it would worry other people, let alone a central government who view it as a force they can't singularly control.
I'm capable of drawing the chi from others, to add to my own. This isn't hypothetical, I've done it before.
And yes, it's just as chilling and permanent as it sounds.
All that being said, that's why my father puts very little faith in governments. And invests a lot more time in people. In our community.
When a person has faith in you, they'll bend and flow. Empathy can see a person become flexible to try and find a way to support. Governments tend to become rigid and form rules which they force total adherence to, with no consideration of contextual contingency, with the slippery slope of anarchy as a cudgel.
Case in point: when the government was pursuing and persecuting my family, it was a neighbour - actually neighbours, quite a few really, who had hidden us until we could flee the country.
And now I get to hear my father not shut up about the land of opportunity and freedom, and drive through stifling congestion because he wanted the full immersive American urban experience.
Sorry. I ramble a bit when I drive. Blame it on the traffic.
@Fabricant451@Eddie Brock@Roman@Anciek you're accepted.
Try not to eat everything Roman.
Congratulations to @Roman and hors d'oeuvres...
Well let's see how this goes
Hard. It goes hard.
"Alright, Gang! We're coming up with an OC Game! Use your creativity! Expand those horizons! Give us new frontiers!"
*Gets back The Immortal Iron Punishfist of Hells Kitchen, 3 light/shadow manipulators and Matter Eater Lad*
*Gets back The Immortal Iron Punishfist of Hells Kitchen, 3 light/shadow manipulators and Matter Eater Lad*
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