Across the rooftops, three figures bounded. The leader, by far the smallest of the trio, made up for his lack of stature with an energy that stood steadfast against what his age might have implied. The two trailing him did so in protest, but tonight had been one of the more fortunate ones. No screaming mobs of women had seen them, the Master had not diverted their attention towards the unwilling accomplices, and they had most certainly not come away covered in bruises, scratches. And neither was it looking like it would be necessary to walk home bow-legged from the pain. Days like those had been less and less frequent recently. Perhaps the training was effective after all... No, they couldn't let themselves think that way. The man ahead was a demon, and they knew that. They knew him for the terror he was, and the evil he was capable of given half a- make that, a hundredth of a chance. Had the idea occurred to him, he might have found a way to steal underwear or otherwise harass women in his sleep. They knew what this man was capable of, but they followed him. Or rather, so they followed him. Certainly, the unintentional torments he put them through was bad. The intentional ones, on the other hand, were much, much worse. He didn't beat you, he didn't blow you to kingdom come, he didn't force you to do disgraceful things in the name of his perverted sense of the art... it was all psychological.
They could deal with the beatings. After all, a martial artist's life is fraught with peril! But head games? Psychological warfare, especially at the malicious level that his sick, twisted mind could up with... that was an entirely different kind of hell altogether. The worst part was the sheer childishness of it all. Little things that you wouldn't see coming. Suddenly one night, a half dozen dinners would appear at your door, all apparently ordered by yourself. Or the graffiti! Oh, the lewd, horrid graffiti... Anyone would beg for forgiveness after staring at that for a few minutes. It was anti-art! The culture quota of the world went down a notch or three each and every time someone got on the Master's bad side!
So it was their duty to bear the burden of keeping the Master happy. It just wouldn't do to have a world without art. They never went to see it, or ever expressed an interest, but it was satisfying to know it was there if they ever made the decision to.
They had left the city by now, and were heading out into the mountains. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity carrying a bag full of ladies underthings, the Master called for them to stop. So, they set up camp. The two students dropped their bags (Carefully now! Don't hurt the darlings...) in front of their tormentor, and scurried off so that he could take stock of the night's "training".
Meanwhile, in the darkened corner of the camp, the two figures talked in hushed tones. Normally, their Master was alert and observant, so they would never have dared to attempt to talk in private... but for the next few minutes, they were safe. The mountain they were sitting on could erupt, with lava flowing down in that slow, methodically destructive way that it did, and he wouldn't budge an eyebrow. And he'd probably survive. Almost certainly. He was like a cockroach infestation, nothing could keep him down.
But tonight, the bulkier of the pair pulled out a large cask. It was a little something he had picked up on a recent... excursion of his. It looked harmless enough, but that was only because they had switched containers.
"Are you sure this will work? You know what he's like." The skinnier man asked, glancing back at the Master, just in case. Still there, cooing over a brassiere and coddling it like a newborn baby. The image and subsequent metaphor would be giving him nightmares for weeks to come. Especially if this didn't work.
"Absolutely, old friend!" the larger of the two remarked, flashing a toothy grin. "After tonight, he'll dine in hell. This stuff isn't just potent, it redefines the meaning of the word. Hell, just carrying it in my bare hands is making me feel tipsy! Imagine what drinking it will do to a man!"
"Are we absolutely certain that he's not a demon in human form?"
The thought was waved off. "I thought of that. I had the stuff blessed. The priest that did it was hammered for the rest of the day. The vapours, you understand."
The plan was on. This was far from the best way to deal with the blight on humanity, but it was all they had left. And the best part was, even in the event that it didn't work, he wouldn't seek reprisals! Inching forward as if traversing a minefield, the pair approached. "Um, Master?" one of them whispered. The voice was so quiet and cowed that even the speaker couldn't tell which of them had said it. "We, um, well I was thinking we might want to celebrate a good night's work, so, um..."
And then the bottle was gone, just like that. Neither of the pair had seen him move from the pile, but there he was, bottle in hand, taking great big gulps all the while. The stench from the now open bottle drove the two cowards off, and the watched from the shadows as their poison did its work. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but they didn't expect it to immediately. Gradually, they noticed him becoming increasingly groggy, slower, less coordinated. It was a slow decline, far slower than they would have liked, but the toxin was obviously having an effect on him. Eventually, he stopped, hiccupped, and fell over with his eyes closed. Covering their noses and mouth, the two excitedly dashed over...
"Zzzzzz... Pantiespantiespanties... zzzzz"
He was snoring. The pair hurriedly turned towards the bottle, finding only a few scarce drops left within. The drops hit the ground, and the stone where it struck fizzed and turned black.
"Well, he's asleep. At least that's an improvement over him being awake."
"I'm not sure it was such a failure. I've never seen him this deep under."
The two men looked closer at the old man. He really was pretty deep under. But there was only one way to be sure just how deep under he was.
Twenty minutes later, the two pushed the biggest, heaviest boulder they could find in front of the cave, and hastily placed wards all over it.
"I'd say you were right. He appears to be very asleep."
"Told you."
They were free. At long last, after all those long years, they were free. So what now?
"Well, I'm going to begin training my son in the art," the larger of the two said. "Just as soon as he can walk, I'll train him to be the best of his generation. You mark my words!"
His friend chuckled. "Now that we've gotten rid of that demon, I have an idea that might just ensure the future of our school."
The two stopped, and collapsed to the ground. The night's work had finally caught up to them, over the exhilaration of their newfound freedom. "Okay, so what's your big idea?"
His friend was smiling now. "As I'm sure you are aware, I happen to have a dojo, and you do not. So! How about this? You say you have a son? How about we engage our children, then? That way, your boy gets a dojo to teach in, and my daughter gets a man to help look after her."
"Agreed! With this, Anything Goes will be secured in its future. Without the Master interfering and dragging down our good name, our school will go far!"
The two friends returned home that night to their families, happier than they had ever been. Their children would be so happy when they grew up, and found out they had nothing to worry about in their future.
And yet, their names were not Saotome or Tendo. Happosai had managed to pick up an entirely different pair of promising martial artists, who quickly became friends under his routines... But who were they?
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(Posted Thu, 30 Oct 2008 20:08)
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