SERIES 2 Thrown Away: The Walking Papers

Freddie has a stunning speed. His steps and strikes are undiscerning. He is extremely a tremendous fighter, but I’m steadily gaining pulse in the second round. Slowly, I’m on to analyzing his body movements. His rage and ferociousness cause him extra vulnerable to retaliation. I take note of his working errors and timing. I call it “telegraphing”. I study his moves and anticipate the combination of punches and kicks that Freddie should perform by looking at slight changes in his facial expressions. I always remember one article about fighting strategy. “…there is some correlation between facial gestures and body movements. When a fighter lowers the chin to the side and closes the lips, there are high probabilities that a “hook punch” will be released from that side of the body. A slight lifting or lowering of a shoulder implies that a front kick (mae-geri) maybe coming from that side of the body.” I consider several lessons about Predicting Komite Strategies. And I always follow this method religiously. In the next round, I was able to completely forecast all impending attacks. I can foretell where should the strike flow from. I become aware of his tactical footwork and confusing hand blows. We exchange strong punches, block and counter, butts, elbow strikes, knife-hand thrusts, front and side-kicks, blow by blow, kick by kick and what have you. As the scuffle goes on, both of us are sweating vigorously. My muscles tensed, my impulses are automatically reacting. Freddie’s face shows determination to win at all cost. His hateful eyes are crashing on my face. If his eyes could kill, I must have been killed a while ago. His obvious focus is to knock myself down in one hard, single blow. Just in time, I take advantage penetrating his counter. As he delivers his front thrust kick to my abdomen, I depress it with a downward crossed block, and in split seconds, I successfully execute one quick reversed roundhouse kick with my heel to his jaw, sending him down below the ringside. He looks dismayed as he droops on the canvass -- surprised. His furious eyes are punishing. Groggy but obviously fuming, he jumped back from the canvass and attacked in two hefty leaps. “KIYAHH!” Freddie yelled; executing a thundering flying kick to hit me in the neck, but I already anticipate his desperate move. Now I know he’s no longer using his head. I leaped higher into the air above his cover, at the same time hitting him back with one spectacular vertical elbow strike to his forehead. TO BE CONTINUED.

Thrown Away: The Walking Papers (A Series Story)

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PROLOGUE This book came about because of an ill-fated car-cliff accident involving a Consular Investigator in the winter of 1992. “The vehicle suddenly went out of control and it is thrown over the narrow chasm at a height of 40 to 50 feet above the sea level. I’m all shocked at the sight of our actual crash. My mouth is wide-opened, my eyes deeply closed and I grimaced in fear. I’m not sure if I’m scared in the face of an imminent death, but probably, it’s just my terrified reaction that I did nothing but shut my eyes in terror while cradled by the arms of the wind; tense all my muscles in anticipation of my broken dead body, and for a split second, flashed back the memory of my nice olden days with my beloved family. “MY KIDS!” I screamed on top of my voice as the vehicle went flying into the air and down below. The bark of a coconut tree is slightly shaved off in passing. The car hits the bottom of the cliff and turns right-side-down at sudden impact. The sound of heavy plunge breaks the quietude of the place. “CRASSHH!” Then, Silence… IN THE BEGINNING. The Championship match inside the Roman Coliseum is going on. Everyone crowded the dome, obviously to watch the ultimate title fight between myself and Freddie Black. My rank is way down below his when it comes to fighting experience, although we are both holding 1st Dan Karate Black Belt and both finalists in the karate championship. Freddie and I stand 5’8 and weigh 145 lbs. I’m two years younger than him. I just turned 24 last June. Clad in white Karate uniform, I’ve had an average body built, but judging by the looks, I have enough stamina and firm shape for the impending fight, apparently due to my rigid training and difficult calisthenics in the gym. My Karate preparation is compulsory, a pre-requisite for my job as a House Detective in the Hotel. I love this sport so much, that’s why I don’t consider this sport a hotel requirement. In fact, I have won five stiff fights in various Karate tournaments and this would be my next championship victory, if ever. My opponent, sporting a long hair and clad in red-black outfit, has a superior body built and a poker face. His Karate uniform could hardly conceal those bulging muscles -- probably because of his ten long years Karate work-out in Mr. Suzuki’s stable. Pointing his fuckin’ finger on me, he gives a sharp, insulting look at my face. “You’re dead!” Spit. I sure know he had knocked-out nine vicious fighters without difficulty, and this ensuing championship could be Freddie’s next victory fight, if ever. I don’t fear him anyway. The referee is standing right between us with his right-hand drawn straight forward, on a frontward-leaning stance -- ready to signal the start of the competition. The crowd as well as karate enthusiasts are all seated round and excitedly watching us. From the look of their eyes, they’re just eager to know who would remain standing in the final round. While on the open-leg stance, we both bowed to each other as an indication of the approaching match. “COME ON!” Fans and spectators could hardly wait. The impending fight rose to a clamor, “FIGHT! FIGHT! DO IT!” The referee finally signals the tussle. He wields his right hand down to start on -- in the vehement shouting of the crowd. “FIGHT!” While I’m about to move my feet to prepare for my fighting stance, Black swiftly executes successive lunge punches and a variety of kicks, obviously to finish me down immediately. He looks as if he couldn’t wait any longer. I found myself kissing on the canvass ten seconds before the end of this damned first round. I’ve been hit strongly in the face, and I’m in a terrible fix before the frantic reaction of the aficionados. My nose bleeds. I fall short of my defense, that’s all! I’m stupidly caught barehanded. TO BE CONTINUED