It was sunset on a late Monday afternoon, two days after Wolfgang, Wally and Ricardo narrowly escaped the horde of middle-aged banshees back in that mining town, banshees who were hellbent for some coastal, beach boy sausage roll.
Sensei pulled into the carpark of the gym. It backed right into the mangroves where crocs probably lurked. According to local folklore from the 1950's, just around the corner a croc snatched up two school girls from the footpath. But the apparent truth to that tragic tale was far more sinister. Those mangroves oozed menace and the macabre. Gnarled and twisted trunks with dull green leaves. The thickness of the mud and the distant stench of coral spawn. It was a fitting backdrop to what was about to play out in that old, half-baked carpark. The only thing more hostile than this backdrop was the mindset of some of the locals with their rum tarnished souls, tar-stained teeth and minds proudly plagued with football, fishing and hardcore fudgery.
Ricardo looked out of the double doors at the back of the aerobics area. At this point in the year, it was hot enough to boil the balls off of a bull shark. Even as the orange sun began to sink in the west, shimmers of humidity rose from the congealing tar of bitumen, riddled with clumps of grass, cracks and potholes. The deafening symphony of cicadas joined with the hordes of rainbow lorikeets hitting their pubs for twilight happy hour – the clumps of fermented dates roasting in the canopies of palm trees. Swarms of sandflies and mosquitos, those vampirish arseholes, spread out in search of fresh meat.
Three boofheads were waiting in the carpark. Loudmouth, some big arse red bear and a scruffy fella. The three of them were supposed to be at Smalleys Beach on Saturday followed by a ride up to Townsville on Sunday, but they had business to attend to in town. The rest of the lads from their bikie club were expected back at the clubhouse later this evening.
Wearing black leathers in the hellish heat of a North Queensland carpark was the apex of sadism. Their loud and incompetent mechanical horses with their thick round legs of black rubber were parked behind them. Sensei saw them and didn't seem to care. Don't Damn Me by Guns N' Roses played from the cassette player jacked up to the speakers in the aerobics area. The freestyle karate club often listened to Guns N' Roses, Mötley Crüe, Aerosmith, Def Leppard, Metallica, Stone Temple Pilots, Faith No More or the Red Hot Chilli Peppers during warm ups, pad work and sparring. The music was only switched off for the 15 minutes of kata they sometimes did at the end of 90 minutes of sweating, huffing, puffing and booting their bloody guts out.
Sensei opened his driver's door and proceeded to step out of his run down, rusted out Falcon station wagon. He went to the boot to grab his duffle bag. As he walked towards the back of the gym, which was a just a big arse commercial-industrial shed with carpet over concrete, mirrors, weights and a shallow pool, the three blokey boofheads tried to block his way. Wally along with some other students, came up to the double doorway where Ricardo stood. They watched as Sensei and the three boofhead bikers had a heated conversation.
Loudmouth was raising his voice. His scruffy sandy blonde moustache and crappy patches of chin beard looked more appropriate for a meth head in a caravan park then on the face of a supposed martial arts instructor.
Wally laughed when he saw Loudmouth, "Why is the flog wearing flamboyant purple track suit pants and strutting around Sensei like he's doing the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy?" he asked.
Loudmouth kept pointing his finger at Sensei with one hand while pointing his other hand and wrist down in a continuous 'Oh really, my darling?' manner.
"I don't know," Ricardo replied, "Does anyone know what this is about?" he asked as he turned to look at the rest of the class.
Everyone just looked at each other in confusion, shaking their heads, no one had a clue.
"Look at that flog," Wally reiterated, "what's with those purple tracksuit pants and why the hell is he prancing around like that?"
"Some hazing ritual for the nominee, I guess," replied Ricardo.
Sensei kept walking but Loudmouth put his hand on Sensei's shoulder. Sensei stopped, turning his head slowly, appearing to say something gravely. There was a sense of great menace and bad mojo projected in his gesture. A psychic shockwave rocking Loudmouth with a full dose of the dark side of the force.
Like a tiny turtle recoiling its head into its shell or a sad shrivelling saveloy slipping beneath a sheath of skin, Loudmouth withdrew his hand and took a step back. He put both hands on the waist of his purple tracksuit pants. Red Bear and Scruffy Fella just stood there, frozen by the realisation that clearly this evening in this carpark, they'd messed with the wrong bloke and bitten off way more than they could chew. Their arms sat crossed over the top of their beer bellies. Sensei kept walking towards the gym.
As Sensei entered the dojo Ricardo asked, "What was that all about?"
"Nothing," replied Sensei in a calm and indifferent manner, "they just popped in to wish me a Merry Christmas."
Sensei kept walking towards the changerooms to put on his gi. There was a way in which he carried himself, always jovial with his laid back and borderline inappropriate humour in one hand and the barbarian savagery of a Greek Spartan in the other.
Soon after the class noticed a set of two beady eyes, somewhat cross-eyed and staring through the louvres. Those eyes were way too close together, suggestive of inbreeding or some form of hillbilly deformity. The truth however was that the eyes belonged to No Chin.
The class called him that on account that the fat prick had no chin. Seriously, it was like the bottom of his mouth rolled right into his larynx. Of course, having eyes that were partially cross eyed and positioned so close together that he could almost pass as a cyclops did nothing for his aesthetics. Let alone the entire tire shop he carried around the arse end of his torso. However, he wasn't inbred or deformed, he was just one…ugly…bastard.
The previous week the club competed in a local martial arts tournament run by Loudmouth. The event was a flop and poorly organised. Most of the local martial arts clubs had little respect for the bloke. The way he carried on; he might as well have run his dojo inside a strip club with beers instead of water bottles. In addition to all-style bouts, which pitted kickboxers against karatekas against kung fu versus tae kwon do, this flop of a tournament also held kendo bouts.
No Chin faced off against Sensei in kendo. He had some beef that he obviously felt he needed to settle. Like a big arse bruised plum, his Whoopee cushion of an ego was in dire need of inflation. A few weeks prior, No Chin rocked up one night to the dojo. He just looked like some fat nerdy loser in his late 20's.
The town was full of them. Fatsos with overgrown mullets in panel vans. Little bums with little man issues, still riding BMX bikes in their 20's because they were unemployed. When No Chin rocked up to training, he wore an AC/DC t-shirt and black gi pants, but claimed that he had never trained in martial arts before. Strange it was that he carried a back pack containing a well-worn mouthguard, bag mitts and a big fat pair of shin-instep protectors.
So, No Chin, who had apparently never trained before, demonstrated some decent striking during pad work and sparring. He brought some heavy biff to some of the students, particularly the young lads who were still in their mid to late teens. Satisfied that No Chin was indeed a complete and total tool, and quite possibly from his freestyle fighting style, a senior student of Loudmouth, Sensei lined up against him in sparring and gave the lard tard a sound flogging.
So, after a few weeks of healing up, as No Chin now stepped onto the tournament mats in kendo armour, holding a bamboo shinai shakingly towards Sensei, it was clear that the boofhead wanted to settle the score. It turns out that No Chin was indeed one of Loudmouth's students and a brown belt black-tip. The match was swift. Sensei was short and stocky, built like a nuclear-powered brick thunderbox.
Like a rampaging bull he charged No Chin, striking him several times around the sides and the top of his kendo helmet before shoving his shinai with such force into No Chin's chest plate that the big arse boofhead was sent soaring. This explosive act was like that sidekick Bruce Lee launched into O'Hara in Enter the Dragon. Fat floats and it turns out, can also fly. No Chin tumbled backwards through the air, past the mats and into the first row of largely empty chairs.
And now here he was again, peering through the back louvres, lusting for revenge but lacking the tools or the martial arts instructor with a decent pair of rambutans to back him up. As most of us started skipping or stretching, Growler, one of the students of the freestyle karate club, had enough of this boofhead and strolled across the red carpet towards the louvres. He turned to face the mirrors, stretching down to touch his feet, flashing his small round smart of an arse at No Chin. The perv didn't batter an eyelid. In fact, his beady eyes opened widely and stared in excitement. Mm, at this point, it seemed that perhaps No Chin was dealing with a range of internal conflicts and not just his insatiable lust for revenge.
And then just as he touched his feet, Growler let a boisterous Fluffy off of his chain. He straightened himself and launched a hard hitting back kick into the steel louvres, slamming them shut. Growler's back kicks and spinning back kicks were legendary. So legendary that even the great Chuck Norris might approve. One always had to keep their wits about them when sparring Growler. He was a smaller dude but his spinning back kick could derail a freight train. If he landed one, all the victim wanted to do was bend of over and shart out their lower intestines.
"Awe fudge," whined No Chin, "you broke my nose."
He retreated into the darkness, followed by the sounds of three Harley Davidson's departing the parking lot.