The class kicked off with shadow drills, footwork, boxing combinations, open hand strikes, elbows, knees and headbutting invisible and intangible opponents.
The shadow drills were followed by some intense pad work to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers album Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Growler even leapt through the air onto one of the full length boxing bags. As he held on with both arms and legs, he bit the bag between savage headbutts.
The last 20 minutes of class involved some sparring, semi contact but involving some close quarter stuff, grappling, takedowns and a bit of light ground and pound. Even at this point in the timeline during the mid-1990's prior to UFC 1, this particular style of freestyle karate was training like MMA.
The class ended with the ritual bow out. Sensei went back to his bombed up station wagon and left. The rest of the class had long since left as well, all except Wally and Ricardo. They sat in the laundromat adjacent to the gym, chilling out and smoking cigarettes.
The familiar sound of Wolfgang's Kingswood roared into the carpark.
"She…" Wally paused to correct himself, "I mean, he's here."
Ricardo nodded in agreement. The two collected their gym bags and headed out of the laundromat and down the bitumen slope towards Wolfgang idling his Kingswood.
"Karate ist fake!" he shouted from his rolled down window, "you can't use it for real. Nein realistic, ya?"
"You're just too scared to step into the dojo and break out a sweat," Wally said as he and Ricardo threw their bags into the Kingswood's boot.
Wolfgang gave Wally a serious stare as he opened the door and sat in the front passenger seat, "I am Nein scared yah koont, I just don't think dis karate crap vorks."
"Yeah, yeah," Wally sighed, attempting to put his feet on the dashboard.
"Don't you fookund dare," Wolfgang barked.
Wally put his feet on the floor, "Sorry, muscle memory."
The Kingswood drove out of the parking lot, leaving the vast empty patch of broken bitumen to the darkness, foraging vermin and the lurking eyes of a stealthy croc or two, hiding in the mangroves like cryptids of myth, waiting patiently for a stray cat or lost dog to venture a foot too far into the swamp.
Meanwhile, the biker's clubhouse was a farmhouse in Glenella, a semi-rural area within pushbike or walking distance from the city of Mackay. It was a low set Queenslander, painted blue with a 10,000-litre rainwater tank built above the laundry at the back. A vine of green grapes grew across a trestle that led to the hills hoist. Beyond this was a gentle slope heading towards a large open bay shed that was big enough to house cane harvesters and tractors. The rest of the property steeped upwards towards a small hill behind the shed. Fields of cane rustled gently from the wind.
Loudmouth, Red Bear and Scruffy Fella sat in the shed on their white plastic chairs, listening to Up Around the Bend by Credence Clearwater Revival, drinking XXXX beers and smoking rolled White Ox tobacco.
"Yeah, fudge that guy mate," Red Bear said to Loudmouth, "you should have dropped that prick and kicked his fudging guts out in that car park in front of his students."
"Oh, don't you worry about that," Loudmouth replied as he dropped a mixture of something mean and green with tobacco, into a rollie and sealed it with a lick, "I could easily smash that prick."
Scruffy Fella just sat there with arms crossed, looking amusingly annoyed at Loudmouth. He knew the nominee was full of crap.
"Yeah, anytime I wanted, I could have him," Loudmouth added, "I'd launch six punches into his face before his head hit the ground."
"I guess he was one lucky prick tonight hey?" smiled and sneered Scruffy Fella.
"Oh yeah definitely," replied Loudmouth, "you just wait, when the time is right, there'll be blood."
Scruffy Fella continued to sit with his arms crossed, sneering at the nominee. What were they thinking? He thought to himself, letting this flog into the club?
The sounds of bikes in the distance filled the air.
"The boys are back from Townsville," commented Red Bear.
The sounds of the bikes drew closer until the familiar lights shone from the side of the farmhouse. They watched as the rest of their club rolled slowly into the shed. The next song on the mix tape played – it was Children of the Grave by Black Sabbath. The bikes turned off and 12 bikers hopped off the Harleys.
"What the fudge are you guys wearing?" laughed the Scruffy Fella, you're dressed like a bunch of bong toking boofheads, on their way to the Woodford Folk Festival.
"The clothes were courtesy of some prey we caught out on the highway," smiled the biker with a white beard and long grey hair with streaks of black.
"Prey Mike?" asked Loudmouth nervously, he tried to fit in, "did you fellas go pigging or something?"
'Mike's' eyes narrowed as he looked at the nominee. It took a few seconds for him to access the prey's digested memories, "Shut your hole, arse face," he said to Loud Mouth.
"How was Townsville?" Red Bear chuckled.
Mike walked towards them and was followed by the other 11 bikers. They causally surrounded the three, sitting in their chairs. Mike circled them, eyeing each hungrily from head to toe.
"It wasn't bad," he smiled, "The chapter up there were … quite succulent."
"Succulent?" questioned Scruffy Fella, turning his head to glance at the sergeant of arms as he continued to circle the three, "what the fudge is that supposed to mean? Succulent?"
"They were juicy and tender," Mike replied, "as in, they were succulent."
The Scruffy Fella and Red Bear appeared confused, they looked at each other in mild concern. Something wasn't right. Meanwhile, Loudmouth lit his spliff, sat back and took a drag. The nominee had no idea that anything was amiss.
"You alright Mike?" asked Red Bear.
"Me?" the sergeant of arms replied as he continued to circle the three, like a tiger shark circling prey, "never been better … a bit hungry though."
"Yeah," said the other 11 bikers in unison, "we're all fun'n hungry."
"Fun'n?" asked Red Bear, "just what the fudge is with you blokes? Been eating stuff growing from cow cakes or something?"
"It's a four-hour ride from Townsville to Mackay," commented Scruffy Fella, "if you're all hungry, then why didn't you stop at a service station to grab some tucker?"
"Cooked meat is sacrilege," snarled Mike, he glanced a few times with a smile at the 11 other bikers who slowly closed their circle tighter around the three. Their hungry, greedy expressions and the glistening shine in their eyes was off-putting.
"You guys alright?" asked Red Bear, his arms now very tight and crossed across his chest. He shifted his head from left to right, "you're all acting a bit fudging weird."
"It was a long ride," added Mike, "a very, very long ride. We didn't stop at a service station other than to put hydrocarbons into those loud and primitive contraptions we rode in on, but we did stop for a group of, what's the word? Hippies, changing a tyre on their campervan."
"Oh yeah?" asked Scruffy Fella nervously, something was off with this lot … definitely off.
"They left us feeling," said Mike, "a tad bit, inebriated."
The other bikers snickered and giggled.
"What?" asked Red Bear, at this point his arms were crossed as well. Mike was acting weird … real weird.
Loudmouth kept dragging on his spliff and drinking his beer. He hated himself for going all yellow in front of Red Bear and Scruffy Fella. But if he stood in front of a mirror, stared and was completely honest with himself, he knew that if he actually threw the first punch in that carpark, it would have been him knocked out and sleeping it away in a puddle of his own filth on the warm bitumen of that carpark … along with Red Bear and Scruffy Fella. Loudmouth was so absorbed in own self-loathing and shredded ego, that he failed to notice anything beyond the burning tip of his spliff.
"Yes, inebriated," said Mike, "something they smoked had soaked into their flesh."
"What the fudge is up with you Mike?" said Scruffy Fella in annoyance, "you aint right tonight, talking crap like this. What the fudge is going on then?"
Red Bear was silent and unmoving. Scruffy Fella took it too far with Mike. The sergeant of arm's temper made the bloke a borderline axe murderer. He remembered the last time Mike lost his top. They were drinking it up in The Pumped Iguana nightclub. Hando was a tad too hands on as usual. He grabbed the breast of a blonde lass. Her boyfriend, some surfer – Point Break lookalike prick, brave as a beagle mounting a lioness on heat, knocked several of the fellas from their bar stools before going toe to toe with Mike…
Straight from the bar, between a couple of pool tables and right through the double fire escape doors into the back car park. Mike got the upper hand and launched a Superman punch. The young fella fell backwards and cracked his head on the concrete. Even though he was knocked out cold and bleeding like a busted up can of beetroot, Mike kneeled down and used his Zippo to light the lad's hair on fire…
He just kneeled there and watched the lad's hair go up in flames. He stood up, undid his fly and pissed on the poor prick to put out the embers. Mike was back inside drinking scotch and coke and having a laugh, well before the ambulance showed up.
And right here, right now, in this shed tonight, Red Bear was silent, frozen with fear. What was Mike going to do?
Scruffy Fella's blunt comments also knocked Loudmouth harshly out of his egotistical melancholy. He looked around, taking in the unsettling situation and suddenly realised that something was wrong, very wrong. He was overcome with a sickening wave of fear that petrified his arse to the chair. He wanted to get out of that chair. He wanted to run out of that shed like all buggery. But he was paralysed, screaming inside to himself to get up and run, but he couldn't. The spliff in his hand burned the tips of his fingers, singing his flesh.
Mike saw this, as did the other 11. They sniffed in the pleasant smell of burnt flesh which caused their stomachs to growl and left their mouths watering in eager anticipation.
"Ahh," said Mike as he licked the air, "tasty sacrilege."
Red Bear felt the same way while Scruffy Fella was overcome with panic. His heart raced like a feral rabbit chased down by a ravenous wobbegong. Mike and the other 11 could sense the emotional change in these three bald, primordial Earth monkeys… Scared flesh tasted better.
"I think I have what is called the munchies," smiled Mike, "brothers, do you also feel the munchies?"
The other 11 smiled, snickered and agreed.
It was quick but for Loudmouth, Red Bear and Scruffy Fella, the sheer terror they experienced stretched out the moment into eternity. They cried like babies and squealed like pigs as Mike and the other 11 transformed into huge monsters, bearlike, tigerlike, with large mouths lined with rows of sharklike teething, vibrating like chainsaws….
Seconds later, nothing was left of the three men except for three white plastic chairs smothered red with blood and a severed hand resting on the ground, still holding a burning spliff.