Chapter 39: Consolidation of Force

A raindrop fusillade battered the gym windows. The windows, high near the girders, showed only inky black from where Buttstroke stood among the rows of recruits.

Buttstroke extended an arm, a playacted punch for Errorist to grab. Errorist grasped the wrist, planted his crooked arm underneath Buttstroke’s armpit, and rotated his upper torso. If Buttstroke resisted in the slightest, his bulk would thwart the throw. Instead, he jumped a bit to let Errorist flip him ass over teakettle for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. His bruised flesh landed on the unforgiving gym floor.

Through the legs of the other recruits, Animal’s boots strutted through the rows like he owned the place. Buttstroke had avoided any eye contact but kept track of Animal the entire practice session. The so-called bodyguard showed no sign he knew something was up.

The second-class DI wandered through the rows near Buttstroke. “That’s all for today. Since the rain is a health hazard for your delicate biology, you lucky ladies get to do some classwork. Advanced urban tactics.”

The recruits let out a collective groan. By all rights, they should have welcomed the break from the near-constant physical exercise, but classwork meant resisting the pull on their eyelids. Hours inside had become punishment.

“Don’t wet your britches in excitement!” The DI strained the tendons in his neck. “I want you at your desks in twenty.”

The DI signaled for Animal to follow him with a curled index finger. Animal streaked through the recruits to get to their leader, like a loyal dog to its owner.

Errorist held out a hand to Buttstroke, still on the floor. Buttstroke didn’t take it and got to his feet under his own power instead.

“You alright?” Errorist pressed his hand to his chest as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

Buttstroke didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he scowled at Animal’s back until the hairy recruit had made it halfway across the gym floor. He left the group to trail behind his target. With a quick hand, he caught the door before it closed.

The DI and Animal strolled side by side down the narrow hallway, the perfect environment to take Animal down.

Animal focused in front of himself. “What we should do is get them to pair up with new—”

Buttstroke took a few silent steps and cleared his throat. Animal turned towards the sound to look over his shoulder, and Buttstroke smashed his knuckles into his jaw.

Animal’s center of balance shifted forward, so Buttstroke connected a foot sweep with Animal’s closest ankle. The hairy recruit stumbled forward but turned on a dime, ready to face the fight. A fire lit in his eyes.

The DI slid against the wall behind Buttstroke to let the fighters rip each other apart.

The hairy recruit closed the space with a few straight kicks Buttstroke blocked with ease. Animal ended the combo with a twist of his torso. He shot out a spinning kick, but before he could hit his target, his foot crashed against the wall. Buttstroke stepped in and crushed Animal’s testicles with an upper-cut.

Voices of distressed empathy came from the door behind Buttstroke. He had no time to care about the inevitable audience.

With a pained grunt, Animal hopped back a few steps. He cupped his bruised balls and winced.

Buttstroke closed in with a combo of straight and round punches to the head and ribs, but Animal scrunched down and drew his arms close to his side. He maneuvered his arms to let the muscles take the brunt. Animal had good defense, well-practiced as if he got in fist fights every other day.

No way would Buttstroke land a blow without something up his sleeve. The hit to Animal’s crotch had made the guy raise his proverbial shields.

Didn’t like his balls throttled. Can use that.

Buttstroke flinched his front leg as if to go for another crotch strike. Animal dropped his right arm to block the fake blow, but Buttstroke slammed Animal’s cheek with a left hook. His right connected over Animal’s brow, followed by another left through the gap in the defense. To cap it all off, Buttstroke landed a roundhouse kick on Animal’s thigh. The meat quivered underneath.

Animal stumbled a few steps backward. He darted his eyes all over Buttstroke’s form to find a chink in the armor. Every fiber of Buttstroke’s being told him to close the space, to deny Animal the chance to think, but he hesitated. If Buttstroke knew what to do after that, he would have already stepped in. Reality had surpassed Buttstroke’s strategic predictions.

Time stopped; Animal charged. Buttstroke’s hands—as if acting on their own—grappled Animal’s arm and pulled the rampaging guy’s weight over his shoulder. Animal’s boots crashed through the ceiling tiles. White bits rained down on them both.

The DI held out a hand to keep the other recruits back.

Animal’s weight flopped onto the floor. Even though Buttstroke had his arm clasped in his hands, Animal flipped onto his front to escape. Buttstroke stepped on his arm. The elbow bent backward under the weight. Animal screamed.

Buttstroke slammed his knuckles into the trapped forearm. The bones shattered with an audible crack. With a quick twist, Buttstroke yanked Animal’s hand toward him. The broken point of the bone emerged from the flesh, covered in thick red, and the coppery whiff of blood met Buttstroke’s nostrils. He let the mangled limb go.

Animal pushed himself to his knees with his good arm. He lifted his arm in front of his wide eyes. His hand and wrist stuck out to the side, and his fingers twitched. A fount of gore leaped from the wound around the exposed bone, and a howl erupted from his mouth.

With a step back, Buttstroke wound up. He smashed his shin into Animal’s face. The defeated recruit’s jaw popped out of its socket, and his eyes rolled back. Animal collapsed on his back with his legs trapped underneath. The guy’s face, twisted and beaten, didn’t even look human.

Buttstroke’s heart beat a war drum rhythm. He had never felt so awake in his life.

“Sir,” Buttstroke swallowed between gulps of air, “I’m your new bodyguard… sir.”

“Killing him would be the kind thing.” The DI dropped his arm. The gawking crowd had become both still and silent. Each eye pulled back to show their whites. Dozer’s mouth opened wide, and his top lip curled back.

Errorist, beside him, looked much the same. Buttstroke had the spindly guy in his pocket. Whatever the other two would say, Buttstroke would hear about it through Errorist’s reports. The peon liked the others more, even called them friends, but his fear overruled friendship.

“Sir, kindness never got me anywhere, sir.” Buttstroke wiped his face with the back of his hand. Red smeared across it. “Nowhere but here.” He muttered his words just loud enough for himself to hear.

Model sneered at him among the gawkers.

You’ll accept me as your leader if nothing else.