Bo lurches upright and grabs the weapon beside his bed. Cold sweat on his forehead forges a downward path, eager to join the rest of the dampness congregating in his armpits. Controlled breathing techniques slow his heart rate. He’s at his sister’s house in Kansas. The threat that got his heart racing has long passed away.
The taste of copper lingers in his mouth. He bit his tongue overnight, which helped propel his dream into nightmare status. Morning light sneaks past the edges of a roller shade on the guest bedroom window. It provides enough illumination to see the frayed-edged notebook and a half empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.
Though his mind reassures him, he’s reluctant to let go of his Bo Staff. He clutches the bottle in one hand and rips the stopper out with his teeth. The fiery liquid travels outward over his scorched tongue, igniting veins as it journeys through his body.
Minutes tick by before he’s mentally ready to take up the journal. A pen lays inside it, eager to transcribe this latest encounter with his long-dead father. His hand doesn’t waver as he captures the highlights.
“Get up, Bo.” Two swift kicks to the gut follow my father’s command. Ribs crack, blood coats my tongue when I bite down to muffle my scream. “You think you’re a badass, but I say you’re more of a candy ass. You can’t protect your mother and sister while flopping on the ground.”
He tosses my Bo Staff beside me. A shallow breath, sucks the billowing dust into my lungs. I try to hold it in, but the cough escapes, pin prick dots swim across my vision. Passing out is a terrible option. I’ve done that before and got beaten for going unconscious.
Once on my knees, I stagger to my feet and keep my arms loose at my sides. Not cinched tight around my ribs, as I’d prefer. No need to draw attention to my injury.
My father stands off to the side, six-foot-four inches of unadulterated malice. Satanic tattoos cover his body, the one’s on his chest and back merge into one wrap around piece. A hell-scape where demons eat children and partake in a blood fueled orgy.
Steel-edged eyes watch me struggle, waiting to see if I make it back into ready position. My hands wrap tightly around my Bo Staff before I nod. Without a word, he closes the distance between us and resumes my lesson in pain.
Gentle knocking on the bedroom door causes him to snap the journal closed. Seven-year-old SJ, his sister’s eldest child, pokes his head inside the room. Nut brown hair sticks out in multiple directions, a smattering of freckles crisscross his face. “You okay Uncle Bo? We heard shouting and Mommy said you were having a bad dream.” His three-year-old sister, Dalia, pushes past her brother and toddles unsteadily into the room.
“No D, we’re just supposed to check, not go inside.” SJ reaches to grab the top of her pajamas, but like a master of Drunken Monkey style Kung Fu, she artfully evades his grasp. She continues her weaving path forward. Balancing an oversized blanket, and stuffed bear in her beefy toddler fist.
“It’s fine, little man. Time I got moving,” Bo says as he picks up his squirming niece. She’s a perpetual motion machine, with a natural ability to land herself in trouble.
The three of them troop into the kitchen where Bo’s sister Becka is cooking breakfast. Her light brown hair is pulled tight into a ponytail and she’s wearing an apron over her hospital uniform. She greets them with a spatula wave, before turning back to the stove.
The smell of bacon and coffee permeate the room. Dalia points to the ground. “Down.” Bo pretends to drop her and she giggles with delight. Once settled on the kitchen floor, SJ grabs her hand and leads her to the table.
Bo sits at the counter across from his sister. “Need help?” A basket of clean clothes sit on the barstool next to him. At her, “No, almost done,” he folds the laundry, organizing it into piles. His hands clench around a pair of socks. The elastic tops are stretched and the heels are worn thin.
“Nasty night?” Becka places a full coffee mug in front of him. She pries the socks from his hand and moves the whole basket aside.
Bo gives her a shrug before adding a liberal amount of cream and sugar to his cup. He’s six-inches taller and considerably more muscular than his older sister. Only when people see their unusual blue-gray eyes do they realize they are siblings. Her pair are boring a hole into him at the moment.
“Use your words, Uncle Bo.” SJ enthusiastically repeats what Becka often tells him as he colors at the table with his sister.
“Yes, Uncle Bo, use your words.” Becka’s eyes crinkle around the edges. Chapped lips frame her toothy smile.
“My apologies, fair lady.” Bo’s mock bow gets another giggle from Dalia. “I am remiss in my manners this morning. Yes, I had an awful night, but since my liege lords awakened me, things have improved.”
Becka snorts and slides a plate of three pancakes and a slab of bacon in front of him. “Well met, brave knight. I’m glad my minions have increased your joy. Now eat up.” She places a smaller version of Bo’s food offerings in front of her two children.
“Where’s yours?” Bo’s question is barely audible around a mouthful of food.
“Hmmm, oh, I ate already.” Her scent changes ever so slightly. Bo’s head snaps up from salivating over his plate. The kids are too busy drowning their pancakes in syrup to notice her lie.
Ungarans are walking, talking lie detectors. It’s the only Magic they have in this land run by powerful Mages who enslaved their kind centuries ago. To this day, Mages view them as inferior and Nulls, non-magic users, see them as oddities. They’ll work for either group, but rarely socialize with them after hours.
Bo rises from his seat and steps around his sister. He gets a plate from the cupboard and a clean set of utensils from the drawer and transfers half the food from his plate onto the empty one. He pushes it toward Becka. His squinty eyes steal away her protest before the words can form. She pulls the plate toward her and tucks into the food.
SJ’s metal chair screeches across the tile floor followed by, “I’m done.”
He’s halfway out the door with Dalia hot on his heels before Becka can react. She says to their backs, “Brush your teeth and wash your sticky hands before you comb your hair.”
Bo gathers the dishes, places them in the sink, and swishes soapy water over them. Once clean, he hands them to his sister to dry. “I think I’ll meet with Rex later today. Tell him I’m ready to go back into the ring.”
Becka’s mouth turns downward and her brow is so furrowed she could plant a row of corn. “Please don’t, you’re needed here. SJ and Dalia need a positive male role model in their life.”
He shakes his head and hands her another plate. “You’re skipping meals, taking on extra shifts at the hospital, and SJ is practically busting out of his socks. Both kids need new shoes and you need a break. It’s time I bring money in again.”
“But you do so much that helps me.” She tosses down her towel. “I’d rather work double shifts than have you nearly get killed in the arena every week.”
He rolls his shoulder, muscles bunch and release easily. “I’ve rested and done rehab long enough. My risk of serious injury increases if I don’t start re-using some of those muscles soon.” He holds the last plate out to Becka. “Rex owes me a showcase. One of those will pull in twice your monthly salary. Money we really need.”
A shudder courses through her body as she extends her hand and takes the freshly washed plate. “Bo, I don’t think you’re ready. In your last fight, you dislocated your shoulder, fractured a clavicle and suffered a concussion.”
“True, but, I won.”
“Yes, you stubborn arse. You won. But you’re still having nightmares about it.”
“That fight is not the cause of my nightmares.”
Becka meets his steady gaze. “Dad?” At his nod, her eyes pool with tears. “Oh.” She turns her attention back to drying the plate in her hand.
Their father was a complete and utter a-hole. His ‘code’ never allowed him to lay a hand on females. While free from his wrath, Becka and their mom watched helplessly as the ever living snot got regularly beat out of Bo. While horrific to witness, it cemented Becka’s Nursing career path. By fourteen, she had ample experience staunching blood flow and bandaging Bo’s wounds.
Chores done, Bo pours himself a second mug of coffee and sits down. “Tell you what. I’ll go see Doc Gibbons. If she clears me, then I’ll meet with Rex.” After stirring in cream and sugar, he takes a sip and says, “I don’t want to be a leach.”
“Stop it Bo, you contribute plenty.” She flings the damp towel at him, which he catches in the air. His shoulder pops from the unexpected movement. The death glare his sister gives him, proves she heard it, too.
Conversation ends when the two kids re-enter the kitchen. SJ’s hair is wet and plastered firmly on his head. His clothes are clean, but there’s a notable gap between his pants cuff and his shoe.
One of Dalia’s braids has come undone. The untethered hair unwinds further with every unsteady step. She ignores it and waddles toward her uncle. Once beside him, she lifts her arms. “Up.”
“Mommy, are you upset?” SJ fists his hands at his side and sucks on his bottom lip.
Bo raises Dalia in his arms and turns to SJ. “Your mom and I were just doing chores. You know how much we dislike cleaning up.”
SJ tilts his head as he listens to his uncle’s explanation. His ability to determine lies is based on hearing, unlike his mother whose vision blurs and Bo’s smelling one. Dalia’s gift has yet to manifest. SJ’s nod lets everyone know that he’s found the explanation satisfactory.
Rex’s office is a small space carved out of a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of town. The rest of the facility is a combination of workout stations and raised platform combat arenas. On fight nights, Rex sets up folding chairs around one of the elevated rings. He also acts as bookmaker, determining the odds and taking bets on each bout.
Sounds of fighters rapid punching speed bags and clanging martial arts weapons drift in through the flimsy office door. “So, Doc says you are good to go?” At Bo’s nod, Rex rubs the swollen knuckles of his weathered hands and smiles a toothless grin. The movement barely stirs the stale air between them. “Wonderful news. I’ll set up a showcase for you next week.”
Bo shifts in his seat and scrapes his sweaty palms across the thighs of his camouflage pants. “I’d prefer this week, if possible.”
Rex leans back into the waiting embrace of his oversized squeaky, rolling desk chair. It’s a striking resemblance to a picture of a dwarf king sitting atop a throne; SJ drew as a birthday gift to Bo last year. “Alright, but I’ll need to put more resources behind promoting the event with such short notice. So I’ll have to take a greater share of the profits.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” Bo stands to leave. “How does twenty percent sound?”
“I like you Bo, so I’ll agree, even if I’ll barely break even. Do me a favor and don’t tell the others about our deal, or they’ll try to take advantage of me.” He shoves his gnarled hand across his desk and they shake. Striking deals with match organizers is the only way to get ahead as a fighter. They’re a well-connected lot. Piss one off too badly and the rest will have nothing to do with you.
Bo exits the office and weaves his way through the crush of bodies filling the warehouse. The gym is the most active this late in the afternoon. The newbies are in a separate ring near the front door of the warehouse, desperately trying to catch the eye of an experienced fighter and secure them as a coach.
Coaching benefits the older fighters too, as they get newbies to beat on when sparing. It’s a win-win scenario where the strong improve and the weaker get weeded out. Bo has no apprentice, because it would also mean giving them a small portion of his winnings.
His usual sparring partners are large bags full of sand suspended from the ceiling. When you hit one with force, it feels like you’re connecting with an actual person. Barefoot, with only tape on his hands for protection, he bows to the bag before his first strike. No warm-ups for him, just like fights in real life.
Less than half a dozen blows in. Just as he finds his rhythm, a tall man in a black t-shirt and sweats, sneaks into the corner of Bo’s peripheral vision. A face tattoo couples with his military style posture, identifying him as a current or former Guardian. A martial art trained Null, who mainly do Security work for Mages.
This mystery guy crosses his arms and widens his stance, fixing him to a spot on the gym floor. Instead of working out, he silently watches Bo go through his routine. Bo ignores him, but there’s something about this guy that seems familiar.
Bo picks up the pace and starts wailing away at his sand-filled sparring partner. The thick chain supporting the bag from the ceiling groans as he pounds the piss out of it, using both his fists and knees. Twenty minutes later he’s done. He swipes a towel over his bald head and across his face ready to move onto the speed bags, the second part of his workout.
“You’re Bo Thompson, aren’t you?” The dark-haired Guardian’s voice is so gravely Bo has to lean in to hear him.
“Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I don’t throw matches for money and I only sign autographs for kids. I typically meet with fans after my bouts.” Bo cranes his neck around the enormous guy in his path, in search of the crafty old man in charge. “Does Rex know you’re here chatting up the fighters?”
“The only fighter I wish to chat with is you.” He doesn’t change his rigid stance while he speaks to Bo. Gray hair dusts his temples and draws further attention to the crossed scimitar tattoo on his forehead.
A quick sniff of the air confirms mystery man tells the truth. “Sorry, buddy, no time to talk. I’ve got a showcase at the end of the week and I need to prep for it.” Bo moves to pass him, but the stranger’s hand darts out to grab his arm. Fast as a cobra strike, he drops his hand before he connects with Bo. But it serves its purpose. Bo comes to a halt.
“Mr. Thompson, hear me out. I’ve got something better in mind for you.”
Bo slings his shabby workout bag across his shoulders. The big clock near the exit reminds him he’s due to pick up the kids soon. “Thanks, but no thanks. I got all the work I need here, and I gotta bounce.”
“You’ll be well paid for your work. In one week alone, you’ll be able to take home the same as you get with a showcase and not have to worry about your skull being bashed in every time you enter the arena.”
“It’s tempting, but to make that kind of money sounds like I’ll need to run from law enforcement or, at the very least, do things that are illegal. So I’ll stop you there before either of us becomes compromised.” Bo gives him a courteous head nod, maneuvers past him, and walks toward the exit.
“What if I double the pay and tell you all you have to do is to be someone’s bodyguard?”
Bo stops in his tracks. This guy and his proposal could be the answer to his lack of money problem. But no stranger ever does anything for him out of the goodness of their heart. He turns around and retraces his steps back toward the big fella. “Why can’t you do the job? You seem capable.”
“Well, I can’t be everywhere at once, and this client is… delicate. Your fighter biography states that you live with your sister and her children. I can use someone who knows how to wield a weapon, but also understands how to be gentle. I’m happy to put everything in writing, even make you a long-term deal, if it’s security you want.”
“Let’s say I’m interested. I can’t just back out of the Showcase. Rex is out getting flyers made and expects payment for the work he’s doing, as well as a cut from my matches.”
“Alright, do the Showcase. But, I need a firm commitment and you’ll start work with me immediately afterwards.” His calloused hand, does not pull back this time, but hovers in the space between them. “Do we have a deal?”
“Okay, if the money is as good as you say, I’m in.” He shakes his hand and gives his financial savior a genuine smile.
“Welcome to the team. I’ll come collect you at the end of the week.” A grin dances across the big guy’s face and Bo stifles a shudder. That smile shifts mystery man’s face from placid neutrality into the exact image of the devil tattooed on Bo’s late father’s torso.
Not one to believe in bad omens. Bo pulls back his hand and wraps it firmly around his Bo Staff. “So, what should I call you?”
“Call me, Boss.” He turns and walks out of the workout facility, as quietly as he entered.
The End
Copyright © 2022 by Jan Mau Hill
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
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