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Authors: Harper Kim

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Because of a kid named Victor telling his
off-hand story, I learned the basic pressure points from Sensei Hargrove (if a
twenty minute synopsis is enough to be considered a lesson). Mainly, I tuned in
with keen interest to the parts where Sensei discussed the ins and outs of
Dim
Mak
: the death touch.

“With this power,” said the pacing, earnest
Sensei, “one can strike a guy unconscious and possibly paralyze or even kill
the guy. You give ‘em a
Dim Mak
and you better hate ‘em, cause it’s a
done deal. Done. Deal.” The Sensei’s pace slowed, almost deliberately, as he
stopped and simply stared at me. It was as if he knew what I was thinking and
gave me his blessing.

As the pièce de résistance, Sensei Hargrove
called over his
Sempi
—his assistant, and in actuality his son—and gave a
live demonstration by striking various pressure points. We roared with delight
each time
Sempi
slumped or howled in pain. The Sensei’s son was a pain
in the neck and it was great justice to see him on the receiving end for once.

I tuned out the last part of the lecture about
how one should never try
Dim Mak
unless he or she has devoted themselves
to the art for many years overseas. I didn’t have many years. I only had now.

I had found my weapon of choice.

For the next several weeks, I spent most of my
free time hanging around the library, surrounded by stacks of picture books
that discussed the art of
Dim Mak
. The cartoon pictures were my favorite
but the skeleton bodies with the arrows pointing to the parts of interest were
also informative. Every night, I would perform fingertip pushups until my
knuckles felt ready to cave in. I would strike the lockers at school, slowly at
first, then building up until I could easily dent the metal with knife hand
strikes. After school I would strike the unyielding concrete of the handball
courts while I waited for Elizabeth. With every opportunity, there was a knife
hand strike.

I wore gloves to hide my horribly bruised and
swollen hands. Each day built upon the last, pain upon pain, but as I soaked
and bandaged my mangled hands—my weapons—each night, they hurt less and less. I
felt more and more determined. More and more ready.

Finally, one Friday after school when Elizabeth
wasn’t at the handball courts, I felt ready to try my luck against Pete. I sat
in the handball courts until the sky began to change color, just thinking about
the permanence of what I was about to attempt. Either filled with desperation
or foolish confidence, I managed to funnel courage from my mind to my feet and
walked straight toward the dilapidated shack.

That day was Friday, May 18, 1979.

The journey over to Elizabeth’s house was long
and foreboding. Leaves rustled around me as I shuffled along the sandy graveled
path. Other than the sounds of my footfalls and a few chorus frogs, the evening
was eerily silent. My limbs were cold and hands clammy. Sweat built profusely
above my brow and dripped disconcertingly into my eyes every now and then. How
many times had I threatened to turn back? I couldn’t recall, because
Elizabeth’s stricken blue eyes clouded my mind and urged my cement legs forward.

The house stood ominous against the sliver of
bone-gray moon above. Dark trees rustled their leaves, sending goose bumps up
and down my arms. A light was on in the upstairs loft.

Pete was there. So was she.

I could feel it in the curdling of my blood.
The trepidation I felt moments before vanished and what remained was a black
hole, the event horizon of dread, anger, and love. I was no longer afraid for
my life. I only wanted to get Elizabeth out of that plywood shack and protect
her from the man holding the key.

The door was unlocked.

Pete Hayes didn’t fear intruders, he salivated
for them. Rumor had it that during the night Pete would sit in his easy chair,
aim a shotgun at the front door, and hope for someone to cross the threshold.
Reports of a shooting never occurred, but no one was ever stupid enough to set
the rumor straight, that was, until now.

I took a deep breath before turning the knob.
Stepping inside, I felt a cold chill brush against my skin. Tiny hairs at the
nape of my neck rose in a haunting wave. At least no shots were fired; no
ragged, leaking hole appeared in my chest. I was still alive and whole. But,
there was no turning back.

I was in.

The room was mostly dark and dust particles
floated in front of my face. Orange light from a broken porch light outside was
straining to peek through the grimy windows, which seemed to forbid the outside
from looking in. Layers of dried blood spots splattered the peeling linoleum
floor and walls of the entryway.

I tried blocking out images of what I imagined
occurred in this small space. The idea that I wasn’t there to protect her
burned like fire in my chest. Murky smells of sweat hung in the air and it was
difficult not to gag.

Past the peeling linoleum entry was the living
area. Ratty carpet remnants were laid haphazardly across the space, exposing
moldy padding in places and bare plywood in others. Stains made up most of the
carpet’s color. A mixture of what seemed (and smelled) to be dirt, vomit, beer
and cigar ash was splattered and matted everywhere into the frayed nylon
fibers. An old couch, worn and sagging, leaned against the wall facing a
beat-up RCA television. Beside it, cocked at a 45-degree angle between the
television and the front door, was Pete’s easy chair. Slapping that chair would
surely raise a white cloud of fugitive dust. It would have the same smell as
the room, only stronger. It would smell like him.
Poof! Eau de dirtbag.

My mind was nervous, causing me to freeze up
and fixate on this random compulsion. I had to will myself to look away from
the chair, to not slap it. What was I doing? What if Pete already heard me and
was lying in wait? I’d never been stealth, why would I think that’d change now?
What if Pete was listening to my movements now from around the next doorway,
resting the cool blade of a hunting knife against his smiling cheek?

I felt transported to an altered state, a dream
within a dream. I pressed forward through the dim room, with silent footfalls,
implored by an invisible hand.

A tacky flamingo glass lamp glowed wickedly in
the far corner. Empty beer cans and stacks of newspaper cluttered what could
only be a table, in front of a makeshift kitchenette area.

I could not see as clearly into the dark corner
of the kitchenette, but what I saw was enough to haunt my dreams for the rest
of my life. Old and new rat traps were placed haphazardly along the linoleum
floor—some holding rats in varying stages of decay. Two shadows writhed around
one of the dead rats, squeaking every few seconds. I realized then what the
shadows were: two live rats were eating one of the caught rats.
They were
squeaking. Those rats, they were—
I had to catch myself again, stifling a
gag, feeling a blue tingling in my extremities.

Cabinet drawers were skewed, some of the doors
were off their hinges, and the finish was peeling. Rust surrounded the faucet
and streaked down the sides of the sink. A mini fridge grumbled its discontent
and I wondered briefly what it was the Boogeyman ate. I mostly wondered how
Elizabeth survived here as long as she did.

There was a door set ajar against the far wall,
which must have either been Pete’s room or the bathroom. I chose not to go
there. My exploration stopped here. I was wasting time; stalling.

I crossed toward the stairs.

The first stair tread creaked beneath my worn
tennies. I went still and held my breath. If I wasn’t sure before, I was sure
now that Pete heard the noise, but there was no change in movement upstairs.
Looking up, the faint glow from the loft that most likely served as Elizabeth’s
room created an eerie halo.

My senses heightened as I continued creeping up
the stairs; each step seemed harder than the last. Saliva thickened in the heat
of my mouth and a wave of nausea addled my balance. My heart leaped with each muddled
grunt emitted behind the closed door. The thudding in my ear reverberated like
a booming freight train moving through a tunnel.

The door was now within arm’s reach.

Tensing, I felt Pete’s threatening presence.
He’s
waiting for me.

There was a slim chance that Pete hadn’t heard
the floorboards creak or my labored breathing. There was an even slimmer chance
I wouldn’t be caught with my hands stuck elbow deep in the cookie jar, but I
knew better. My brain was just trying to reassure me, like when a mother tells
her child there are no such things as monsters. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I knew
just how real monsters were.

With every second that passed, my worry for
Elizabeth grew exponentially. Instinctively I braced for the worst. I took a
few deep breaths to control the prickly heat that rushed through my body and
when that didn’t work, I gritted my teeth and swallowed the film that coated my
mouth. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt adrenaline pumping through my veins as I
rested one heavy hand on the greasy knob.

My calming efforts were futile, but when I
heard a stifled scream, all reason and fear evaporated and I rushed in. My head
pulsed from the shot of adrenaline and my eyes raged in fury. I didn’t even
remember turning the knob and stepping inside the room. But there I was,
fucking center of attention.

The next few minutes blurred in a mind-numbing
haze.

Elizabeth’s matchstick legs were poking from
under the monster’s hairy legs—all boulders, ropes and rawhide. Her plain pink
underwear dangled helplessly around her ankles like loose-fitting shackles. And
her long brown hair was sprawled in knotted clumps against her pink pillow. In
the corner of the room, I spotted her thin blanket; rumpled and carelessly
tossed aside, as well as the stuffed turtle I had won for her at the County
Fair.

If he didn’t hear before, he heard now. Pete
turned.

Pete’s dark eyes, red-rimmed and dilated from
an afternoon of drinking, whirled around to hone in on his prey. What Pete saw
was probably a scared and quivering boy. Pete’s red cut-off T-shirt, drenched
with sweat, exposed a tattoo—a spider catching its prey amidst an intricate
web—inked just above the elbow and over the bulge of his animated triceps. You
could just feel the hairy insect crawl.

With flat eyes, Pete recoiled from his crouched
position and stood with authority, every muscle flexed and ready. He was not
wearing anything besides the cut-off shirt; his erection looked to be as ready
to go as every other part of him.
Fuck or fight, that’s my motto. If I ain’t
a-fuckin’ I’m a-fighin’.
The corners of Pete’s lips curled in an
anticipating snarl.

I gulped. I could smell the beer on Pete’s
breath.

For what seemed like an eternity, no one moved,
as if locked in a menacing trance. The raised scar pulsed as Pete clenched his
jaw and fisted his hands, wringing them in a tightening motion. Elizabeth let
out a nervous hiccup that caused me to jump out of my skin; the trance, broken.

Pete bellowed a throaty chuckle that made me
wince.

“Well, whado we have here, my lil’ Lizzy? Huh,
babygirl
?”
Narrowing his blood-shot eyes, Pete sneered. “Fuck, it’s just a stupid kid.” To
Pete, I was a pestering fly that had no business acting like a falcon. “Think
ya got balls? Nah. Whoya fool’n boy. Just get, willya, whileya still have puny
legs to carryya,” Pete said, as he air-swatted me away.

Turning, he resumed the throttling position and
slapped Elizabeth just for spite.

The anger, violent and deadly, ripped through
me with unadulterated force. The challenge to my manhood did nothing to curtail
my desire to flee, but the abuse he inflicted on Elizabeth robbed me of all
reason. Instead of shrinking back like Pete assumed I would, I attacked.

Clumsy and awkward, my body lurched forward as
my hands flew up forming practiced lines in the stifling air. In a singular
moment I thought of striking the lockers, of the many textbook diagrams I
memorized, soaking my injured hands and all the months I spent nursing my plan,
and I struck.

With all my might, I struck.

I struck hard.

And with that strike, my hand missed, hitting
Pete’s upper back. I just made the epitome of all
oh-fuck
moments.

A deadly hiss escaped Pete’s lips, like a
rattlesnake curled and ready to strike. And just before Pete’s thick arm
wrapped around to eradicate the flea that nicked his back, I managed to swing a
second forceful knife-hand strike to the base of his skull.

When Pete crumpled in a heap on top of Elizabeth’s
shivering body, the silence in the room thundered to life. My blood pounded
against my eardrums with pneumatic force as I stood convulsing in breathless
spasms. The oxygen returned to my lungs and I felt sudden pain permeating my
hands. Stunned, I stared at them with sickened awe, as if examining them for
the first time.

“N-Neil?” Her small voice whimpered.

“Elizabeth!”

Without worrying about my broken hand, I pushed
the crumpled body off Elizabeth and pulled her into my limp arms. She was
shaking so hard, she slipped from my grasp. Tightening my hold, I tried
reassuring her that she no longer had to be afraid.

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