Jones felt something wrap around his throat, and he was lifted bodily into the air. Jones was now on the pool table being strangled. His eyes bulged as he fought for breath. Whoever had grabbed him had breath that smelled of cheap lager, cigarettes and fish. The man was whispering in his ear, about how Jones was about to die.
Funny, he thought, people keep telling me that, and I’m still here.
He stepped back and down into a crouch. The man was not expecting it, so went flying over-the-top of Jones; the leather belt he had been using as a garrotte flew from his hand. He landed flat on his face. Broken teeth and blood blasted out of his pulped face.
Jones jumped off the table.
“Anyone else fancy a game?”
He looked directly at the nearest biker dude, a skinny guy with a scraggly beard, and a face not even a mother could love. Ugly held up his hands, backing away.
“You play too rough for me, Kimosabe!”
It looked like the others felt the same, Jones gave them all his best ‘don’t mess with me ‘cause I eat gasoline and shit fire’ look before pointing to the exit with a nod of his head. They did not need telling twice, like a herd of stampeding buffalo they headed for the door.
Alone at last, Jones thought, as he gazed at the door that led upstairs.
Jones hated doors; they hid all kinds of secrets.
There was a time when doors held no problem for him. That was before he met Ashikaga No Yoshitsune, the family’s gardener. Two days after the attack at the family mansion, nothing had been mentioned to Jones about who the attackers were, but he figured it had something to do with the work his father did. The gardener was getting ready to leave for his home. Jones stopped him at the front door.
“Excuse me sir, how did you defeat the bad men?”
The old man stopped and turned to look at Jones, his dark eyes deeper than any lake or ocean Jones had seen, and full of esoteric knowledge.
“Koryu Bujutsu.” With an enigmatic smile, he walked out the door.
Jones later asked his father what this was. His father turned from the papers on his desk and looked at Jones, a quizzical air to his iron hard features. Jones’ father explained it was a very old Japanese way of fighting, steeped in the history and culture of the Japans.
Jones, who had always been a stubborn boy when his mind was set on a course of action, decided there and then that he wanted to learn this strange way of fighting.
The next day he approached the gardener, and asked if he would teach him.
“Bujutsu is not for Gaijin, Gaijin play Soccer. Bujutsu too hard.”
The gardener carried on with his weeding, and Jones skulked off to think of a way to persuade the old guy.
That night he watched an old film on the television: it was a Samurai film, the hero wanted the master to teach him the way of the sword so he could avenge the death of his parents. The teacher refused, so the hero began leaving gifts at his house, or tidying his garden, while the teacher was out. Finally, the teacher relented; he said the hero had Kokoro, and so would teach him.
The next day he followed the gardener home. He would show him he had this Kokoro, after all how hard could it be to leave a few gifts, and do a bit of gardening?
The gardener’s home was a modest sized bungalow, hidden deeper in the hills above Pearl City, it had a small garden to the rear with a Buddhist shrine at the bottom. Over the next month, he left gifts of rice cakes, or sushi, and tidied up the weeds that grew among the neat little flowerbeds. Jones always waited until the gardener was almost home before he lit incense sticks at the shrine before hiding nearby to watch the gardener’s reaction.
The gardener, a week into the second month caught him; it was also the moment his whole world imploded. He was lighting the incense sticks as usual when the gardener entered the garden. Jones stood frozen to the spot.
The gardener, his face a stony visage approached him. Jones saw sadness in the old man’s eyes. He opened his mouth, about to apologise, and explain his actions. The gardener took his hand and led him to a bench against the back wall of the house. Here, he told Jones his parents had been killed in a car crash.
Jones felt dizzy, and he tried hard to hold back the tears. At first he did not believe what he heard, it could not be true. He believed it a week later at their graveside, only then did the tears flow.
He had no other relatives stateside, and it was up in the air where he was going to live. Finally, he was told someone had come forward to care for him.
He stepped into the foyer of the Child Services Care Home to find the smiling face of the gardener.
“I am Ashikaga No Yoshitsune.” The old man bowed low. Instinctively Jones returned the bow.
Ashikaga took him into his home, and it was agreed he would teach Jones the ways of Koryu Bujutsu, the ways of the Tenshin Shoden Katori Shinto Ryu.
On the first day of training he took him deep into the woods above his home. They stopped at the head of a trail.
“Jones san, I want you to walk down this trail, no matter what you see or hear do not deviate from the trail. Here.” Ashikaga handed Jones a wooden sword. He held it, looking in awe along the length of the wooden blade. When he looked up to thank Ashikaga, he had vanished like smoke in the wind.
Looking around he shrugged and started down the trail. He had been walking for about an hour when he came upon a wooden shack in the middle of a clearing. The door was ajar; he heard the faint sound of crying from within. There was no one else around, a thin voice from inside said, “Help me please,” then screamed.
Jones dashed forward, the sword held high. He was about to crash through the door, when something inside him screamed to stop. Something felt wrong. He kicked the door open, then jumped back, sword at the ready.
There was a glint of sun off metal, as a Katana blade whistled through the air where Jones would have been, if he had stepped through the door.
Ashikaga stepped out of the shack, sword in hand, and smiled.
“You have learned your first important lesson Jones san; always trust your inner voice.”
Jones felt the old familiar tingling down his spine as he stood in front of the door that led to the upper regions of the bar. Through Ashikaga’s training, he had learned the esoteric art of Haragei; the ability to sense threats or to anticipate an opponent's movements. His Haragei was telling him there was a threat waiting through the door. He could almost pick up on the murderous black thoughts of his antagonist.
Jones drew his Tanto fighting knife from his right boot. He approached the door; the feeling was more intense on the right side. He crashed his left boot into the door, almost knocking it off its hinges as it flew open.
The man to the right of the door was taken by surprise, the axe he was holding still raised above his head as Jones plunged the Tanto into his stomach, ripping up towards his rib cage. He was dead before he knew it.
Jones stepped over the eviscerated man, ignoring the wet gurgling of gasses escaping from the man’s torn stomach. A short corridor in front of him led to a flight of stairs leading up into darkness.
Extending his Haragei, he could tell no threat waited on the floor above him. Reversing the Tanto blade, he began to ascend the stairs; keeping to the side to minimise any creaks in the wood.
He reached the landing and paused, the darkness was all encompassing, and no windows were present to let in even ambient light. He dropped his centre of gravity, slowly shuffled along the landing, arms up, and blade at the ready.
He listened with his entire being, reaching out as he had been taught, to feel with the eyes and mind of god. This was Haragei in its extreme. There, he felt it; someone was descending the next flight of stairs. Whoever it was, they could hide their intentions, even so he picked it up like a spark in a cave; there one moment gone the next.