Disclaimer: It's in the chapter one.
Good evening, kiddies. Here is the next chapter. The lyrics of the song in here is mostly from two of the phrases used from the convention and is not a real song… that's owned by anyone who actually gives a damn, anyway.
Balladdo looked down at me with his typical sneer, still imposing but not as bad as when I first was thrust into his teaching, when I was half a foot shorter.
"All right, you little snot-nosed brat," he grumbled from his belly, "You have about five seconds to impress me."
I breathed and fell back into a natural stance, then I sprung up at him and whipped my right leg towards his head. He caught it easily, but I was expecting that; I shifted my weight in the air and my left stomped down onto his chest. He faltered back a little, releasing me, and I followed up with another kick before returning to the floor and ducking to under-swipe him. He fell back on his ass and promptly started to laugh.
"Good, good!" he proclaimed, standing up as if nothing had happened. "We're really cultivating that kick of your into a regular rocket, now! You sure as hell aren't wasting Thom's suggestions!"
I nodded and crossed my arms. My hard work was showing, now. Both Gauzi and I were easily able to beat up even most adults now, though Gauzi was still cultivating mostly his own natural brute strength. My own ability to be light on my feet that was enhanced by continuous theft and robbery on my own part had become much of the foundation in my own fighting style. However, the keystone to it, at this point, was Quarter Thom himself.
The time following Grams' death up to this point had been especially harsh. Even while I was before doing most of the chores around the house, I still didn't have a very good clue as to most of the proper things of caring for a house long term was, nor of caring for myself quite yet. I had food down, sure, and money wasn't an issue anymore, but being alone meant struggling with ailments and lacerations of various sorts without help. I didn't know what to avoid, what to do when sick, how to cope with it while being the only person in the house, or even how to get help from a doctor properly without getting pushed out for not having my guardian with me.
This became a heavier issue when I decided, following the chocolate incident, to never throw a punch again—in order to keep my hands in as good condition as I could, so that I would never feel the pain of not being able to cook as Grams had in the end. But I still had to defend myself and be strong, no matter what. I wasn't about to resign myself to being a weakling, even if I could afford it.
So, I was limited to kicking. Balladdo, being ham-fisted as he was, thought the notion was ludicrous and flatly said so as soon as I suggested it. But I kept it up, refusing to let myself have a fist fall, going as far as tying my arms behind my back at times (I quit that because I ended up just cutting off circulation). This caused me to get pummeled to quite a high degree, nearly to the point that I should have been hospitalized a few times. Eventually, Balladdo seemed to understand that I was completely serious about what I was trying to do, and he, with Clyde and Colden, did what he felt was the most logical course of action: consult Quarter Thom himself. Of course, I wasn't invited when they talked about it, and they didn't warn me that he was going to do this.
So I was in a bit of shock when I answered a knock at the door to find the boss himself, running his hands over his grand handlebar mustache, leaning on his umbrella in such a way that I expected the skinny thing to break under his weight.
When I got over my shock, I sputtered, "G-Gottanno-sama! P-please, come in…!" I whipped my head around and opened the door wider for him.
Thom strode in with his courtly air, at most amused by my flustered reaction. "Thank you, m'boy. And please, call me Thom. Everyone else in the family does, you know."
"Yessir… I-I mean, Thom-sama."
He chuckled, most likely since even after correcting my politeness I still used a high honorific, but he didn't note on it. Instead, he merely went over to the threadbare armchair and sat down as if it were one of his own well-upholstered thrones, crossing his umbrella over his legs. "Lets sit, Zeff. No doubt you wonder why I've come here today."
I nodded and climbed into the ragged couch opposite of him. "I do. Did I do something wrong?"
This time he laughed loudly. "No, no, m'boy! You're doing very well, all things considered." He made a glance around at the house to indicate those "things considered". "But your sparring behavior is growing a little bit of concern with your teacher and your superiors. You've been limiting yourself only to kicks, they say."
"I-I have." I looked down at my knees. "It's because I don't want to hurt my hands.
"Eh?"
"I don't want to bruise them because I want to be a chef. Grams said once that if your hands are crippled as a chef, your whole identity is crippled. She said they must always be quick and nimble and steady, not bruised or marred or strained. That's what she said." After a short, uncomfortable pause, I continued, "She wasn't able to use her hands before she died because of arthritis, and she was miserable. I don't want to end up that way."
"Hm-mmm…" Thom reached up and stroked his long mustaches again, chewing over these words. "Is that so? Well, that is a conundrum there, isn't it? You're definitely set out to be a good fighter by what the others have told me…"
I looked up at him in surprise. "R-really? They said that?"
"…But you're definitely a fine cook at your age. At least when it comes to that chocolate you made. Delicious."
I blushed hard and hid my face by staring at my knees again. "…Thank you, sir."
He made another chuckle, and then cleared his throat with a rolling cough. "See, you're even flattered by praise in both. Well, it's not fair to make you have to choose, especially with all you've had to deal with so far, so we won't make you. Instead..." He stood abruptly and tapped the umbrella back on the ground. "Tomorrow, Colden will come visit you an hour and a half before Clyde usually picks you up to Balladdo's training. Go with him and we'll see what we can do about this matter, hmm?"
I was confused, but I nodded. "Yessir, I mean, yes Thom-sama. Thank you."
And so Colden did arrive like Thom said the next day, and I was taken to the Gottanno mansion. The old man had a large gym lined with mats. He himself wore an old-fashioned blue and white gym jumper, which, coupled with his mustaches, made him look like an obese version of those weight lifters in old pictures. Once again, he leaned on his umbrella, which looked like it might pierce into the mats below it. Then he announced that he, himself, was going to help me develop—get this—my own fighting style.
"An enormous task, I know," Thom commented with a nod at my saucer-wide eyes, "but most martial artists find that they have to mix and match fighting styles to match their own way, eventually. We'll just have to do this process with you sooner."
And so the private training began. Despite his size, Thom was surprisingly light on his feet. He had his umbrella handy to swipe at my legs and sometimes hook a foot to trip me, making comments and suggestions along the way about my form. I fell a hell of a lot that first session, and was on the mat more often than not. But the second time I was only tripped ten times, and the third, less than that.
Meanwhile, Balladdo's own training took a different run with me. He had to regard Gauzi and I separately now, since Gauzi was pure bruiser and could stay with his normal fighting style. With me, however, he had to dip into his knowledge from back in the day when he studied several martial arts, trying to pull up any and every style that had an emphasis on special kick fighting from his memory. He even had to pull out old collections and even a rare poetic anthology concerning martial arts that he got when he was younger and sparingly read since.
One of the kicks he was helping me develop was from an old South Blue style that fell out of style long ago, but the kick itself Balladdo had found interesting. It was a mid-air stomp that required fast movement and a twist in it that burned the chest along with the impact when it hit. He couldn't pronounce the proper name for it, so he dubbed it "rocket kick" after a rocket he saw crash during a fireworks show.
Of course, all the hard work he put into it meant that I was expected to put three times as much work in to make up for the trouble. I found that if I wasn't doing jobs or sleeping, I was cooking or training. I hardly had time to peek in and watch the famous chefs cooking from the backdoor anymore, and was getting too big to get away with sneaking in restaurant kitchens, anyway. Of course, I forced myself into being bedridden from all this work eventually, but instead of leaving me alone, Clyde dragged me out of bed (despite my cries to leave me to sleep, goddamnit, I'm just a kid and I'm sick!) before Thom, who ordered Clyde to take me to his doctor for treatment, then ordered me to get well and get back to working and training. Ever since that point, I had reliable medical care while in the Fleeholds.
That all brought me up to this point I was in now; a couple years had passed, and my fighting style was finally beginning to cement itself. The "rocket kick" still had kinks, I thought, and I needed to work on it, but Balladdo was pleased by it so I used it a lot when showing him.
"Maybe we'll make something out of you, yet," Balladdo rumbled, then turned away. "I think we're done for today, unless you really need a daily beating to keep you little cocky idiots in your place."
"Ah, how fortunate," a cold voice cut in. I turned and frowned at Clyde.
"Eh? You collecting them, today?" Balladdo wiped his head with a towel. "Usually you let them walk home. What, despite all the training, the little dears need an escort?"
Clyde, as usual, disregarded the remark. "Thom requires their presence at Club Valler. I'm to have them clean and presentable before I bring them there. Obviously, it's not a matter that the likes of Colden or these children can perform without supervision." The last bit he added with a snooty suggestion that, yes, he meant you too Balladdo, you unhygienic, drooling swine, and promptly left with us.
By this point, Clyde had already forced me to get those sorts of "presentable" clothes for such occasions, the same with Gauzi, so we were dropped off at our houses and given fifteen minutes each to get ready. Then we were taken to the nearby downtown area that Thom virtually ruled over and into a club with a flashing string of golden lights circling around the bright letters that spelled CLUB VALLER.
Various overhanging lamps encircled by orange stained glass lampshades dimly lit the inside. The smoke was thick, but also had a perfumed smell to it, making me wonder if someone was burning incense somewhere. When I was brought to Thom's private booth—seeing Colden and Torzi already there as well—I saw what the cause of the scent was; every table had a large, glass ashtray littered with potpourri so that when one snuffed a cigarette, they'd burn the potpourri and sweetened the resulting smoke. Probably a fire hazard but, hell, the air was probably more tolerable to breath in for it.
"Why is it that I can never find coffee in this place?" Colden began whining promptly as Clyde sat down.
It was probably a signal to start a fight, because instead of ignoring it, Clyde answered, "Call a waitress over and order a cup, like most civilized people do."
"I can't find a waitress, either."
"Well! Maybe if you didn't chase off every creature that had two legs and a matching set of breasts, they wouldn't be afraid to approach you."
Colden frowned and threw his cigar into the ashtray. "Don't start with me, Clyde."
"You started with me and you know it. Just order from the waitress when Thom calls her over."
Looking back at all this banter, if someone had told me that Clyde and Colden were married, I think I would have believed them.
"He already ordered her over… and got himself a pot!" He indicated the steaming metal pitcher sitting nearby Thom, then gave a lighthearted punch to Thom's arm. "The cheapskate won't even let me have any."
Thom laughed heartily. "I'm really not a cheapskate. I just don't like sharing."
"Yeah, yeah. That's why you broke that guy's legs over one hundred beri, right?"
The three immediately burst into guffaw (even Clyde, which meant that the account was true and that I didn't want to know the details). Us three that weren't in the loop shifted uncomfortably.
Music started up from the stage. A piano made some introductory jazz chords in ragtime, and two people entered the stage: a man in a tuxedo with a flute, and a woman in hardly anything with a broad smile. The two made a quick bow before the man took the flute to his lips and the woman took the center stage. She started singing with a airy, jazzy, lilting voice that I can still hear as clearly as the sea outside my window to this day.
"Darling, my darling, oh so darling that you put up with me, cuz…" she sang. "I'm a moody person. Look at me switch from joy to misery."
Clyde actually smiled and said something uncharacteristic. "Va-va-voom, it's Felíche de la Rennace! What a stunner, huh? What a voice! I tell you, I'd love to dance a number with her."
"Yeah, she sure is," Colden agreed, then realized he never agreed with Clyde. "Hey, I thought girls weren't your thing."
Clyde made a grimace but chose not to acknowledge the comment, putting himself back into Miss de la Rennace's song.
"I'm like a new toy; I lose my novelty very quickly." She sang. "Oh so quickly and I just… think that it's absolutely darling, my darling, that you… love… me…!"
Whether or not Clyde's "thing" was women, I could definitely see why he liked her, because she was every bit as stunning as he raved. And that song... sticks with me, you know? Still does to this day. There's just something about ragtime. Makes anything seem sweet or hot, not that de la Rennace needed it. But if something can't be given a little bit of swing, then it might not be worth doing in the first place.
Iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing"iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing"
iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing"iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing"
iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing"iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing"iwillnotendthechapterwith"itdon'tmeanathing".....
