Author's Notes- It is very likely I still may raise the rating of this story to "M" (mature) at some point in this story. I just feel that the subject matter may be more appropriate for a higher rating as things begin to move away from the coming of age young man stuff into the darker killer type of stuff. I guess I'll just see how it goes. :)

As always, a big thank you to everyone who has left reviews thus far! (That would be reviews, not juvenile flaming.) I really appreciate you taking the time to read these long (and getting longer) chapters and letting me know what you think. I don't plan on letting this story remain unfinished, it just takes sometime for me to write each chapter. So, I hope you keep reading!

SPECIAL NOTE: I am going to be posting this chapter in THREE PARTS because it is so long. I apologize if this will end up being confusing to anybody, but I think it will work out best for both those reading, as well as me not going insane writing. In the end it should all flow together as one chapter, so for now just think of it as three mini chaps to make up one. :)

Chapter 2

Cruel Intentions

Part 1

My Brother, My Executioner

"I've seen the future baby; it is murder." – Leonard Cohen – The Future

San Francisco, CA – 1966

Probably one the last places somebody would expect a very soon-to-be contract killer was in the middle of a fully raging peace rally.

But then again, part of the killer's game was to remain in the shadows of the obscure and the unexpected; to be amidst those least suspecting of their true darker nature. And that's exactly what Bill was hoping for, because he was just about five minutes away from killing the man standing directly in front of him in cold blood.

Naturally he wasn't going to shoot the man right here, in the middle of a goddamn peace rally. He was pretty sure the massed group of peace loving hippies currently surrounding him would not take too well to seeing one of their supposed 'own' blow the back of a man's head off at close range; call it intuition.

Besides, in Bill's quickly adapting mind, murder was not ideally a widely viewed spectacle, but something more subversive and worthy of only those who truly deserved the honor of that bloody observation. Not to mention, there were wary cops everywhere; mulling around the outskirts of the rally, thumbs tucked in their low slung belts, dark sunglasses glinting impersonally off the setting sun…doing their best to look intimidating. All of them were just waiting for the first sign of real 'trouble'. And if they'd happily turn a high pressure hose on a sign waving flower child, they sure as hell wouldn't have a problem turning a hose on a gun toting one.

No, it was best to play this cool, and Bill was waiting for just the right opportunity to make his move. It was his 'first time' after all, and he wasn't going to fuck it up. He was desperately trying to get beyond the point of fucking things up nowadays. It was time to be close to flawless as he possibly could.

Well, so far, so good.

The setting was perfect. It was a warm summer evening in downtown San Francisco….almost to a cliché; as if you were just waiting for some long haired pretty girl with flowers in her hair and a guitar under her arm to wave at you from a passing cable car. The street, Market, had been closed off for the rally, and just about every anti-war supporter from the entire city had shown up to make themselves heard to those pigs up on Capital Hill.

People were pissed off about the ongoing war in Vietnam. Personally, Bill didn't give a shit about the whole thing. People died all the time; sometimes in the hundreds, sometimes in the thousands. Hell, Jesus Christ had been only one person, and look how much of a big deal people still made about that whole thing!

No, Vietnam didn't make much of a difference to Bill. 'Life is a real fucking bitch, and then you die', Julio had once told him at the sagely age of sixteen. Well, Julio had never been much of a master linguist. And now Julio was dead himself, while Bill continued to survive in the harsh world that he both had known so well. Bill had every intention of surviving, until somebody better crossed his path that is. He could only hope that was far down the line, because the real fun of living for him seemed to be just beginning.

Anyways, Vietnam had recently become a big deal to just about everybody in San Francisco, and for the matter of keeping up appearances Bill had to play along for the time being. The coinciding of his first real 'assignment' and this rally had been pure ironic fate, because the havoc and confusion that the latter event caused was ideal for what needed to be done. And as luck would have it, his target, the man now stupidly standing in front of him, had shown up. Bill had guessed the man would of course, although his target was surely no hippie himself. The irony of it all was just all too good. Here they were, two well hidden imposters hiding in an anti-violence protest that, for one of them, was going end in nothing but cold murder.

Bill did have a feeling that the man knew he was here. Having a contract out on you was often something you simply didn't ignore, but he was also pretty sure the man had no idea just how physically close his soon to be killer really was. There was at least three thousand people amassed on the street, and everybody was packed in pretty tightly together. It was loud and it was hectic; the maze of mingling bodies and bouncing signs only heightened the sense of confusion.

Despite the commotion, Bill was completely focused on the task at hand. Not even the pretty redheaded girl standing next to him; the one whose ample cleavage nearly fell out of her loose blouse every time she waved her arms around could distract him right now. A joint had been sneakily passed his way and he'd regretfully passed it along. He needed to be as clear headed as possible for this; again….no more room for fuck ups.

His target, a tall slim man with thick glasses, curtly jet black hair and a large European nose, stood silently where he was. He was wearing a ratty tweed jacket and a pair of ill-fitting army fatigue slacks. Every now and then he'd cup his hands over his mouth and shout some half hearted anti-war slogan towards the still empty pulpit, but mostly he was a statue amidst the swirling bodies. To Bill he stood out like a sore thumb.

The man's name was Max Goldschmidt. Beyond that, Bill knew very little about him. He'd been given a physical description of the target, and had been told he'd likely show up for this rally. As far as why this man had been marked for assassination, Bill was uninformed. But, as he'd quickly come to learn, it was often not the assassin's business to know what the target's 'crime' was. No doubt old Max here had pissed off somebody important in the wrong place, and it bad apparently been enough to see that he no longer did it again. Bill did get the feeling this guy was a small time nuisance; a fly amongst spiders, but he really couldn't have expected to be sent to kill somebody really big on his first assignment….no matter how good he thought he was.

So like it or not, Max was his target and he was going to make sure Max didn't see what was coming to him until it was too late. Anytime Max glanced over his shoulder, Bill would move his own handheld sign strategically in front of his face. The sign had been a last minute idea, and one he was mightily glad he'd gone with. A mere hour before he'd been up in his rented hotel room, rapidly scrawling in bold black letters across the side of a disassembled milk carton: "L.B. Johnson is a murderer! End the war!" Now, he waved the sign with so much irony that he had a hard time keeping the smirk off of his face.

The sign was just the topping on the cake of course. Nobody would ever have pegged Bill for a cold blooded killer at that moment. He was just another tall young man, with a couple days worth of stubble on his cheeks and long hair that had been bleached out to a light brown by months in the California summer sun. He had on a pair of ragged loafers, baggy brown trousers, held up by a trendy wide leather belt and big copper buckle. This ensemble was topped of with a loud psychedelic paisley shirt and a patchwork jacket two sizes too big for him. The hippie attire was all his of course, but the jacket was on loan from an acquaintance, and was very necessary to conceal the 38 caliber Ruger pistol stuffed into the back of his belt.

He'd thought about using his old Colt 45, but decided that while that gun held much sentimental value as it being his first gun, it wasn't always reliable. Plus, he couldn't fit it with a silencer, something which the newer Ruger allowed him to do. It was a simple choice of functionality over personal attachment.

Max Goldschmidt was starting to turn into a real bore, and just when Bill was sure the man was simply going to stand there unmoving for hours on end, he made a move. It was more than a move; it was more like a bold beeline for the back of the crowd. For a brief second, Bill was sure that Max had spotted him as he'd pivoted around, but the man's face was a blank slate amidst a condition of automatic motion. Something had set him off though, and it would be stupid to not take it as an advantage.

Bill let Max get a head start of a couple feet, and then he started pushing through the crowd in pursuit. It wasn't an easy task, seeing as how packed in everybody was. Bill received a few glares and a: "Hey man, watch it" before he managed to get through the worst of it. He handed his anti-war sign off to a kid who didn't' even look old enough to vote; all the while sure not to take his attention off the back of his target.

Max stuffed his hands in his pockets and quickly strolled down the sidewalk; weaving through the number of people mingling around the area. He then turned the corner and headed further into the streets of downtown. Bill followed casually. He didn't spot any cops around, it seemed their attention was primarily directed at the rally.

If Max was heading somewhere in particular, it was a pretty damn good act. The man seemed to be wondering aimlessly; almost as if he was lost. He'd stop at random intervals to look into shop windows or to read a street sign. Bill found himself growing impatient of this little game. He had to force himself to remain relaxed in his movements and casual in expression. At times, Max almost seemed to be leading him on consciously, and Bill's growing suspicion of the whole situation was growing. He couldn't afford to lose this target. It was time to put an end to this.

Soon enough, Max made another of his 'random' stops; this time at an unmanned flower stand, and that was when Bill made his move. He quickly strolled up behind his target; his left hand meandering around to the gun at his back.

Max seemed absorbed in examining a festive looking arrangement of flowers, but made no move when Bill threw his right arm chummily around his shoulders; in fact he seemed to almost have been expecting it.

Bill glanced sidelong at the other man; his armed left hand snaking around to press the butt of the Ruger into Max's ribs through the bulk of his jacket. "I wouldn't buy these flowers if I were you brother," he said calmly; noting Max's almost expectant expression with some distain. "There's a much better selection a few streets over. Why don't I show you?"

Max nodded soberly; his long face darkening. At closer inspection, he indeed looked like a man who was tired of running. He was wary. It made Bill wonder just how long Max had been avoiding his fate with the higher ups. Well, it didn't matter, because that debt was about to be paid in full.

Bill, his arm still draped around Max's lean shoulders, led him away from the flower stand and up a nearby narrow street. He made sure the Ruger never left its threatening location, even if Max seemed resigned to come along willingly.

They continued up the street; Bill keeping a wary eye on the few passers by; a group of older men more concerned with watching the pavement than much else. The street twisted down into a tapered alleyway littered with trash and empty boxes. It was a dead end, perfect. Bill took note of the street number and a flickering neon sign on the side a nearby building that read "O'Reilly's Irish Pub – Billiards N' Brew." He would need to relay the location to the 'concerned party' soon enough.

Once they'd walked a good fifty feet down the dirty, box strewn alley, Bill stopped; giving Max a sharp nudge with the Ruger.

"Turn around."

Max turned without question and faced the end of the alleyway, which just happened to be spanned with a very unappealing rusty chain link fence. It was a damn shitty place to die, Bill had to admit that. But that wasn't about to change his mind about any of this.

He secured the silencer onto the top of the Ruger's narrow barrel with a quick turn of the wrist; not bothering to note the vague quivering in Max's frame.

Offering a quick glance around at the concrete buildings on both sides, Bill then turned back to Max and raised the gun to the back of the man's head, executioner style. The other man said nothing, didn't even make a sound. He seemed resigned to go with as much dignity as possible. Part of Bill was annoyed; wanted the man to beg for his life….or at the very least say something pathetic. But it seemed that at least this time; humility would defy Bill's arrogance.

Forefinger depressing the trigger, Bill hesitated for only a moment…..but it was an extremely loaded moment. In that instant he came to a few realizations, almost simultaneously.

First: He felt nothing. He had no physical reaction to what he was about to do. No speeding up of his heart; no sweating, no rolling of his stomach; nothing a normal person should feel on the verge of homicide Psychologically he felt absolutely not a goddamn thing either; except for a sense of satisfaction and attraction to the sum of money he was seconds away from earning.

Secondly: He was very glad that he hadn't ended up killing that man who had been with Mariana nearly two years ago. It would have been stupid, for his first kill to be out of such stupid adolescent driven passion. No, he would not be one to kill out of passion. Killing should be about nothing so heated, but instead about the lure of cold money. The fault of passion was one of weakness. He'd been weak with Mariana, but he was well past that now, and he would not let that same kind of weakness penetrate his shell again.

Thirdly: He didn't care one god damn bit about who this man was, or what he had or had not been selling, paying, fucking, delivering or saying to deserve such a fate. All that he knew and cared about was how much this fucker's demise would be worth. It was that simple. He simply didn't care about anything else right now.

Fourthly: And most importantly, he knew right then and there, that this was what he'd been born to do. By killing this man, he would in a sense, put himself above all others, others who could not commit murder…..and that was a lot of people. He could kill. God could kill. He'd stepped over the boundaries of human born fate, and played his own hand in the life of another. It was an instant relief to know one's fate, no matter how dark.

And then, in that split second before he pulled the trigger he could almost see a younger reflection of himself through the diamonds of chain link in the fence. It was that short and skinny fourteen year old kid, holding a gun to Old Man Tanner's face. It was nearly a reverse vision of what he'd had those six years ago. He couldn't pull the trigger back then, but now….no longer a child; the roundness of a boy's face, and the fragileness of a young disposition long gone, he sure as hell could.

He blinked and just as before, the vision was gone. His gaze slid over to the barrel of the Ruger, and the back of Max's head dead in its sight.

There was absolutely nothing left to think about now, so Bill simply pulled the trigger.

The silencer helped to dull the sound of the pistol, but the shot still produced a reasonably good echo in the confines of the narrow street. The bullet cut a path through the short distance of three feet or so, and drove through the back of Max's skull; exiting messily out his forehead and sending skull and brain fragments across the cracked pavement.

A split second later, Max's body joined the ejected remains of his head on the ground. His fingers twitched a couple of times, and then he was completely still.

Bill stood over the body; gazing down at it for a few long seconds. Once again, he checked for some reaction in himself to all of this, but still….nothing. He waited until he could no longer hear the echo of the gunshot and then placidly took a few steps back.

He left the man's body where it had fallen. He did not touch it, or give it more than a fleeting glance once he turned away. His gun re-holstered, he retraced his steps back out onto the busier streets. He passed the flower cart, where just minutes before, a man that was no longer alive had stood; a man that he had ruthlessly killed. The thought brought a vague smile to Bill's face.

Boarding a packed bus to Chinatown, Bill passed the minutes calmly watching the after work crowd bustle on and off; feeling extremely composed and at peace with himself. He even offered his seat to an elderly man and flashed a broad smile to a group of laughing young women. Indeed, he felt nothing like a man who had just committed a murder. Hell, if he could kill just like he was dropping a letter in the mailbox, then just imagine how easy it all would be?

With that tranquil yet disturbing thought in mind, he got off in Chinatown and took a right on Grant Street. By now, the sun had long set and a warm twilight had settled in for the night. The street was crowded with its usual mix of Chinese inhabitants and starry eyed Caucasian tourists. Wasting little time, Bill made his way to the South corner and ascended a set of stairs next to adjacent restaurant called 'Gold Bowl Chinese Cuisine.' The stairs emptied out onto a small railed overlook.

Two well dressed Chinese men were waiting there; one contentedly puffing away on a cigarette, the other shorter man gazing solemnly over across the street.

Bill approached the duo; dark eyes meeting those of the shorter man as he turned. This man was roughly of Bill's age, a well muscled youth with a straight black mop of jaw length hair and high chiseled cheekbones. His face remained coolly unchanged as Bill stepped up beside him.

Looking him directly in the face, Bill simply stated. "It's done."

Snubbing his cigarette out, the other Chinese man spoke up in a deep growl. "As instructed?"

Bill's gaze briefly flickered over to the other man. "One shot, to the back of the skull. I left him where he fell. He's in an alley off of Second, behind O'Reilly's Pub…downtown."

"Excellent," the man replied with a sense of grave joy. He even managed a bleak smile despite the obvious pain the gesture caused him.

The shorter youth's own smile was far warmer as he displayed his own happiness over the news; his hand falling on Bill's shoulder. His chiseled face remained split into a wide toothy smile; one that was not devoid of some sadistic undertones…..despite the youth surrounding it.

The look in his eyes deepened with a sense deep-felt pride as he spoke up again. "Welcome to the underground Bill."

One year earlier.

Well, Bill hadn't exactly just waltzed into the assassin's life overnight. Even he wasn't that good…….yet.

It had been a series of consequential events that had allowed him to enter the underground world at such a relatively young age. It could be argued that those events had been in motion from the moment he was born; after all, Bill had seemingly been destined to be a murdering bastard. His whole rough and often brutal childhood had served as the bitter appetizer to the long six course meal of murder and betrayal he was about to live through. You could call it fate if you liked, but the more palpable threshold of his "career" had most likely been the night Bill walked into Master Kuan-Yin Yi's Kung Fu School on the corner of Grant and Sacramento Street; located in the heart of San Francisco's bustling Chinatown.

Bill had torn out the ad for the kung fu school while sitting in a small diner around the corner from the dingy hotel he was staying at. He had then spent a few heedless days pondering the thought of actually going to the school. Despite being a highly arrogant young man, Bill had to admit to himself that he did really like learning from others. He'd learned to survive in Acuna from Julio, and he'd learned about life….in all its many facets, from Estiban. He liked having a mentor, or perhaps it had more to with filling that role of the surrogate father? Well, either way Bill acknowledged his need to learn. He of course had to pin much of his young wisdom and insight on his born gifts. His high intellect and quick adaptability were things he felt worth noting.

He also considered himself pretty damn tough. He could fight, but he wanted to learn this kung fu style of fighting. He knew very little about it. And it all seemed pretty exotic to him; conjuring up visions of quiet hairless monks in robes performing a variety of gracefully deadly techniques. All the while incense burned in the background and candles flickered across the ancient temple walls. He wasn't really sure why he was drawn to this idea; as clichéd as it was, but there was no denying it spoke to him on some level or another. And truth be told, he just really wanted to know how to really beat the fucking shit out of somebody. It was pretty obvious at this point in his life that he wasn't afraid to hurt human beings, or even to kill them for that matter…..wanted to kill them even. Perhaps kung fu could serve that purpose.

So, in the end his curiosity and craving for violence got the better of him and he strolled into Master Yi's Kung Fu school on a muggy late summer evening; a change of workout clothes in his duffel and a confident swagger in his youthful stride.

It was a good sized corner building, lit by a pair of flanking off white street lamps. A set of double glass doors; shaded by drawn bamboo mats dominated the corner side; windowless grey side paneling on the others. There was a small white sign taped against the glass indicating the school's name and hours. There was nothing else in the way of decoration. You certainly wouldn't call it charming from the outside, but a little mysterious perhaps….in that minimalist sort of way.

Bill opened the left hand door and stepped into the entryway. Inside it was very dimly lit. The ceiling was low and bare of both decoration and coatings of paint. A wooden paneled floor filled the training area; which took up the majority of the floor plan beyond the small entryway. The entryway itself was filled to the brim with potted plants, statuary, a worn bamboo bench, and even a small trickling fountain. Delicate paper fans decorated in Chinese calligraphy hung on all four walls, and Bill spotted a number of ornate tapestries hanging further down in the training area. There were no mirrors to be anywhere. A smell of pleasantly exotic incense drifted throughout the area.

Bill found he was entranced by it all at first sight and took little notice of the students presently training. Pausing to examine a stone reclining Buddha statue atop the narrow entry desk; he also took little notice of the sudden volume drop his arrival had caused in the room.

Now, at that time in the late 60's, there were very few kung fu schools in the United States, and very rarely did a Caucasian actually just up and walk into one of them. This was before the real emergence of Bruce Lee; before the real separation between Eastern and Western cultures began to slowly melt away. Any Civil Rights activist back then could have given you an earful of America's racial and social separations. These separations often went both ways, and when Bill boldly entered Master Yi's school, the reception was far from warm.

When he finally pulled his attention away from the Eastern décor, Bill found himself staring back at twenty pairs of Chinese eyes; none of them conveying anything remotely friendly. There were two women and eighteen men…all of varying age, but all obviously of full Asian descent. They were all dressed in plain white loose fitting outfits. Bill noted that they all also had white sashes tired around their waists; there was seemingly no colored ranking system whatsoever.

The group seemed to have frozen in mid exercise; grouped off in pairs that were now standing a few feet apart from one another as they surveyed the newcomer. Only one man appeared to not be paired up with anybody. He stood off to the side, watching Bill along with the others; his gnarled hands clasped serenely in front of him.

Bill knew right away that this had to be Master Yi. The man appeared older than time itself; if that was possible. He was laughably small; five feet tall, tops…and had a frame that was both unassuming and non-intimidating. And while his posture was quite straight, Bill found himself disappointed at the man's overall appearance; short and old he had expected, but not so frail. This was not the ageless kung fu warrior he had hoped for.

After a few more moments of awkward silence, the small man made his way through the maze of frozen students. He moved with an exquisite grace and made no noticeable sound as he did so. He stopped a few feet away from the younger man.

At closer inspection, Bill found he could not even place Yi's age. Sixty? Eighty? A hundred and fifty-seven? Moses would have been rivaled. Amidst Yi's understated yet wizened Asian features a pair of dark narrow eyes shone out like two brilliant pairs of obsidian stuck into a wad of wrinkled burlap. Above them, his dome of a head gleamed off of the school's moody candlelit interior; fringed only a by a thin wisp of almost nonexistent colorless hair.

This was the head of the school? This was a kung fu master? This elderly man was supposed to be able to teach others to fight? To kill? Goddamn, this geezer didn't look like he could even make it around the block, let alone throw somebody around. Bill resisted a snort; which resulted in a controlled tight smirk. No way. This man wouldn't even last a day in Acuna.

Yi seemed to take Bill's expression as some form of an invitation. "May I help you?" he spoke up; his voice was as gentle and unassuming as his person. There was a noticeable accent there, but it was obvious the man could speak English just fine.

Bill pulled away from his thoughts of disappointment with some difficulty. "I'd like to join your school….Mr….uh Yi….," the word sounded odd coming out his mouth and he felt the first twinge of awkwardness; a feeling that he greatly disliked.

A low murmur went through the students, and it was not one of agreement. Bill could not understand the few Chinese words he heard, but he could guess the general consensus. They all continued to watch him with those dark cool eyes of theirs, as if he'd not only just walked in on something sacred but had dared to try to include himself in it.

But Yi just shook his head dismissively; remaining neutral towards the situation. "I'm sorry, I'm not taking any more students this year…too full."

Bill remained undaunted; his expression still well composed despite his growing discomfort. He gestured to the room; which was still a generous space even with the twenty students standing in it. "Looks like you have enough room for one more." He attempted a charming smile in Yi's direction, "I'm skinny….I don't take up much room….."

For a few moments Yi simply regarded the much taller and younger man; his creased features shifting subtly towards pity. "You want to learn kung fu….," this time his voice had a distinct edge to it, "….like all of them, to hurt others…to abuse, yes? I do not teach to hurt or abuse."

Bill shook his head. "That's not why I'm here." He made the partial lie sound as convincing as possible. "I want to learn……….to know….." He was suddenly somewhat lost on a valid explanation, and faltered. 'I mean…I already know how to fight. I'm looking for….something new I guess."

At this the students once again exchanged affronted glances. The murmur was lower and shorter in duration than before. Bill stood his ground, what little he had, in the wake of this distain; most of which he didn't really understand.

Still, Yi remained neutral. The old master unfolded his hands slowly, gracefully. "Fighting has so little to do with it son," he said softly; a lifetime of knowledge weighing down his words. "Kung fu is not these," he held up his fists, "but this…..." he pointed to the left side of his lean chest, "…and this…" his weathered fingertip rose to his forehead.

Bill sniffed. He should have expected this sort of soft explanation from a man like Yi. This guy probably had never had a real fight in his entire life; spent the majority of his fading time trimming his lovingly planted flowers or feeding pigeons in the park.

"But," Yi spoke up so loudly suddenly it made Bill jump. The old man threw up his hands; smiling to reveal a set of small, well kept teeth, "…..if fighting is what you know, then let us fight and see what you have to show us."

This time the student's murmurs were filled with a sense of eager anticipation. They exchanged jaded glances and a few wry smiles.

Bill smirked over his shoulder at the assembled group. They were acting as if he was about to get killed and they simply couldn't wait to see it happen; a lamb going to the slaughter. Fucking morons. They needed to get outside away from their fat Buddha and their bowls of rice and see some of the real world.

Turning back to Yi, Bill dropped his duffel bag at his feet dramatically. He began to unbutton his shirt; a confident feral sneer on his face all the while.

Yi waited patiently; hands once again clasped in front of him. "I must tell you, the real man engages his enemy in a battle of wits, not a battle of brawn."

Bill peeled his shirt off his shoulders with bravado. "Yeah well, not any real man I know Mister Yi."

The old man shook his head in an expression of weary pity that Bill would come to know very, very well over the next couple months. But at this time he simply took it as an old fool's arrogance.

Shirt disposed of, Bill settled himself in the sort of fighting stance he'd used countless times over the years in Mexican bars, alleyways, parking lots and backyards. He fixed the other man with a sharp glare; just about every guy he knew in Acuna was scared shitless of that glare. That glare meant they were about to get their ass handed to them, and nobody fucked around with Bill after that. In his mind, he was a man to fear.

But Yi didn't seem intimidated by this juvenile behavior in the slightest. In fact he almost looked bored, standing there with his hands still demurely clasped in front of him, lips pressed tightly together, eyes watchful but still somewhat uninterested in this demonstration. He didn't move at all.

Bill bit down on his annoyance and frustration as he circled closer and closer to Yi. The old man was so fucking passive! This was probably going to be the easiest fight he'd had in years; easier even than when he'd had a gun along to encourage cooperation.

"Just so you know, I will not attack you first my son," Yi spoke up into the tension thick silence; his eyes locked on Bill. Yi looked as if he was about to explain this philosophy further, but instead remained as he was; silent and waiting.

Well Bill certainly had no qualms against instigating violence, and if Yi was just going to stand there like an idiot, than the old man was asking for it.

Fists clenched out in front of him now, Bill circled closer. It was then that he caught something in Yi's flinty eyes that momentarily chilled him to the bone. He couldn't name it, or really place it, but it was there. It was the look of deep knowledge and yet humble mysticism. It was a look of power, and it was frightening. Bill had a very brief inclination to step away and admit defeat, but the look in Yi's eyes was gone as quickly as it had appeared and he was once again nothing more to Bill than a disappointing and silly relic.

Flustered, he took a swing at the old man.

At least, that had been the idea, but Bill didn't exactly remember finishing the punch. He'd swung out, and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back. His chest felt as if it had been kicked in by a small horse, or perhaps an old familiar baseball bat. Either way, he couldn't breathe, and he found himself gasping eagerly for air that wasn't coming to him quickly enough. All he could do for a few seconds was hug himself and struggle for breath.

If he had been more coherent he might have noticed the faint whisper of snickering amongst the gathered students. Thankfully he didn't, because that familiar flush of anger had consumed him in an instant; like a gasoline lit fire. He was back on his feet within seconds; ignoring the pain in his chest as he did so.

Yi didn't appear to have moved at all; displaying that same placid expression, that same casual stance. Seeing this only angered Bill further, and he lunged at the old man a second time; this time in a low crouched assault.

Yi sidestepped him in a flash, sending him tripping forward over on his own power and back onto the harsh wooden floor; this time face first. The snickers from the students were louder, and Bill found himself glaring at their bare feet from his vantage point on the floor. He hated being humiliated, he hated it. He ground his teeth together and slammed a palm into the floor childishly.

Anger got him quickly back on his feet again. Not much to his surprise Yi was still a picture of perfect placidity. Baring his teeth, Bill once again attacked. This time, he faked quickly to the left and managed to step right around Yi's back. He didn't waste any time, putting Yi into a button tight full nelson grip. The old man didn't even resist at all, and Bill enjoyed a brief moment of satisfaction as he wrenched Yi's lean arms above his head. This hold was almost entirely failsafe, and could become immensely painful very quickly. But, Bill's moment of glory was brief indeed. Yi's almost entirely bald head suddenly snapped back and struck Bill full in the face; seeing as Yi was a good foot shorter than himself.

Now, the back of a person's head was quite hard; just ask anybody who had been reverse head butted, and naturally Bill instantly let go on the hold. Yi spun and seized the opportunity; he delivered a series of strikes to Bill's torso that were so quick that the old man's skilled hands were literally a blur of motion.

Bill, nursing his profusely bleeding nose and lip, was so focused on his newly wrought injuries that he didn't even make any effort to block Yi's rapid attacks. He took them all on at full force. That initial strike to the chest had been a love pat in comparison to these, no these were more like steel pistons powered on pure hydraulics and Bill fell backwards just out of sheer force alone.

This time, Yi's school floor seemed harder than ever….or maybe that was just the pain of humiliation that really stung. Laid out flat on his back by a man at least three times his age, Bill remained where he was; his right hand covering his bloodied face, his left clasping at his ribs…which he was sure were cracked Well, at least his nose wasn't broken; that much he could tell. But that was little solace to the pain of degradation.

The room was now completely silent, save for the mockingly tranquil drizzle of the fountain in the entryway.

He could sense Yi's quietly approaching footsteps come up beside him like a whisper. Still he didn't move. Bill was tempted to lash out, but somehow he knew that it wouldn't matter; Yi would just best him again. It was infuriating beyond words.

Smiling down at the young man, Yi said, "You hit like……John Wayne after five shots of whiskey…..so….sloppy…silly white…bar fighting. It is no good." He shook his head again in that expression of genial pity. "That is not good fighting."

Bill slowly removed his bloodstained hand from his face and stared up at the man. Had this ancient Chinese bastard just made a reference to John Wayne? To The Duke? He blinked a few times, and then, despite himself, he felt a smile spread across his face; re-splitting his lip open in the process. He pushed himself up on his elbows, urged on by the friendly face looking down at him. "Then teach me how to fight well, like you just did. That's what I want to know how to do."

Yi pursed his lips. "No. You're hot headed. You're an instigator. I do not wish to teach these types."

Bill continued to look up at Yi; who still seemed short from the vantage point of the floor. "Give me a chance Mister Yi. I'm a quick learner, and I work hard." He put on his most earnest expression.

There was a long drawn out silence; where Yi gazed down at Bill, attempting to appear unaffected and hard nosed, and where Bill gazed up at Yi, attempting to appear sincere and boyishly eager. The rest of the students looked on keenly,

After what seemed like hours to Bill, Yi finally held out his gnarled hand. "You are my first white student…."

Bill took the man's hand; feeling a genuine grin spread across his face as he was helped to his feet. "There's a first time for everything…"

Yi nodded his sagely head as if it were a heavy weight on a string. "Indeed, there is my son." He refolded his hands, like a priest after a raging sermon. "Yes. Very well…I will allow it, but I teach only in Mandarin…not English. If you do not understand me, I cannot help that. You learn to understand me, or learn to read my mind; whichever ability you master first."

"I'll learn," Bill said boldly; not specifying which path he'd take.

"And," Yi continued on like a punishing parent, "….you will work hard. You will not harm my other students. You will take that temper of yours and put it under control. I do not want to see it here. You will listen to what I have to say, and not talk back. You will learn to respect my ways, and I hope….," a faint smile touched his thin lips, "….learn to make them your own ways." His eyes softened a little. "I can teach you what I know, but it is only you who can choose to follow the right path." He took a few steps towards Bill. "To follow this….," he put palm on Bill's upper arm. "Or this…." He stepped back and pressed his hands against his chest.

Some of that was a little too mystical and vague for Bill at this point in his youth, but he nodded nonetheless. It sounded good at least, and it was also in that moment that Bill's view of Master Yi changed dramatically. After some closer observation of the old man, not to mention that rather painful demonstration, he began to notice the tightness of Yi's muscles in his neck and forearms. He wasn't sunken in at all; but in fact he was hardened by years of training and discipline. There was a sleek stillness about him that Bill suddenly greatly envied. This man was in full control of himself; both mentally and physically…far into his years. The only old men Bill knew had always been crusty, unhealthy, drunkards with a penchant to lose their faculties at the worst possible moments. Yi was nothing like that.

"Whatever you require of me Master Yi," Bill added with this newfound respect.

Perhaps sensing this change in the young man, Yi offered another one of those soft sagely smiles. "Good. Then please," he gestured to a closed wooden door at the back of the training studio, "…clean up and get dressed. Then you may join in on the training."

Looking back, Bill was never exactly sure why Yi had accepted him as his student. It was obvious from the beginning that Bill was not cut out for the pacifist theology that Yi taught, but perhaps there was something in the young man that Yi saw; something he wanted to harness, or more likely something he wanted to get rid of forever. Whatever it was, Yi was willing to give Bill a chance, despite perhaps a sagely inclination that the lean youngster was just trouble waiting to happen.

After class that night, Yi shook the young man's hand. "Very good work tonight, I see potential beneath all of that bad fighting. But, I'm afraid I did not get your name son?"

Bill smiled calculatingly. "The name's Daniel Blaine."

Even before Bill began his work killing people for a living, the idea of formulating an alias was already a definite in his mind. Any good criminal had an alias. He was selling drugs…technically a criminal, and he wasn't going to have his real name attached to his illicit business. Granted, "Bill" had gotten into a little trouble in Mexico….seeing as he'd been arrested that one time in Austin Texas. He didn't want to further endanger his real identity. As far as he was concerned 'Bill' would not exist in any sort of official capacity within the borders of the United States from that point on. Those who would know him as 'Bill' would now only be of the sort who inhabited the underworld.

So, Bill created Daniel Blaine, but who exactly was Daniel Blaine? Well, Daniel was a pretty typical mid-West all American guy who'd left his sleepy small Colorado home at the age of eighteen in search of the sun streaked beaches of California; he was a real 1950's conformist come hippie story.

Daniel was the only child of a decorated World War II Army colonel, and a loving homemaker mother. He liked school, got good grades, took photos for his high school paper, had a steady Catholic girl sweetheart who was "saving" herself for marriage, sang in the church choir when he had the time, and skateboarded with his friends if there wasn't any snow packed on the ground. He told his parents he either wanted to be a dentist or an architect, but deep down he was sure he wanted to be a meaningless drifter.

Home life had been real swell too, up until his senior year in high school that is. His dad started drinking a lot; hitting his mother behind the closed bedroom door, and going out to the racing track for hours on end with his drinking pals. In response, mom had started taking valium and sleeping pills to cope with it all; "Mother's little helpers" they were labeled later on. She was afraid the neighbors would find out about the disaster that was her home life. Nobody had those problems, nobody acceptable that is. She'd get kicked out the bridge club! The PTA would shun her! She'd be humiliated! She cried allot.

A day after graduating high school Daniel had found out that his father had blown the family's entire savings on gambling. Mom went into a psychotic fit and spent a month "away" from the house. It was then that Daniel decided to get the hell outta Dodge. On a cold spring morning he kissed his pale mom goodbye, gave his angry old man a hand shake and climbed into his newly bought cherry red '64 Thunderbird.

Once Daniel got to San Francisco he'd started smoking….both cannabis and tobacco, and grew his hair out long. He stuck his girl's senior photo away in his car's glove compartment and found a few California blondes to toss around with. He rarely called his parents, afraid of what both sides would discover. He tried working legit but hated it, so he spent a few languid months partying in northern Mexico and then after his return to the States started selling dope in San Francisco for a steady living.

Well holy fucking shit, life wasn't quite like "Leave it to Beaver" now was it?

Bill relished coming up with this little back story for his persona. It was, at its core, his satire of the post war culture in America, and he kept adding bits of bitter toppings along the way. He realized years later he was probably a little jealous of guys like Daniel Blaine, and had went out of his way to make the whole thing as over the top as spiteful reason allowed.

When it came to Daniel's interests, Bill found it best to use a mixture of both truths and lies.

Daniel liked to surf, but wasn't very good at it yet. He liked muscle cars, Indian food, weed, Western movies…especially those new Clint Eastwood ones, rock music, camping, tequila, and of course women. Granted, he was a little "bad", but he was still a good kid at heart. He was certainly not a sociopath or a born killer….oh no, that was for damn sure.

In a few years he'd cut his hair and get a real job just like most of his hippie friends would eventually do. In 1985 or so he'd probably find himself unhappily married, paying for his ungrateful kid's college tuition on the third mortgage money, fighting a beer belly, watching his hairline creep further back by the day, gaining the majority of his amusement from lame workplace humor and nightly sitcoms. All the while, sitting in freeway traffic; coping with confusing moments of memory loss and drug flashbacks while listening to classic rock in the station wagon with tears in his eyes, just wishing he could get laid like he used to.

Well, Daniel Blaine was certainly not Bill, but for now Bill could pretend to be Daniel Blaine.

Back then it wasn't so hard to get a phony drivers license, birth certificate and social security card. Julio had taught Bill the ins and outs of false identification years ago. And when Julio's methods lacked the needed sophistication, Bill found he could compensate with this own talents. A little lie here, and a convincing forgery there, and Daniel Blaine was, at least according to the Great United States of America, a legit human being within months of his conception.

God bless America.

It was weird at first, having to remember to address himself and answer to the name of 'Daniel'. But it didn't take long for Bill to adjust to it. He could eventually look in the mirror and even see a Daniel in there somewhere. He'd always been good at 'acting' a part, and playing the part of Daniel came to him fairly easily. It was a good thing too, because Daniel Blaine was just going to be the first in a long list of fake names Bill would adopt during his lifetime. Apparently practice does make perfect.

Getting into Master Yi's school had been a big step forward for Bill, but there still remained the daunting problem of continuing to make a living. Yi's school cost money to attend, not to mention living in general.

It came down to the same story, Bill simply didn't want to go out and get a real job. He was a twenty year old criminal, not a big one as of yet, but illegal activities had served as his source of income all of his young adult life. It was what he knew and understood. Working in some garage….or even worse, in some office, held about as much appeal for him as going to jail did.

Selling dope made him roughly a hundred bucks a week; hardly a fortune, but not too shabby for those days. It was enough for him to continue to live in the hotel, pay his monthly dues to Yi and keep the Thunderbird up and running. He often scored free dinners with acquaintances from Height Street and certainly wasn't beyond charming a nice pretty girl or two into sharing a meal….and perhaps a little more if she was so inclined.

But it all was a little short of the glamour and riches that California had seemed to offer to him when he'd first left Acuna. Still, Bill persisted. If he had to sell weed to keep from getting a real job, then so be it. He thought he was smart enough to make it and wily enough not to be caught. He'd find a way out of it when the time was right.

Things on Height had been growing pretty crazy over the last month or so. Maybe it was the war, maybe it was the music, or maybe it was just that the drugs were getting stronger. Who knew for sure, but Bill found the growing frenzy to be an asset to his business. Kids loved weed. It was bad without being really dangerous, stoned without really tripping. It was white suburbia's entry drug of choice.

He'd run out of his own stock of marijuana sometime ago, and he had to seek out another source. Luckily his fluent Spanish earned him a few acquaintances in the moderate but scattered Hispanic community throughout the city, and it turned out a number of those guys were Tijuana runners. They were adept at getting the goods, but not so keen on selling it on the streets; more in fear of getting caught by the I.N.S. than the cops themselves. Bill stepped in as the perfect Mexican/American liaison. The goods weren't always up to the same snuff of what he'd had before, but he knew now it didn't really matter. It was a hell of allot better than the brown sawdust most of these kids considered 'good shit'.

Bill sold all over San Francisco, but it was always Height Street that brought the quickest bank roll. On a typical afternoon he'd park his Thunderbird a few blocks away and spend a good four or five hours meandering the street from one end to the other. If a cop was spotted, he'd duck into a nearby store; something there was never a shortage of. But it was usually so busy and so full of life that it was easy to get lost in the crowds if needed.

On one typical afternoon, after wrapping up a quick exchange in front of 'Mr. Hello's'…which was basically a glorified tourist shop, Bill spent a few minutes loitering around. It was best to do this after a deal to defuse any suspicion if being watched. So he casually lit up a cigarette, and pretended to look interested in a window display of assorted technicolor candles.

"Hey you!"

Bill glanced over in the general direction of the agitated voice; catching sight of a very tall man out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah you, you lean fuck! I'm talkin' to you!"

That got his full attention, and Bill turned to face the owner of the voice; a young man roughly Bill's age…perhaps a couple years older. He was indeed quite tall; at least 6'5" and had that kind of build that high school football coaches went crazy over; not muscular, but just flat out big. Although by the looks of this guy, he had probably been smoking hash under the bleachers instead of playing ball during high school. He had a head of almost elbow length wavy hair, and a fully grown scraggily beard to match; all of it a bold brown/red color. A pair of close set blue eyes stared out amidst the mass of wild tresses.

He was decked out in full 'hippie' attire: a long flowing brightly colored shirt… entirely unbuttoned, ill-fitting brown slacks and a pair of flapping sandals. He reeked of weed, booze and an utter lack of respect for any officially set system in existence.

"What can I do for ya?" Bill inquired mildly; leaning his shoulder against the side of the building. Maybe this was some screwball's idea of how to approach him for some dope. Not the most discreet method he'd seen, but he'd play along for the moment.

The big man jabbed a thick thumb back over his shoulder. "You'd better be movin' off to a different street amigo…."

Bill crossed his arms defensively. "I actually kinda like this street. I think I'll stay."

"No deal. I said get off this street….." The man took a step towards Bill; towering over him, and in turn casting him in full shadow. "Or I will make ya…"

Bill blew out a stream of indifferent smoke; looking unfazed by this. So this was what it was all about; selling territory. Fucking stupid. "I thought you hippie types didn't like violence."

"Hey man," Bill's intimidator reared up, "….don't be so quick to stick me in a fuckin' category. My old man showed me a thing or two about violence, and I certainly ain't against givin' a little back to fuckers like you who deserve it."

Bill shrugged. "Alright, but I'd like to know why I deserve it, before I get it that is…"

"Look smart ass," the big guy impatiently shook his mane of a head, "I've been sellin' here for over a year, and you can't just stroll on up here and take over my turf…..I ain't cool with that man….no fuckin' way…"

Bill flicked his cigarette onto the dirty sidewalk; smirking. "How do you even know I sell? Maybe I'm just here for the good vibes and braless girls"

The other man threw his large hands up with obvious vexation. "Come on man! I've seen you skulkin' around here for a good two months. I know what you're doin', and it sure as hell ain't buyin' fuckin' tie-dye shirts and wind chimes!"

At this, Bill's smirk widened. "Alright, so let's say for that moment….that I am dealing. You can't kick me off a public street just because I've got better stuff than you, for better prices. It's not my fault I'm doing better than you are."

That touched a nerve, and the tall hippie leaned in closer. "Whoa….hold up asshole, did I ever say you had better stuff that me? Did I ever say you were doin' better? Huh?"

"No, but I know it's the truth."

"Fuck you man! I know this whole city like the back of my fuckin' hand……I've got connections, I've got…….history." A meaty fist pounded at the barrel of a bare chest. "I am THE seller for this area. So have some respect for your predecessors and get your skinny ass off my street. Go take Castro, or fuckin' China Beach for Christ's sake!"

Bill had to congratulate himself on not going completely off the handle yet. If this had happened a few years ago, hell even a few months ago, he probably would have already beaten the living hell out of this guy for starting shit with him. But for some reason Bill was thinking of what Yi would do in a situation like this. Maybe even these few weeks of Yi's classes were doing more for him than he thought. He took a deep breath. "Look…….,"

"Bruce." The other man offered his name in a furry mumble.

"Look Bruce," Bill lowered his voice into an almost friendly tone, "I really don't want to kick your ass right here….on the street. But I gladly will somewhere more….exclusive. And believe me, I can." This bit of egotistic information didn't' seem to go over that well with Bruce, but he did nothing but continue to glare. Bill went on, "So, another option would be for us to come to some sort of agreement. Why don't we settle this like…civilized men?" He laughed bitterly. "Well, as civilized as two men who sling weed for a living can do. What do you say….amigo?"

Bruce mulled this idea over for a few moments; frowning deeply underneath his untrimmed mustache. The anger he'd been emitting before was quickly fading away in the wake of a far calmer and stubborn adversary than he'd anticipated.

"I'm not going to stop selling here," Bill confidently offered into the silence; brows raised. "So think over your options carefully Bruce."

After a few moments Bruce kicked his sandaled heel into the sidewalk in a gesture of feeble defeat. "Yeah…alright….we'll talk…..but back at my place."

Bill was satisfied with the victory, but he showed a little paranoia for appearance's sake. "You're not going to ambush me once we over there are you? Knock me out with a bong or anything?"

Bruce waved a hand, turning down the street with a lumbering walk. "Nah, us hippie types don't like violence….remember?" His blue eyed gaze twinkled with amusement.

Bill laughed; lighting up another cigarette as he fell into step with the other man. "Ah, yes….I nearly forgot there for a moment."

"I'm parked over here," Bruce said; gesturing to the upcoming corner. "It's the VW bus, you can't miss it man…it's wild lookin'. Meet me over here in your wheels, and you can follow me over."

Bill nodded. Of course a guy like Bruce would have an unmistakable VW bus. "Fair enough."

As it turned out, this shabby looking Bruce character had a massive loft overlooking Golden Gate Park. Bill was instantly jealous. It wasn't posh in that way that most people think of when they think 'drug dealer', but it was nice; probably a good 10,000 square feet in size. Two of the walls were almost entirely windows, and gave a great view out onto the water and the Golden Gate Bridge. The décor was expectantly psychedelic, with all of the bean bags and hanging beads you'd expect. There was an expensive color TV, a high end looking record player, fully stocked bar, numerous smoking accessories….including a four foot bong, trippy 'Bill Graham presents' concert posters from all over the city and lots of extra beds and couches to crash on. It was, without a doubt, a serious party loft.

So it was in this haven of vice that Bill and Bruce came to terms….over a bowl or three of course. It was decided that they could work together, given that they could each operate how they knew and split the profits down the middle. Each of them could then pick up the slack for the other guy. Bruce had the history and Bill had the clever intuition. Bill liked to think that Bruce was the jolly hippie figurehead, while he was the quietly scheming brains behind the act, but he didn't tell Bruce that; the man was obviously testy.

Bill quickly learned that Bruce was one of these guys who always seemed to have a fire lit up under his ass; he was either really excited or really angry over something. Bill thought his cooler demeanor made a good counterbalance to Bruce's emotional unpredictability. They made a good team, despite their rough beginning. But then again, that seemed to be the way Bill made friends, and he didn't question his methods.

Over the next few weeks Bill learned a little more about Bruce. He was a music nut, and he introduced Bill to all sorts of bands he'd heard little or none of; bands that Bruce swore would be: "…..fuckin' huge man, mark my words, FUCKIN HUGE!" So, Bill was introduced to bands such as: Deep Purple, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, even really British stuff like The Who and The Rolling Stones. It was all so new and so cool to him; entirely different from the sort of music he'd listened to in Mexico.

There was also another, perhaps even more destructive thing than rock n' roll that Bruce introduced Bill to. That was the growing world of psychedelic drugs.

Now, being around Bruce was like being around a giant, temperamental, fuzzy drug dispenser, and once he got to like you he was immensely generous with what he had. For the first few weeks that Bill knew Bruce, there was an almost endless of train of free weed, acid, masculine, DMT, morning glory, and magic mushrooms being passed along to his new friend.

Bill, being the prince of vice that he considered himself, willingly subjected his person to it all; unaware of just how powerful such things could be. His memory always failed him anytime he tried to remember those few weeks, but what he could remember was that he ended up holing himself up in his hotel room with his assortment of drugs for over three weeks straight. He never remembered going out, but he must have, because he didn't quite starve or dehydrate himself to death. He thought maybe he'd tried to go to Yi's classes at some point, but decided later he must not have attempted that. Maybe somewhere in that haze he'd found the meaning of life, or the key to his entire existence. Or maybe he'd just managed to count the number of threads in his bath mat. Either way, it didn't matter; because it was all gone from his memory when he eventually ran out of stock and found that his first sober realization was that he had absolutely no idea what day it was and that his room's television was completely missing.

It was scary as hell waking up from it all, but he managed to crawl out of that psychedelic world pretty much intact….or at least in the same general mental state that he'd always been in; which was questionably sane to begin with. Bill would find out later that some people weren't so lucky; some didn't come back at all.

After that, he didn't always take what Bruce offered him. But he sure as hell didn't refrain either; he'd just learned quickly through excess, the value of moderation.

Another notable thing about Bruce was that he had a live in girlfriend. Bill wasn't exactly sure how long she and Bruce had been together, but it must have been for some time, given their lax comfort level with one another. Her real name had been Abigail Pettington, but she'd changed it to Rainbow Lilly Sunchild in '63. Bruce affectionately called her "Ray" for short, as did all her many friends.

The first time Bill met her she tried to read his palm and then grab his ass. She was a short round faced girl with long legs and perky breasts. Her strawberry blonde hair hung to her narrow waist, and her large green eyes were always partially obscured by those wild tresses. She was also absolutely nuts, and Bill wasn't sure it was all necessarily because of the drugs. She was a full on out of control, attention seeking, drama queen. In two years of heavy drug use she'd leapt from multiple story windows twice (once into a pool, the other into some fatefully place shrubs), totaled three cars, been arrested six times….four of those for public displays of nudity, and had even managed to get "lost" for two weeks in the redwood forests of Northern California…..all the while claiming she was in "The Shire". She was indefinitely unemployed and continuously loaded. She was, before it became the popular trend, a true free spirit.

Ray always seemed to be doing something crazy every time Bill came over to Bruce's loft. Something like….dancing in the middle of the living room to "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'"; shaking that round ass of hers as if a lizard had crawled up into her optional underwear, a half empty bottle of Night Train in one hand and a little girl's Barbie mirror in the other…..for instance.

Bruce would always gaze at her lovingly and say quietly to Bill: "Isn't she a fuckin' hot trip?"

And Bill's usual response would be a wide-eyed but tactfully vague, "Oh yes….."

Ray immediately took a liking to 'Daniel'. She said he reminded her of one of those lonely young cowboys from the movies and started calling him "Dangerous Dan". Sometimes when Bruce wasn't watching her she'd lean up closely against "Dan" and slowly run her tongue over her perfect little teeth. And then she'd say something like: "You're dangerous Daniel….I can see it in your dark eyes. Real dangerous….makes me wanna know what bad things you've done. I like that….I think it's sexy….."

Temping, but no. She was a tease all right, but Bill wouldn't have touched her. First off, she was Bruce's exclusive girl and Bill tried to curtail his limits of moral infidelity to some extent. Secondly…she might be hot, but she was scary and weird as hell; the type who might just deicide to bite you're dick off on a cruel whim, or light you on fire once you'd fallen asleep next to her. That was a risk he simply wasn't willing to take, probable crazy hot sex or not.

A couple years later, when an off-off-Broadway production of Hair came to San Francisco, Rainbow got her big chance, and was able to bask in her fifteen minutes of fame as an anonymous unclothed chorus member.

Bruce and Rainbow were crazy, but it couldn't be said that they weren't right for one another and underneath all of the substance abuse, beads and hair it was obvious that they cared deeply for each other in their own way.

It was the first time Bill really experienced any sort of jealousy towards a couple who had so much in common with one another. He was still young and naive enough to spend just a little time pining over the certain tragedy that he was going to go through life never meeting somebody who was really that much like himself. He thought later that perhaps that was probably a good thing after all.

Bill's next bit of business, after getting into Yi's school and allying himself with Bruce that is, was to find a new place to live. The rented out hotel room was getting old very fast. The plumbing was leaky, the bed was uncomfortable, the bedside lamp didn't work half the time, the carpet looked like it had been decorated in an outdated shade of puke, and perhaps worst of all…the entire floor bore audible witness anytime anybody had sex. And there was far too much sex going on in that place.

Well, it was cheap for a reason.

What Bill really wanted was a nice spacious place with a view of the Bay; somewhat like what Bruce had….minus the pleather bean bags and crazy girlfriend. He could clearly picture his dream place; nice furniture, big open floor plan, lots of windows. It was the kind of place you could stay in all day and not feel one bit cramped. It would be cool but strangely sophisticated.

Yet again, it was reality check time. Bill hadn't been born with a silver spoon shoved up his ass like most of those pricks living up by the Bay. He'd been born a bastard. He'd worked hard to survive his childhood and get even this far. And unlike Bruce he hadn't been selling dope for years; he didn't have the amassed money yet. Hell, he couldn't even afford to rent a square foot patch of grass by the Bay if he wanted to.

His other option was shacking up with some of his befriended Height Street acquaintances, but he'd noticed a somewhat disturbing lack of hygiene amongst that group and that did not sit well with him as a desirable quality in a roommate. Bruce lived with Ray, and that immediately scratched out that option for Bill. Any woman at all was out of the dealings. He was not going to live with a woman; hell fucking no.

More importantly, the hotel's location was no good. It was much just a little too far from Chinatown to make going back and forth to kung fu class every evening very convenient. Bill also quickly realized he hated the bus, and it was completely idiotic to drive in San Francisco. He had to live close in.

Yet, what it really came down to was the fact that Bill was starting to like being in Chinatown more and more. When he'd first moved to San Francisco he'd often go and hang out in the small Hispanic pockets of town. It helped with the small twinges of homesickness he'd felt during those first few weeks. But those feelings quickly faded away and he found himself more drawn to Chinatown than anywhere else in the city. He liked Height, but he'd be stupid to live near there; never reside where you're dealing.

Plus, there was just something about Chinatown that intrigued him. He was beginning to feel an affinity for the atmosphere of those streets, the smell of the food, the sound of the languages, the look of the Chinese writing, hell…even the people themselves. He liked to just walk up and down the streets, standing a good head taller amongst the sea of Asian faces; not understanding a word spoken around him. It wasn't quite like being in a different country, but it was close.

Usually he'd spend a good hour or two walking in Chinatown before going to kung fu class. He rarely engaged anyone in any conversation or interaction during these daily walks, but the one time he did it just happened to work out in his favor.

One evening while walking along Kearny Street, one of the major veins of Chinatown, he spotted an old woman in front of a small fish store. She was short, sporting a pair of sloping overworked shoulders and struggling with a stack of wooden crates that smelled like two day old fish.

Bill couldn't be considered much of a Good Samaritan, but he was not without brief moments of young compassion towards the old. So, fighting against his desire to just keep walking, he approached the woman and bent down to pick up one of the boxes for her.

She turned and peered over up at him with beady, slightly myopic eyes. Her small thin lipped mouth opened and closed a few times; looking strangely much like the fish stacked just behind her. Her wrinkled cheeks twitched a few times and then the momentary surprise faded away into aged satisfaction. She pushed a callused finger into his shoulder. "You tall boy….help me with boxes."

Bill smirked at her over the rim of the box he was currently holding. "Yeah, that's what I was doing," he offered dryly.

The woman made a horrible noise in the back of her throat, one that he assumed was her way of showing she was adequately satisfied with that choice. She then turned and possessively scuttled back over to the tables of fish sitting out in front of what he assumed was her store. She made a flapping motion with her left hand; indicating that the boxes should go inside the foul smelling building.

Already regretting his decision, Bill flashed her a dark glare and hauled the box inside without another word. After that box, there were the five more out in front. Then, as it turned out, there just happened to be eight more in the side alley…..and three more out back. After that, the woman then had him lift supplies down from the walk in freezer and stack empty fish crates in the store room.

Three grueling hours later, Bill was on the verge of walking out and telling this woman to find somebody else to enslave, when she offered him not only some food…but an entire meal. Bill's recent love for Chinese food had grown to an obsession, and besides….the best way for an unattractive woman to get to a twenty year old kid's heart is through his stomach. He was inclined to stay for dinner on the grounds that he didn't have to move anything more.

Over a home cooked meal of fish and rice in the restaurant's small adjoining house, Bill found himself indulging small bits of personal information to the elderly woman…who spoke little English. He wasn't exactly sure why he was talking to her, most of it was lies anyways……but it was still a type of female parental contact that he'd avoided most of his life. Was it because this woman wasn't' his mother? Or was it simply because she was Chinese, and offered some sort of exotic mysticism that he was looking for?

Either way, he found himself talking to her. He of course had introduced himself as Daniel Blaine and in turn shared bits of his false identities rather trite life with her. She nodded, and made that horrible noise in her throat a few times. But it was only when he came to the end of it all, about how he was looking for a new place to live….one closer to Chinatown, that she brightened up.

Waving her chopsticks at him from across the small wooden table, she spoke up in broken English. "You help me lifting boxes…..in morning….sometimes help in kitchen, and you can have place to live….free…no money." She jabbed a weathered finger towards the ceiling and assumedly the top story. "My son, he lived up there, until his stupid self was killed…..last year…he was in gang." Her wrinkled mouth twitched a little, and then it settled on a small smile. "I give you good food too….make you less skinny."

Bill was at first shocked at this proposal, but he made no outward inclination of it. He studied the woman sharply in the dining room's dim light; attempting to read for some ulterior motive; like a man far older and wiser than he really was. Of course she had a ulterior motive; she wanted a strong young man around to do manual labor for her. But was there something more? Was she just lonely, or was she looking to replace her dead son? Bill sincerely hoped not, because he was going to be nobodies stand in son….not anymore.

He thought about refusing her outright after that disturbing thought, but after a long digression on his current hotel room; he conceded to the arrangement with the old woman.

The 'old woman's' real name was Mai Li Khu, but as it turns out she went by the odd nickname of Mama Boba amongst those in Chinatown. After having lived in the single room over her house for over a week, Bill finally asked her why they called her that. She simply told him, "I see the future," and picked up a cracked tea cup from the counter; pointing at the dark dried up leaves sitting at the bottom and giving him a mystical look.

He laughed at her; quickly dismissing it all as the effects of having snorted fish aroma for far too many decades, but on later thought he found the finding a little unsettling. This woman could be totally insane for all he knew…..something of which he was already pretty damn sure of.

It took a few more days for Bill to finally pinpoint just what Mai reminded him of. When he was fifteen or so, he'd read "The Hobbit" by Tolken. And it was a Hobbit that Mai reminded him of; an old Chinese version of a Hobbit; a damn loud and cranky one at that.

By the third week she was driving him crazy.

"DANIEL!" She'd yell up the staircase to his room, around six in the morning, "MOVE BOXES FOR ME!"

Bill's typical response would be: "Fuck off Mai!"

"OKAY, YOU SLEEP; I THROW YOUR THINGS OUT THE WINDOW NOW! YOU FIND NEW PLACE TO LIVE!"

And with that he'd throw the covers aside, "Damnit…..fucking hag…"

"WHAT YOU SAY?"

"Nothing! I'll be right down!"

And so it would go every morning.

A month after living with Mama Boba, Bill came to the conclusion that the woman was, without a doubt, off her fucking rocker. She was a master of bizarre behavior. She'd go out to the back alley every evening and feed the stray cats drawn in by the fish smell. She'd wail on in some haunting speech that Bill swore was no kind of Chinese he'd yet to hear. It was the type of sound that made nails on a chalkboard seem endurable. All the while she'd bob back and forth; almost trance-like as she tossed rancid fish guts out to the fetid, mangy cats. They'd watch her like a kindred spirit, with their slanted prism eyes glowing under the florescent back lights. Then Mai would go inside and smoke a tobacco pipe; a habit that Bill had always prescribed as thoroughly unfeminine. She'd usually eventually fall asleep in her recliner; the lit pipe dangerously close to toppling from her arthritic fingers and setting the entire espestus filled building on fire.

But, despite it all, Bill knew it was far better than where he'd been before. The only thing that really irked him, was that despite his firm resolve, he'd ended up shaking up with a woman after all.

NEXT TWO PARTS OF THIS CHAPTER COMING SOON!