*
(Note to anyone who's reading this: If you haven't read the previous chapters, please do so... or you may not understand what's going on here.)
December 7, 2006
"We can fight sometime," said the message in the chat window. "Of course, in my style."
"Of course," I typed back. "We both trained in Shotokan, after all."
"I don't want you to hit me too much!" came the reply.
"I won't hit you too hard, I promise!" I typed.
"Perfect!"
I let out a jubilant whoop. The person at the other end of the chat window was Vamp-- and he'd just accepted a challenge to a friendly fight. Now, if only we could get our schedules sorted out enough to set a date...
December 11, 2006
Vamp and I met again online, and set a time and date: Thursday, 11 AM, near his office building. We would first watch his favorite movie, Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker, then head over to the library lawn and square off.
After setting the appointment, I soon found myself slumped in my chair, laughing until my sides hurt. I couldn't help it-- because Vamp, with his quirky sense of humor, was filling up the message window with humorous taunts and silly-faced "smilie" icons. It was the first time I'd seen him so playful.
"Are you sure you still want to fight me?" he typed. "You don't know what could happen to you if you fight me!" He inserted a picture of a brutish, buck-toothed thug.
I typed something along the lines of, "Yes, of course." I don't remember exactly what I said. I was too busy laughing myself off my seat.
December 14, 2006
I arrived at the school a bit early, with my Stalker DVDs ready for viewing and my sparring gloves ready for fighting. We had invited Black Sunday to join us, but he was running late. I hung around with Vamp in his office to pass the time, talking with him as he checked out a news website. He was drinking tea, and before I knew it, he'd made some for me as well-- I didn't realize it until the mug was in front of me, and he was motioning for me to take it.
We sipped our tea as Vamp elaborated on a story that Archangel had once told me. It was about the time when Vamp and Archangel were in communist-era Romania, and went to see Stalker on New Year's Day. Unfortunately, the movie's title was translated into The Guide in Romanian-- which was the same title as a popular Wild West, cowboys-and-Indians book. As a result, the theater was packed mostly with children who thought that they were paying to see a cowboy movie. The atmosphere at the theater degenerated into chaos, Vamp said. He described how he and Archangel were among the only adults in the theater full of dissatisfied, impatient kids. Somehow, the brothers managed to endure the noise and distraction long enough to finish the movie (which proved how much they loved it). By the last fifteen minutes of the film, even the rowdy children sat in stunned, reverent silence as the characters grappled and fought over the bomb that the Scientist had brought to destroy The Room. I could well imagine everyone getting excited, since that was the only fight scene in the whole movie.
When 11:00 rolled around, we started off towards a classroom that Vamp had reserved for the occasion. It had a projector and a wide screen, and would insulate us from the noise of the outside world. We were joined by a colleague of Vamp's, a fair-faced young woman with smooth, light-colored skin, slightly curly dark hair, and striking eyes. This was her first time to see Stalker, and it seemed Vamp was intent on turning her into a fellow Tarkovsky fan. She chatted with Vamp while I used my phone to contact Black Sunday, telling him the classroom number.
The projector and screen were set up and ready when we reached the room. I popped the DVD into the computer that served as the DVD player, and Vamp spent a few minutes fiddling with it to adjust the sound and picture.
Then we dimmed the lights, sat down, and let the movie transport us into another world.
Stalker, on the large screen with stereo sound, was an absolutely immersive experience. The scenery of The Zone came to life, all lush and vibrant. I could almost feel the dew on my face as the Stalker lay down on the grass, smell the smoke of the cook-fire as the Scientist fixed an impromptu lunch, and feel the cold, brackish water soaking into my clothes as the Writer stepped into the flooded stairwell. Aside from the sounds of the movie playing, the room was absolutely quiet. There wasn't even any running commentary from Vamp... he simply watched the film with an expression of joyful fascination.
Black Sunday joined us around halfway through the movie. The stillness was interrupted by the sounds of the door opening and Black Sunday pulling up a chair, but the silence soon returned as the movie held us completely in its thrall.
When we were done watching, we stepped outside and ventured onto the lawn in front of the library. Vamp pointed to a patch of grass under a large, thick-trunked tree, and gestured for us to join him as he sat down. "I don't like the sun very much," he said, as he shifted around to find a spot with optimum shade.
I couldn't resist saying what I said next. I simply had to... I knew that if I passed up this chance, I'd kick myself for the rest of my life.
"You're a vampire," I quipped.
He snickered and replied, "Yes, something like that."
I laughed aloud. It was good to finally get that off my chest.
We sat on the soft grass, arranged in a circle around Vamp. He proceeded to give a full-blown lecture on the symbolic meanings of the animals, objects and scenery used in the film. The four of us almost resembled a storybook picture, of a jovial father or uncle enthralling his kids with wonderful tales. He spoke for a long while, and we were so entranced that we never bothered to check the time.
Then, as if taking off a mask, his expression changed from cheerful, gentle storyteller to stern, calculating fighter. He abruptly stood up and said, "We are going to fight now. Excuse us." Our companions gawked at us with stunned looks on their faces. With a hurried explanation ("We both trained in the same karate style. We agreed to fight today," wink , we donned our sparring gloves, walked a few paces away from the others, and prepared for our face-off.
--------------------
I studied my opponent, sizing him up, letting my gaze travel from his head down to his toes and back again. Big height difference, I thought, but I wasn't about to let it intimidate me. I told myself I wasn't going to lose to this scrawny, oh-so-delicately built guy with glasses and a rainbow-striped button-down shirt. Yes, rainbow-striped. Like a child's candy stick. All he needed was a flat-topped hat, and he'd be dressed just right for belting out Vaudevillian songs while playing an accordion.
He fixed himself into a wide fighting stance, with his legs two shoulder-lengths apart, left foot forward with the leg slightly bent, and most of his weight concentrated on the right leg in back. It looked somewhat unbalanced and awkward. Not to mention stiff. However, he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing-- he had a smug grin on his face, and some small inner voice told me not to underestimate him.
I started circling him, looking for a good spot to attack, throwing a few fake punches to get him to drop his guard. He didn't react. He remained almost stone-still, gazing calmly at me with confident, midnight-blue eyes.
I became dimly aware of his left leg moving. I didn't see the actual strike, but I felt it-- not hard enough to hurt, but powerful enough to make a considerable impact, hooking under my front leg and slicing my balance out from under me. Suddenly he seemed so much taller, the world looked strangely tilted, and the ground seemed to rise up to hit the back of my head.
Flat on my back on the grass, I realized I'd been knocked down. By his first strike.
"Oh, shoot," I said to myself.
I jerked myself to my feet and met his gaze. Still and unwavering, like a calm, clear pool.
I circled him again, jabbing left and right. His only movements were short, quick swiping motions, batting my punches away as if casually swatting flies. Frustrated at his unshakeable cool-headedness, I charged at him.
Big mistake.
His left leg moved. It connected. Falling again, I lashed out, managing to nail him with a solid punch to the chest just before hitting the ground headfirst.
"Good," he said as I got back to my feet. "But you move too much." He instructed me to mirror his awkward-looking stance, and as I did, I learned how stable and responsive it actually was. From this position, I could strike and defend more easily, saving precious energy by taking long strides instead of short, quick steps.
He showed me a combination move-- low hook kick, converting to a high one, using the same kicking leg. The low hook kick was what he'd successfully used on me twice, with dizzying results. "Front kick is also important," he said. He demonstrated this by using one to plough past my defenses, prodding me in the stomach.
After trying and failing to kick him a few times, I realized that his height-- or to be more exact, the length of his limbs-- made it difficult for me to even get close to him. All he had to do to block me was extend an arm or leg just a little, and I'd be deflected away, like a rubber ball. In contrast, I couldn't simply swat him in a similar fashion. Even if I managed to deflect his hand or foot, I'd still have to deal with the rest of his arm or leg-- which would come bearing down on me like a locomotive. I had to exert more effort, more movement, to successfully attack or defend.
I could feel my strength waning and started to question whether I'd be able last through the match. It didn't help that I could feel the stares of countless eyes watching us. Students coming out from their graduation ceremony, residents of the student dorms, and young couples using the library lawn as a picnic ground all stopped to gape at this middle-aged man letting all hell loose on what appeared to be a girl half his age.
We traded blows as I pretended not to notice our audience. Vamp let out rapid, continuous strings of punches, which looked daunting at first, but I soon learned how to dodge them. After I landed a few good hits, he unleashed a new tactic-- grabbing my front arm, effectively disabling it, then dragging me in to pummel me. I managed to free myself from his grip every time, sometimes scoring a punch or two to his chest. When he saw that this move wasn't working, he did the low-high hook kick combination. Twice I managed to dodge it, but in between punches, he nailed me with it two more times, sending me to the ground. Once, after knocking me down, he picked me up by the arm-- only to twist it like a pretzel. In that instant, I did something I'd never done before when fighting: I yelped in pain. Like a wounded dog.
I had to admit, I was getting royally owned. I hadn't been prepared for this onslaught, this stone-faced juggernaut with fists like steel pistons. I knew at the beginning that I was going up against someone much taller than me, and with more combat experience. What I hadn't factored in was that he was also devious, merciless, and lightning-fast.
For the first time since the fight began, I hesitated. Vamp sensed my apprehension and spurred me on with comments like "Come on, hit me!", "Hit me harder! Go on!" and "Hit me! It's all right-- you can't hurt me." And I, floundering about, struggling to get past his rock-solid defenses, retorted, "Hit you? I can't even get close to you!" He gave a dismissive "Hah!" and continued about his business, raining down blows, crushing my guard.
Towards the end of the match, he unveiled another surprise: graceful, high-flying jump kicks. Because I was smaller than he was, these aerial attacks proved unnecessary; but, my golly, what a magnificent show they provided. As enjoyable as they were to watch, though, they also left him vulnerable, as he would pause for a split second to regain his balance after landing. Sometimes, this was long enough for me to land a punch to his chest, but the rest of the time, he would dodge or defend successfully.
Abruptly, he raised his hands and declared: "Let's stop. I am tired." He looked like he still had a lot of fight left in him, but perhaps the warm summer sun and humidity were making him uncomfortable.
As Vamp made his way to the shaded spot under the tree, our audience returned to whatever they were previously doing. Some of them looked amused, while others looked puzzled. Vamp, still grinning smugly and as cool as a cucumber, leaned back against the tree trunk and breathed a relieved sigh. On the other hand, I, having been soundly thrashed, kicked to the ground, pummeled and subsequently humbled, had mixed feelings. One part of me was pleased to be able to rest; the other part was frustrated that I wouldn't get to dish out more hits and perhaps regain some shred of dignity.
He removed his gloves, and as they came off, so did his steely-eyed warrior's glare. A transformation took place, turning him back into the placid, pleasant man who'd shared a moving Tarkovsky lecture just minutes ago. As if nothing had happened, he chatted congenially about his philosophy work, his brother, his karate training days, and the previous classes he'd taught at this university. I took off my gloves and listened in a daze, as my head was positively throbbing from having hit the ground multiple times.
"I received an extension on my scholarship," he said, smiling. "I will be able to stay here until September-- but after that, I have to go to Romania for three months, to attend to some things at the university where I work."
An extension? That was great news! I smiled back. If I hadn't been reeling from the impact to my head, I would have hugged him.
I decided to grill him about Archangel. "Is your brother your best friend?" I asked.
"No," he replied frankly. "He is more than that. He is my brother. We are twins. We are alike. We are very close. We did everything together, from studying computer science to philosophy to Tarkovsky."
"He said once that you guys are like copies of each other," I noted, remembering how Archangel would fondly talk about Vamp during our Messenger chats. "What's it like, having a copy of yourself? I'd be pretty scared if I met a copy of myself. I don't know what I'd do. I'd probably run away."
"Ah, yes," Vamp said, "it is natural for you to say that-- but if you grow up with your copy, it is the most wonderful thing."
Again, I wanted to hug him, but my limbs felt like they were weighed down with lead.
Next question: "Do you know half of the class last semester was afraid of you? I'm not the only one who was scared of you."
His reply: "Yes, I have heard this before. I don't care... as long as people can understand what I'm teaching them, it's fine. Some of them might not even have been scared at all. They may have been using it as an excuse for not participating in class." I pondered what he said, and it made sense... the anti-Vamp contingent was mostly composed of people who didn't join in class discussions.
I glanced over at Black Sunday. He was occupied with talking to Vamp's colleague, and had been for the past several minutes. I took this opportunity to monopolize Vamp, hogging his attention. He didn't seem to mind.
He told the story of how he and a friend stood up to seven gangsters in a rough Romanian street. After seeing him in action, I could vividly imagine him using his fists to make short work of his attackers. "It was not like a martial arts movie," he said as he noticed me spacing out. "It was over very quickly. We didn't fight them for long. As soon as we were able, we ran away."
He then talked about the latest paper he was writing, and mentioned how his wife was writing a paper too. That seemed to suddenly jolt his memory. "I just remembered... I have to call my wife and meet her somewhere," he said abruptly. He muttered a hasty explanation-- he talked so quickly that the rest of us didn't quite understand what he was saying-- and bid us goodbye. In a confused daze, we watched him leave. He disappeared from view so quickly, like a soap bubble.
"Well!" said Black Sunday, after Vamp had gone. "That was most interesting! I can't believe I just saw you kung-fu fighting a philosophy teacher! And on academic ground!" He looked at me incredulously, as if unable to tell whether what he'd just seen was real or merely a dream.
"You'd better believe it, 'cause the proof's right here," I said with a smirk. "I got WHUPPED!"
He chuckled loudly. Being an avid photographer, he would sometimes tote a camera to capture miscellaneous scenes, or fun moments with friends. Today, however, wasn't one of those times. He grinned widely and said, "Aren't you glad I didn't bring a camera today?"
"Heck yeah," I said, and I meant it with all my heart.
We said our goodbyes soon afterward, and parted ways. I took a moment to reflect on everything that had just happened: I had fought Vamp, and lost horribly. But this was a beating that I was thankful for. I had learned a few new fighting moves, gained an even greater respect for Vamp, and also strengthened my bond with him and Black Sunday. And shocked the heck out of a good portion of the people on campus.
Taking that into consideration, a few knocks on the head was a price that I was quite glad to pay.
-end of part 7-
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