The shadow cast across the crooked old wooden floor wavered in the light of at least a dozen candles, all melted directly into the antique study desk, a variety of colours that had mingled together at the base to form a grim rainbow of wax. The tiny attic was bleak, a moth-eaten mattress lay in the corner nearest to where the slope of the roof met the floor; a duffel bag was set down on the wooden boards, that had been hastily pulled open with half of the contents strewn in the vicinity. There was a boot, a leather jacket, some mismatched gloves and pieces of paper covered in writing on both sides amongst the debris.
The desk itself was a mess. Aside from the candle-wax defacement there were more papers atop that covered most of the surface; some had been knocked onto the floor to join the sheaves from the bag, the rest towered high upon the desk. A row of empty ball-point pens had been stabbed into the end of the desk, presumably done by he who cast the shadow that covered the small loft room and its decrepit contents.
He was writing. Quickly. He'd fill an A4 sheet and push it straight off the side of the desk, cast aside the instant it was complete. Greasy, shoulder-length hair hung down around his face. One would think that it'd obscure his vision but the pages he'd filled in spite of this obstruction suggested otherwise. Regardless, the man brushed his hair out of his face with a single sweep of a grimy, bony hand -his right- while the other continued scribbling. The southpaw wrote from right to left, apparently to avoid smudging his scrawled script, which did not even appear to be in English; symbols unlike any other ever written. This was not Chinese, or any similar Asian script, nor was it even that of the ancient Egyptians, hieroglyphics. Unique to this man, there was only he who knew what the strange runes represented.
This knowledge pleased him. His grin reflected this, the expression revealing a dentist's nightmare.
As the markings on the page faded with the dying ink, the pen was raised, taken into a fist and slammed point-first into the desk alongside the other depleted styluses. The writer replaced the stricken pen with another from the top right-hand drawer in the desk, resuming his writing immediately, his head low to the desk. He smiled in satisfaction at his work while he wrote, his face was covered in stubble - he had not shaved in some days now, though usually a long, black beard clung to his face like fuzzy limpets on a sunken ship. He felt as though he'd always preferred to keep the beard. Not any more; thus it was gone.
The writer peered through errant locks of hair at the stacks of paper before him and the smashed pens that jut out from the desk which, combined with the thick amalgamation of various waxes and inks, were beginning to look like a brutal slaying of some craft-work creation come-alive. It was as if the writer had murdered something that, during the course of his work, he had produced like a by-product of his unusual but unyielding creativity.
In a way, that wasn't far from the truth. Not the collective corpse of wax and pens, of course; he was thinking more of something physical he had perhaps produced, something he had previously considered as an art reduced to nothing more than the smouldering remains of what it once was. Whatever it was, he couldn't put his finger on it, the subject of his subconscious thoughts naught more than a faint memory that seemed to slip further away the harder he tried to grasp it within the clutches of his mind. His thoughts seemed not his own this night. He was not tired, just distracted; distracted by notions of what the future held in store for him; the revelation that was to dart away from his reach a moment too soon, a mere instant before recollection could sweep away the dust from the cover of this tome of knowledge that eluded him so deftly.
Whatever it was, it couldn't have been important.
If only he was wrong.
-#-
And wrong he was not.
Although not normally one to rush for anything or anyone, the uncouth young man power-walked from the bus station as nonchalantly as possible; he adjusted his trench coat as he marched to cover as much of the untidy clothes he wore as he could before distractedly shooing away the scruffy dog that had followed him from the bus station. He was on his way to meet his employer, after all. Had to look his best.
Unfortunately, this was the best he'd look.
The sun had slithered from the sky many hours ago, the darkness that he slipped through, combined with the mild air gave the illusion of a late Spring evening and thus increased his haste. He knew the building he sought wasn't far away now and he gauged he'd only be around fifteen minutes late, which wasn't so bad. He just hoped he hadn't fallen at the first hurdle but at the same time he wasn't even sure as to why he wanted to do this, and that wasn't very motivating. His cover story was in place of course; even if he knew his true reasons for what he did, it was unlikely that they'd understand. They'd never see the beauty of his motives through his own eyes. Of course, whatever his reasons were he must have simply forgotten. One did not suddenly reignite the burning urge to find a company to wrestle for on a whim. This was serious, and whatever he had in mind would be extremely important. More important than his writings and, perhaps, more important than even he himself. If only he knew why...
That dog was following him again. He tried to discretely wave it away, hissing at the animal to scare it away. The hound simply maintained its distance and the young man gave up. It would get leave while he was meeting... Oh, what was her name again?
He turned the corner and powered on; having then seen the building up ahead on his left his thoughts were focused back onto this belated meeting. He would've thought of an excuse but he wasn't too concerned about it, he'd heard that this Just Wrestling bunch needed all the talent they could get. Now, had he been paying attention to his surroundings however, he would have been more likely to have seen the figure watching him carefully from across the street. As the office door closed behind the writer, the figure stepped back into the shadows and again became one with the darkness.
-#-
The office was pretty desolate, even for commercial premises. Some personal effects lying around here and there while several dated desktop PCs whirred noisily, forming a droning computer-choir that reminded the writer of the noises heard inside a submarine for some reason. The place was definitely dank enough.
There was a smartly-dressed woman scowling at him over her monitor. "You're late," she called, looking back at her machine. "Who're you?"
The man sidled through the office towards her. "I'm Anathkash Dakari."
"Then you're extremely late."
"But," he began to protest, looking at his watch for backup. It was apparently the same time as it had been when he got off the bus. "Ah. I see."
As he approached her desk, he noticed the woman look him over and frown before turning back to her work. He thought he heard her mutter "Not another one," but he wasn't sure. She brushed black hair behind her ears and swivelled her chair around to face him.
"I'm Jody Monroe. Take a seat."
He did as he was told, for the sake of his health.
"I have some questions regarding your application. You're not homeless, are you?"
"No."
"Alcoholic?"
"No."
"Drugs?"
"No!"
"Amazing. Then why do you look like something Judas Crippen dragged in?"
"Who's Judas Crippen?"
She sighs. "Have you even seen a Just Wrestling tour?"
"I don't have a TV."
"We aren't ON television!" she snapped. "Why have you applied to join our tour?"
"Because I can wrestle and I need money." Although this was a lie. He wanted practice.
"So there's no ulterior motive? No heinous crimes for which you're evading the law?"
"Nothing like that, no."
"So you just want to wrestle?"
"Yes."
"I see. Well, All Star Wrestling cleared you as being fully trained, but that was five years ago under the ring-name Dr—"
"Last time I wrestled, yeah," Dakari blurted.
Jody simply scowled at him for the interruption before continuing. "What've you been doing since?"
"I decided to write."
The look on her face suggested that she was getting frustrated. Dakari also suspected that she didn't believe him. The sheaves of paper in his bedroom were testament to this truth. "This is like getting blood out of a stone. Would you care to elaborate, Mister Dakari?"
"Apologies. I decided to write a book about my life experiences," he lied. "I've put rather a lot of work into it."
"According to this application you're 22 years old," she muttered, eyeing him incredulously. "That's correct?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"You look older."
"Tough paper round."
Not good enough. "What have you written about for all this time? You haven't lived for very long."
"That doesn't mean my life hasn't been interesting up until now," he countered.
"Right," she muttered, still not convinced. "So what can you do? Your application said something about martial arts?"
"Yes. I'm well trained in various martial arts, including Ninjitsu and Capoeira."
"You've been training for years, then."
"Yes."
She paused and looked him dead in the eye. He avoided breaking contact for the sake of sincerity, but the steely, gaze was one of distrust and business-like appraisal, one that Dakari didn't enjoy. "Can you get to England?" she said, eventually.
"You don't fly us there, then?"
"No."
He sighed. "Gotta spend money to make money, right?"
"Yeah," Jody grunted distractedly without looking up from her computer screen. "Get that from the printer."
The aged machine sounded as though it was screaming out in pain as it spewed forth a sheet of paper. The noise of the printer beside them was deafening. "What's this?"
"It's the list of dates and locations for the tour in the UK, as well as details of your first match. It's also me leaving you no excuses for not getting in touch with me in future. You see those contact numbers? Use them. Understood?"
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"You will be," she said with a wry smile. Despite that, there was still that edge of malice to her voice.
Dakari didn't doubt her.
He made an exit with more haste than when he had entered, bidding the woman a hurried farewell as he shuffled outside, closing the door behind himself. The chill of the Winter night struck harder than it had when he'd arrived. He was unaware of the time, though surely he had not spent so long speaking to Jody..?
“Anathkash Dakari?”
Dakari spun around defensively, his eyes searching the dark for the one who had spoken. He looked at the towering shadow that approached him, and nodded. "Yeah. Who're you?"
A voice like whales regurgitating in the deepest, darkest pits of the ocean answered. "I, little meatsack, am your only hope for the near future, and your deepest despair as well."
Meatsack? "Is that so?" he replied cautiously as he squinted through the darkness in an effort to make out the face of the stranger. "And how might that be?"
An ugly sound soiled the night air...laughter, with absolutely no humor behind it whatsoever. "Before you stands The Avatar of Agony, The Prophet of PAIN ..." A miasma of menace seemed to seep from the shadows. "I am Grendel, The Living Nightmare!”
The night paused, as if on cue.
"You are the most fortunate and unlucky of souls, to be paired with me as I make my return to the wretched inclines of humanity. "
Dakari looked at the printout in his hand. This man was to be his tag partner in the tour? "I'm failing to see the fortune in this. Why am I so lucky? I can understand why I might not be, but..." he said, trailing off into a distracted mumble.
Again, that disturbing chuckle... "A victory in this upcoming farce is assured for you, by virtue of your mere ring-side presence. Your only responsibility is to stand by, and bear witness as I wade through the dregs of humanity to once again deliver the Gospel of PAIN!"
"So that's what this is all about? Do you approach me to let me know that you don't need my help in this tag match in..." he paused to look at the printout. "Fairfield?"
There was an awkward moment; the kind of moment that happens just before a rhino charges.
"Have you ever injured another purposefully? Have you ever hurt a living being just for the sake of hurting that individual?" The silence was as thick and uncomfortable as the night. "Have you ever inflicted pain upon another intentionally?"
"I have fought before. I fight to win, and sometimes pain is a necessary evil."
The monster in the shadows paused, as if in contemplation. "An acceptable answer, meatsack. Would you also concede that sometimes pain is a necessary good? ...... "
"I can't see what benefit pain could be to anyone, save from those who inflict it."
A quick, snort of exhaled breath from the nose, as if in disdain...or frustration. "Pain to you is a tool to be used at your whim and convenience. Inflicted and enacted and to be exploited on your command." The huge figure shook its huge, shaggy head and continued. "You, Anathkash Dakari, I thought would be different. There is something ...unique about you."
"Unique? What... what are you talking about?" Images lurked at the edges of Dakari's consciousness, the carrot on a stick that had lead him further away from what he knew, what he was comfortable with. It had already lead him to this point, to stand before this belligerent behemoth that spoke of suffering as though it were a way of life on its own, as opposed to how he perceived it - merely an aspect of living.
"I know not, and the fey aura surrounding you is …unfamiliar… to me. And I must thank another who was first to recognize it" The creature that called itself Grendel shifted his attention away from Dakari's face to the forgotten dog that sat at his bare feet.
Dakari follows Grendel's eyes to meet those of the ragged hound at their feet. Behind those sorrowful eyes was a soul that felt as old as time itself, a soul that Dakari felt could reach out and touch his own.
The giant continued. "Our warm-up against the afterthoughts called 'Mercer' and 'Styles' shall be my second lesson to you, young Dakari. I shall demonstrate and indoctrinate and mentor you, and show you the holy message of Pain. " The streetlights flickered, all of them of a sudden. "You and I are bound by fate and irony - a combination to be both feared as well as celebrated."
Momentarily, Dakari turned away from the light, the sporadic strobe hard on his sensitive eyes. He looked back, one hand shielding his eyes, to where Grendel stood. The light revealed a chilling figure; the bestial apparition of Grendel's form now illuminated, released from the darkness long enough for Dakari to see the masked monster that addressed him.
The figure was gigantic and feral and the kind of unholy threat that uncaring parents used as bedtime fodder to frighten their unruly children. Filthy bare feet. Filthier leather pants that might once have been weathered-black beneath the accumulated grime. A filthy, hairy, scarred, muscular frame above that. And all topped off by the most unusual, disturbing face Dakari had seen. Long, silver hair fell back behind the hideous, beast-like visage. The lights disoriented him enough to cause him to question what he was seeing, but this looked almost exactly like a giant wearing wolf/bear/gorilla mask. It opened its mouth and Dakari saw white teeth; each perfect, impeccable tooth had been manually filed – through a long time and unspeakable ungodly agony – into ivory daggers.
“PAIN is a force, to be endured and to be respected, honored. Can you hope to harness the fitful Wind of a hurricane? Can you honestly endeavor to stop the seizures of Earth when she chooses to quake?”
The night and shadows wrapped Dakari like an uncomfortable, unfamiliar womb.
“Your FIRST lesson in Pain, little meatsack…” And a very large part of the shadows excused itself from the rest and darted forward in a leap born of feral grace and agility; a strike of a large, predatory cat, perhaps. A titanic fist slammed into Dakari’s chest in specific and direct line to his heart like an icy battering ram…
“Huh”
His chest spasmed and his extremities shook of their own accord. He felt like he was being frost-bitten from the inside out… he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath,,, He’d never felt ANYTHING like this…
But he locked his knees and remained standing…
…
The streetlights flickered again and settled into a particularly unhelpful shade of gray.
Grendel was gone.
Anathkash Dakari's stomach felt like it was about to explode; the resulting eruption of bile lashing onto the sidewalk as would that of a drunk on his way home was not to be, though the young man was not entirely certain he'd escaped that possibility yet. More importantly, this night marked the metamorphosis of Anathkash Dakari from a man who wrote to the fighter that he was born to be.
