George and his Gang Encounter © All Rights Reserved June 2009 The Hit Man
It was a chance encounter. Certainly not one George had planned on. Having just graduated from high school and turning 18 in the same month, he had been surprised when his dad, who had separated from his mom when George was 2, invited him to come and stay the summer in California. Sure, they had spent 2 weeks each year and assorted holidays together, but this was going to be for a few months. George was a bit nervous about it but his mom encouraged it. "A good chance to get to know your father better," she had said. Not even sure whether he wanted to get to know his dad better, George acquiesced when a prepaid round trip eticket arrived in his email.
Before he knew it, George was landing at Long Beach Airport in sunny southern California, waving at his dad and his new wife as he got off the plane. His dad grabbed his carry on and they proceeded to the outdoor carousel to retrieve his checked in luggage. As his dad stood watching for the baggage to begin coming down the chute, George couldn't help but admire the man. He stood a bit over 6'2", at 42 years old, still sported a wavy head of dark hair, broad shoulders that supported his powerful chest and muscled arms, all tapering down to a six-pack of abs, and thin 30 inch waist, followed by tree trunk quads and long tapered calves. No wonder he had attracted Karen, his new wife, who was quite the looker herself at only 23 years of age. She chatted mindlessly away as they stood to one side. Quite the body, no so much the mind, George thought to himself as she dribbled on about this and that. Finally, they were getting in the car, a new Range Rover. If nothing else, his dad exuded confidence and success.
"I got you a temporary membership at my club," his dad said, breaking into George's reverie as he starred out the window on the drive to the house.
"That's great, dad," George replied. "You know how I like to workout."
"Well, at least you have one thing in common," Karen added.
"Yep, at least one thing," George muttered under his breath. Tired from the flight, George nodded off until the car coming to a stop woke him. His Dad had a new house in Huntington Beach. George couldn't help whistle as he stood in the driveway, starring up at the two story mansion that stood in front of him. As they stepped into the foyer, a maid came forward, welcoming him in broken English. George felt a little bit embarrassed by all the opulence when it seemed like he and his mom barely scrapped by.
"Your room is down here," George heard his dad say, barely looking up in time to see him disappear down a side hallway. George followed just behind Karen. As he stepped in the doorway, he could see the anticipation on her face to hear what he thought.
"I decorated it all myself," she said almost gleefully. "Do you like it?"
"What's not to like," George said as he turned 360 degrees, unable to take it all in. It was like a palace. "And this is all just for me?"
"Yeppir," his dad replied, pride in his voice. "Why don't you stow your belongings while we wait for dinner to be ready. With that, his dad and Karen left the room. George ran over and bounced down on the bed, a California King. As he stretched out, his eyes suddenly felt heavy and before he knew it, George nodded off.
"Wake up, Senor George." The maid, Nestra, was shaking his shoulder, breaking into his dream. "Your dinner is getting cold."
"Be right there," George replies, getting up and going into his own bathroom. Splashing water on his face, he feels ready to face humanity again. Following the sounds, he arrives in the large formal dining room. There is only one setting on the table.
"Did I miss dinner totally," George asks Nestra?
"Oh no, Senor George, your Padre and Miss Karen went out earlier. They said not to wait up for them." As George sat down, he couldn't avoid the sadness that enveloped him. It was starting already. He was left to his own devices. Despite his feelings, the delicious smell of the food as it was served stirred his stomach which growled loudly. Nestra laughed. "Eat up Senor."
George finished off every morsel on his plate, unsure of what some of it was that he'd just eaten. Standing up and stretching, he wandered into the family room. There he found a set of car keys and some addresses on a piece of paper, headed by a brief note in his dad's handwriting.
"Sorry about dinner, son, we had prearranged plans. Use the car, maybe
go over to the club and introduce yourself."
No mistaking the handwriting for George had seen it many times over the years in cards sent with money to pacify the boy at another missed occasion. George fought back the heat of tears that burned in his eyes. Grabbing the car keys and the paper, he ran out the back door.
Sitting in the Saab 920 convertible sitting in the driveway, George inserts the key. The engine turns right over, its obvious power humming through the seat. Using the information on the paper, George enters the club address into the touch screen navigational system. An often used address, the system pulls up directions after only the first few digits are entered. George pulls out onto the street, feeling like he has the world by the tail, his lonely dinner a forgotten memory.
George had no problem getting into the club. In fact, they seemed to recognize him as he came in and even had his temporary membership card ready for him. A brief tour, headed by the club manager himself, and George was left to his own devices. As he stripped down in the locker room, pulling on his workout shorts, George couldn't help but stop and admire himself in the full length mirrors that covered one wall.
First, he took just a general look at himself. He had to admit he was one good looking young man.
Next, he drops into a most muscular, his veins and striated abs showing at their best.
George relaxes his pose into a poutier look. That's when he hears the voice from the shower area across the room.
"Not bad for an Anglo." The voice has a distinct dialect to it. George can't identify the nationality but isn't kept waiting long as a muscled Asian male comes into view.
"My name is Teng. You into wrestling?"
Wearing only MMA gloves and black stripped boxing shorts, the Asian flexes. His body is lean, tight, and muscled. George can't help but stare. But being a former member of the wrestling team in high school, he is instantly excited about the chance for a match.
"Sure. Where here," George replies, not taking his eyes off the boys posed hardness?
"No, there is a special room. Follow me." Without another word, Teng heads off to a back corner of the locker room. George, enamored with the danger of the moment, follows him. They come to a small door, one that requires both of them to almost kneel to get through it. Teng indicates for George to go first. As George goes through, an overhead light comes on showing a small room layered on floor and walls with mat like material. George turns to find Teng putting a lock on the door clasp inside the room.
"Prevents interruption," Teng replies to George's questionable look. Turning back into the room, George turns away for a second, but it is a second that costs him dearly as Teng grabs his shoulder and spins him, planting a power slam right into George's unprepared abs. George goes down to his knees, gasping for breath, his gut on fire. "You're not so tough now, huh, Anglo."
Without hesitation, Teng delivers a front kick straight into George's sternum, knocking him on his back. George can only struggle to breathe as Teng drops on his chest, butt crack toward George's face, his legs pinning George's arms at his side. He starts dropping slugs into George's exposed abs, hard, penetrating blows that start wearing away George's resistance with each smack of flesh on flesh. George tries his best to resist but the two previous blows had pretty much caught him off-guard and now he was at Teng's mercy, of which there didn't appear to be any.
After 15 to 20 minutes, Teng finally took a break, George barely conscious. Leaning back, Teng remained on George's chest as he relaxed. Suddenly George made his move, bringing his legs up, managing to catch Teng by the neck. George pulled forward, flipping Teng forward as well. But before he could gain proper control, Teng managed to twist loose and slammed his heel straight into George's groin. George started to curl up, gorge rising in his throat. Teng bent down and grabbed George's legs, pinning them under his arms at the ankle. Teng then proceeded to deliver blow after blow to George's abs, his hard heel striking like a hammer each time. George could do nothing to resist the beating he was taking, his mind a blur of pain. After a good half hour, Teng flipped George over on his stomach, similar to a Boston Crab hold, except Teng continued to face George. He then began kicking George again, only this time with the ball of his foot.
George slapped his hands on the mat as Teng continued to torture him, each blow digging in deeper and deeper until George felt like his skin was torn open and his guts simply hanging out. His legs so strong, this treatment went on for better than an hour. George was barely breathing, his chest hardly moving as he did. Teng's sweat dripped off his forehead, down George's back. Teng finally stopped, dropping George where he lay. Walking across the room, George tried to concentrate on what Teng was doing.
Teng knelt by a cooler in the far corner of the room, removing a water. As he gulped it down, the very sound of it made George's throat dry up. George wondered if he had missed the cooler when he came in, what else had he missed. Having finished his water, Teng squatted, back against the wall, and closed his eyes. George simply starred at his protagonist, unmoving.
George opened his eyes. He must have fallen asleep for his body didn't feel as exhausted as it had, though his abs hurt like hell. Keeping his eyes nearly closed, George looked over at Teng whose eyes were still closed. Bringing his arms up, George started to raise himself, the effort almost more than he could perform. But finally he was standing while Teng was still crouched, seemingly asleep.
George approached Teng, doing so as quietly as he could, hoping for the element of surprise. As he stood in front of the sleeping Asian, George tensed his whole body and then screamed out loud.
"Is that all you've got!"
Teng was awake in a second, seemingly bouncing up out of his crouched position. George threw a knee which caught Teng in the gut but it seemed to do no damage. George was amazed at the hardness of Teng's abs. By the time George was in position for his next blow, Teng was no longer there. As George turned, Teng through a high kick but George managed to block it. Scooping Teng's leg and then pushing against his rear, George sent Teng to the floor. Teng was right back up and the two were sparring; legs, knees, elbows, and fists flying. Despite his best defensive efforts, several of Teng's blows caught George in the face, shoulders and body. But George was doing his own fair amount of landing blows as well.
By pure luck, George threw a high round house kick where his foot caught Teng right on his knock out line. Teng fell to the floor hard, unconscious. George bent over, hands on knees, deeping in breaths deeply, his chest rising and falling like the tide. Teng didn't move. Turning and crossing the room, George pulled a water bottle out of the cooler and drank it down straightaway. He then pulled out a second bottle out. As he stood back up, he noticed a rope behind the cooler. Afraid of what it might have been used for, he carried it back to Teng's inert body.
Flopping Teng to his stomach, George tied him up, hands and feet together behind the Asian's back. He then splashed some water into Teng's face. The Asian came to almost immediately and began struggling to get free. George bent down, searching Teng's pocket for the key to the lock. Finding it, he stood in front of the Asian so he could see him.
"You're a dead man," Teng hissed.
"So might you be unless somebody knows you're in here, bro," George said as he unlocked the door. Before stepping out, he added, "You don't even know who I am." Pulling the door shut, George went back to his locker, missing Teng's final words.
"Oh we know who you are, George Blake. We know who you are."
End of Episode One
George and his Gang Encounter © All Rights Reserved June 2009 The Hit Man
By the time George got changed, in his car, and back home to his father's house, it was close to midnight. He parked the car in the garage and entered the spacious dwelling through the connecting door. The house was dark. George was a little surprised no one was waiting up for him, especially on his first night there. His mother would have been sitting in the rocking chair by the window, pretending to be asleep as he snuck in. At least here he didn't have to sneak.
Crawling into bed, George moaned aloud as his abs reacted to the twisting motion. As he lay down on the covers, George couldn't help but wonder what the whole incident had been about. Maybe a case of mistaken identity he told himself. As he played it over in his mind, his hand traced the striations of his abs, the muscle sensitive even to that low level of touch. He was still vacillating over whether to tell his dad in the morning when sleep caught up with him.
"Are you going to sleep the day away," Nesta said in much better English than she used around George's dad and his wife? Blinding light flooded the room as she pulled open the blinds and George sat up quickly. A loud groan escaped him as he laid back down, his hand rubbing his stomach. The muscles felt like a freight train had run over them. Nesta came over.
"Oh senor, I thought you had an upset stomach. But now I see you are injured. Your stomach is all red. I call the doctor."
"No, no Nesta," George said, leaping up to grab her hand much too quickly. "I did this lifting weight. I'll be fine." Though she looked at his face untrusting, she laid the phone receiver back down. "Maybe some breakfast will help." Her face brightened and she scurried out of the room to fill George's request.
A fine meal under his belt, George had found out that his Dad and step-mother had both already gone to work but would see him in the evening. George checked the forecast for the day and seeing that it would be sunny and warm all day, had Nesta pack him a picnic lunch and headed toward the beach in the Saab. Top down, tunes near to breaking the sound barrier, he drove the short distance to the Huntington Beach pier. He failed to notice the car that followed him from the time he left the house.
Pulling into the parking lot, George got out, enjoying the sun as it shown down on his body. Dressed in his work out shorts, the only ones he'd brought with him, he headed toward the beach. As he passed by the garbage area behind Jack's, a local well-known eatery, a couple of Asian fellows approached. George was immediately on his guard after what had happened the day before.
"Say, dude, you don't happen to have the time, do you?" It was the one with sunglasses who spoke as they approached. George smiled, thinking of them as Sunglasses and Whitey for his belt. He shook his head no, holding up his bare wrist, moving a little faster to get past them. That's when he heard Sunglasses speak again.
"It's all good, bro. I just lost mine down at the beach." The voice floated toward George, something told him it was too close. As he spun around, a fist caught him square on the jaw, sending him to the pavement. The two grabbed him under the arms and dragged him into the secluded area behind the restaurant. Whitey grabbed him by both arms, twisting them up painfully secure, his hands almost touching his shoulder blades.
"I didn't do anything to you guys," George said, his anger seething through his teeth. "Let me go."
"Sure you did. Remember the Asian guy you beat up the other night, name of Teng? Well, he's a member of our gang and we don't appreciate white guys beating up our own."
"Fuck that," George spit out. "That dude beat the living shit out of me. I'm lucky to be alive."
"That's why he was left all tied up, because he beat you up. Give me a break." At that, Sunglasses slammed a fist into George's already tender abs. Oomph was the sound George made as the air was forced from his lungs.
Sunglasses dropped into an easy fighting stance, his fists pounding away at George like a well-oiled machine. A right, a left, each blow digging in deep, the rhythm intense. George found he was starting to droop, his breathing very stilted. After the beating he'd endured the previous day, Sunglasses punches quickly began to rearrange George's innards despite his efforts to fend off the blows. By the time Sunglasses decided to take a break, George was only on his feet because Whitey held him up. But that wasn't to be for long. At a nod from Sunglasses, Whitey let go of George's arms. George stood there for a second. Whitey lashed out and punched him hard in the kidney and George collapsed in a heap on the dirty, wet, garbage strewn concrete behind the restaurant.
"Get up," Whitey growled. George tried but only managed to get to his hands and knees. All his strength seemed to be gone. That's when Whitey delivered his first kick to George's abused midsection. George collapsed, hands pressed into his gut, hoarse coughs escaping his lips. Whitey repeated, "Get up."
George saw the next kick coming and tried to roll away but he landed against Sunglass's legs, which stopped him. Whitey caught him straight and hard. George didn't wait for the third, but grabbed Whitey's foot and wrenched upwards. Whitey went down hard on his ass, splattering liquid and food stuff all over. George couldn't help but smile despite his agony.
"Get him on his feet," Whitey yelled at Sunglasses. As Sunglasses reached down for George, Whitey's foot slid on the concrete, struck Sunglasses in the knee, and both went down. George laughed out loud at the comedic situation. By the time the two Asians were on their feet, they were covered with wet, gross slime. Sunglasses grabbed George by the hair and shorts and hoisted him to his feet. Whitey moved up close, grabbed George by the neck and triceps, wresting him from Sunglasses. Whitey began throwing knees into George's midsection. George tried to resist, but Whitey had control. His knees slammed into George's gut time and again until Whitey seemed to run out of energy. As Whitey released his grip, George sank back to his knees, moaning. The sounds of a car reached his ears as he struggled to regain his breath. George heard voices approaching. Maybe someone who could help him?
"Help! Back here!" George tried to get up but found he kept slipping and sliding as Sunglasses and Whitey tried to grab him. "Help!"
The sound of footsteps heading his way and George felt real hope as he managed to slip away from both their grips. He found his footing and started running toward the voices. Just as he cleared the block fence that surrounded all the dumpsters, he saw them and stopped dead in his tracks. There were 5-6 of them, Asians, lead by Teng, the fellow from the day before.
"Hello, Anglo," Teng said. George turned to run again when something hard connected with the back of his neck and he went down like a rock thrown into the water, bouncing a time or two as his face met the hard concrete. Teng gave the unconscious boy a hard kick to the face, bloodying George's nose and lips. He looked at his crew and said, "Bring him."
End of Episode Two