Muted Ass Kicking

“As it turns out, my training began at five in the morning, and I met my trainer in the central court yard of Sir Pelican’s complex. He didn’t offer a name. In fact, it became clear early on that he didn’t speak at all. Perhaps, he didn’t wish to disturb the still slumbering roosters.

“I first attempted the formal approach, and bowed to my trainer. ‘Good morning. My name is Garland. Sir Pelican has requested that I begin my physical training with you.’

“I stayed frozen in the bowing position and waited for him to respond. Nothing. I chanced a peak up at him. ‘You know, saying something wouldn’t kil---‘

“Before I knew it (let alone react), I was sent sprawling on the ground with a new found pain to the left side of my jaw. The bastard hit me! He actually socked me within the first five minutes of meeting him. ‘Good grief, man!’ I yelled. ‘What is your dysfunction?’

“Naturally, my question didn’t elicit a verbal response, but, to my relief, it didn’t immediately result in another blow. Rather than tempt the fate of fists any further, I remained sprawled out on the grassy knoll of the courtyard. One of us had to make the next move, and I was going to make damned sure it wasn’t me.

“The silence gave me time to properly examine my abuser. The tall figure, perhaps six and a half feet in stature, was shrouded in a simple black costume. The fabric appeared thin and loose fitting. Of the same color and apparent quality, a hood covered his head and successfully maintained a shadow across the upper half of his face. His mouth and nose was covered by a red mask, which very well could have been some sort of red scarf wrapped around his head. If you chaps are the type that are interested in men’s footwear, you will be pleased know I noted that he wore a set of boots that utterly offset the sense of weightlessness of the rest of his garb. The boots may have been black, too, but they looked heavy due to a great amount of outer sole ridged by cleats.

“I had decided to call him Annoying Mute, but not to his face. What I found most annoying—even more so than his tongueless disposition or his painful habit of hitting me----was that my hopes of convincing him to reveal the secrets of my past and identity was foiled. Sir Pelican may be a nice old man (who had ambitions of assassinating the King), but he knew what would keep me under his thumb.

“I don’t know how much time passed in silence, but it certainly felt like eternity. I just couldn’t take it. It would have been different if I was able to at least see the annoyance in his eyes or something. Then, I could try to outlast my own boredom in hopes that his annoyance would fester. Besides, I don’t think I have ever passed more than a waking hour without talking in my whole life. It was time for Plan B.

“‘I got to say, this is an amazing workout I am getting. I mean, the way we are just staring at each other is really tapping into my inner warrior. Oh. Wait. Is this meditation? I am summoning the spirit of the red drag—‘



“One of those heavy boots came crashing down at the spot I was just sprawled upon. Annoying Mute was fast, but I had enough time to back flip more space between him and me. Before I could even land my heels on the ground, he was already forcing me to dodge more punches. None of those full swing sort of punching, either. They came from straight in front of him like fencing jabs, and I had no time to use the movement of his shoulders to give away his next move. One-two-three-four strikes I was able to elude until the fifth one caught me square in the nose. While stunned, he grabbed my throat and lifted me off the ground.

“It was the first time I was in an elevated position, which forced Annoying Mute to look up at me; hence, removing the natural shadow drop on the upper part of his face. I had a mere second to take notice, but it was enough. He let go of his grip on my neck and intercepted my drop to the ground with a hard knee to my stomach.

“He turned his back to me and walked away, giving the silent proclamation that my first physical training session was at an end, while I wrestled with taming a nose bleed and getting my wind back. The combination of the loss of blood and the loss of regular oxygen intake caused my recovery to be done within the drumbeat thump of a head throb. Between each pound of the headache, was the chant of the same thought.

“He had no eyes.

He had no eyes.