I could see Cole McAdams’s smug, self-satisfied, grin. I caught a flash of his perfect teeth as he saw me and gunned the throttle.
The foremost of his landing gear trembled, tentatively letting go of the ground below.
I also saw the change in Cole McAdams’s expression right before the forward landing gear rose to expose the plane’s underbelly.
It was at that exact moment that I reached into his backpack and pulled out the prized item of his indeed massive and varied arms collection.
The hero prop rocket-powered grenade launcher from Relentless 2.
I don’t care how famous you are. I don’t care how many awards you’ve won. I don’t care how much money you’ve earned. And I truly don’t care how many fugitive life-extension and limb-regeneration scientists from the bowels of the Cold War you have in business with you.
No murdering son of a bitch comes back from a rocket-powered grenade to the center-wing fuel tank.
Fade to black, motherfucker.
Though best known as one of the Emmy Award — winning producers of Lost, and for creating The Middleman comic books and TV series, Javier Grillo-Marxuach is a prolific creator of TV, films, graphic novels, and transmedia content. In addition to his work as writer/producer on shows ranging from The 100 and The Shannara Chronicles to Medium and Boomtown, Grillo-Marxuach co-hosts the Children of Tendu podcast, an educational series for writers, and is an avid participant of the Writers Guild mentors program. Grillo-Marxuach can be found online at www.OKBJGM.com and on Twitter @OKBJGM, and his podcast is available free of charge on iTunes, with Stitcher, and at www.childrenoftendu.com. Javier Grillo-Marxuach was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and his name is pronounced “HA-VEE-AIR-GREE-JOE-MARKS-WATCH.”
GANBATTE
BY KEITH R. A. DeCANDIDO
The wind whipped through Lydia Ruiz’s hair as she drove her cherry-red Mercedes-Benz SL550 convertible down US Route 1, the Overseas Highway, through the Florida Keys.
When she booked her trip home with the travel office at the Department of Military Sciences, the woman there was confused as to why she was booking a flight to Miami International Airport rather than Key West International Airport.
“My car’s in long-term parking at MIA,” was the only answer she gave.
But that wasn’t the real reason.
You didn’t just fly into Key West. It was too abrupt a transition, to go from the real world to paradise.
No, it was better to fly into Miami, get into a car, and take the three hours to drive south on US 1. Made it way easier to assimilate.
And right now, Lydia needed paradise. The real world had gotten too unreal since joining the DMS.
As she took the bridge from Long Key to Marathon, she glanced down at the digital display. It was 5:30 PM on a Tuesday, so the dojo was open and Yona Congrejo would be teaching the five o’clock kids class.
When she reached 89th Street, she made a U-turn and pulled into the small shopping center on the northbound side of the Overseas Highway.
But Kaicho Bill’s wasn’t there. Instead, there was a clothing store.
She pulled into a parking space and leaped out of the Mercedes without opening the door.
For about ten seconds, she just stared at the clothing store and thought back to the first time she came to this shopping center.
You look up at the sign that says KAICHO BILL’S MARATHON KARATE, then you look at Yona. “What the fuck am I supposed to be doing here?”
“Watch your mouth, chica.”
Then you smile. “Don’t call me chica, bitch.”
Yona throws up her hands. “Fine, you don’t want to do this, I’ll go tell the Key West cops who left José Alvarez bleeding on Southard last weekend.”
“Motherfucker had it comin’!”
“Funny thing about felony assault — there is no proviso in it for whether or not the person being assaulted had it coming.”
“Well, there fuckin’ should be.”
Yona grabs you by the shoulders. “Look, Lydia, you’ve got two choices — karate or jail. Doesn’t matter to me which it is.”
“If it don’t matter, then why we here?”
“Because I give a fuck.”
You grin, then. “Watch your mouth, chica.”
And Yona grins right back. “Don’t call me chica, bitch. Now you gonna take the trial class?”
“I guess. But do I gotta wear the pajamas?”
“It’s a gi, not pajamas.”
Yona brings you inside. There’s a waiting area up front, and a tiny, wizened Asian guy standing in the middle of the wooden floor just past the waiting area. Eight kids wearing different-colored belts are facing him, performing moves while the Asian guy yells out instructions.
“That’s Kaicho,” Yona tells you.
Kaicho Bill Nakahara sees you and Yona walk in and he says, “Stop!”
He doesn’t say it very loudly, but something in his tone makes you completely freeze.
“Turn,” Kaicho says, indicating Yona with his left hand, “and face Senpai Yona. Bow, osu!”
All eight kids make fists and bend their elbows so those fists are in front of their chests, and they all bow toward Yona and cry out, “Osu!”
The thing that really strikes you is how Kaicho moves. He’s like a coil about to spring. It’s the coolest thing you ever have seen, and right there you decide you need to learn how to be a badass like this guy.
Lydia pulled out her cell phone and immediately called Yona’s cell.
“Holy shit, Lydia, is that you?”
“Watch your mouth, chica,” Lydia said automatically.
“Don’t call me chica, bitch. Where are you?”
“Well, I thought I was at the dojo. What the hell happened?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Yona’s voice caught. “Lydia — Kaicho died last year.”
“What!? How?”
“Heart attack, they said.”
“So the dojo just closed?”
“Yeah.” Yona let out a long breath. “Did you know Kaicho had three kids?”
“Uh, no.”
“Neither did anyone else. I only found out ’cause some lawyer was supervising the people taking all the equipment out to put it up on eBay or something before they broke the lease. Turns out he has a kid in Seattle, a kid in San Francisco, and a kid in D.C., and none of them give a damn about the martial arts, so the dojo’s dead.”
“Carajo. So now what?”
“Now nothing. I joined up with one of Grandmaster Ken’s dojos here in Miami.”
“Hold up.” Lydia shook her head. “You’re in fuckin’ Miami? You swore to me you’d die before you lived there.”
“Well, that’s why I shouldn’t swear. My job moved up here.”
“You ain’t workin’ for Martinez no more?”
“The congresswoman lost her seat in a hotly contested election and is now back in the private sector, so I went to work for Congressman Nieto here in Miami. And I kinda need to get back to work, I was just out for a smoke break.”