Blood And Honour (2) I winked at Chook and could not help but smirk as I watched the colour drain from his flustered face with the realisation of what was about to happen. Suddenly I recoiled my torso like a tightly wound spring and connected with an elbow, smack, connecting a beauty with the side of the swells head. He hollered in shock whilst absorbing the hit and crouched forward with his hands to his face, amazingly still standing as his legs began to waver. It is imperative once you have decided to fight, that you get the first punch in. It is equally as important to keep going and never give your opponent any possibility of recovery. Assert your dominance from the start and maintain it until the bitter end - whatever the outcome may be. Show no mercy under any circumstances and win at all cost. This is all that matters. I followed my initial assault with a nice tidy kick to the head that saw him hunch to the ground in a ball. I watched in anticipation as his friends snapped out of their stunned reverie and began to sprint toward me. Still I managed to get a few more kicks into the carcass, curled up on the ground like a wounded spider, as the pack reached me within seconds. The next thing I knew, I was punching and kicking like crazy the exact details of which are a blur. There were bodies flying around everywhere as the pack of fighters travelled around the backyard, slamming into a car and leaving a dent in the door. I was being punched and kicked but did not feel these trifles. My concentration was coolly focussed on just staying on my feet and not being dragged to the ground which would certainly signal my demise. Fighting is like life, as soon as you take it seriously and see it as anything more than a bit of harmless entertainment, you set yourself up for failure. It is a marathon and one must pace oneself and not go out sprinting at the start only to be overtaken and left for dead at a later stage. It’s very important not to be overcome with emotion, as many are prone to do, and to be calculated and precise with every blow delivered. I made my way to the edge of the pack for a breather and watched the commotion with amusement. All sorts of people that I did not recognise were punching into one another. I guess that some of them were on my side but I knew not who they were. One onlooker picked up a garden chair and slammed it hard into the pack thereby causing it to collapse in the centre for a moment. Chook was struggling with a bigger swell and so I rejoined the fight with a swift punch to the head. Chook repaid the favour without warning, suddenly jumping up and punching me cleanly in the jaw. I restrained him momentarily before he looked up to see that it was me he was fighting and we both burst into laughter. "Sorry Tristo," he exclaimed as we went our separate ways slicing through the brawlers once more. Eventually the fighting subsided with the advent of chaperones positioning themselves between the few remaining fighters. Chook and I were separated from the other swells by a barrier of parents as the last insults were hurled and we were hurried to the security of the kitchen in the house. We apologised profusely for the disturbance, indicating to the parents that we should probably leave as it was all our fault. "Why not at all," announced the mum, what an old dear, "I will not hear of it. It is all that Johnny Mason’s fault, he instigated the whole incident." Yeah, Mason, that was the big swells name. That big muscle-headed idiot who is to blame for my demise. Johnny Bloody Mason! Chook and I remained in the kitchen as the parents ushered Mason and his swell goons out of the party. We sat there laughing and comparing battle wounds. My fists were swollen and sore from the heads they had become acquainted with. Chook raised his t-shirt to reveal an array of bruises that were starting to raise and turn black across his back and chest. His skin told the story of unquestionable loyalty. Many others would have run if they were facing the same bleak prospect of defeat, but not old Chook, he would stand by me no matter what. We both took heart in the consolation that the pain was only momentary whereas victory was eternally ours. The night resumed in a similar manner to how it had started. Chook once again acquainted himself with the girls he was entertaining before Mason had interrupted his fun. I tried to relax and brush off the incident but there was something not quite right. Everything had gone just a little bit too smoothly and I could not fathom how ten swells would just up and leave a party in their own backyard with their pride in ruins. It just did not add up. As it turned out the answer was just about to manifest itself. An hour or so later the quiet evening air was pierced by degrees when a motorcade of cars weaved its way slowly up the Hill in our direction. The remaining party-goers stared in wonder but I knew exactly what was about to happen. There must have been at least twenty cars filling the driveway and before long an angry mob could be seen ascending toward the house. I quickly grabbed Chook and we withdrew to the safety of the kitchen once more. We entered the house and I locked the glass sliding door, completely disregarding protestations from those inside. We sat in eerie silence completely lost for words, both of us trying in vain to steady our throbbing hearts. Mason appeared outside the glass door with what seemed to be fifty swells or so, all staring excitedly at me with vengeance on their minds. His face was bruised and battered with remnants of blood still smeared across his face, and his eyes flashed with excitement as the prospect of revenge seemed a mere formality. "You’re a goner now," he screamed stating the obvious, "I’ve got you cornered and there’s nowhere to run." He banged his fist hard on the door as if whipping his troops into a crazed frenzy. I stood and stared in hollow defiance using the tactic which had previously proved to be so successful, but could not prevent the involuntary trembling of fear that seized my frame and began to show. The angry mob smelt my terror through the glass shield and proceeded to bang harder on the door, so hard that I began to think the whole thing was going to smash. "Let me sort this out," said the hosts father angrily making his way to the door indicating clearly that he had misjudged the magnitude of the situation. I instinctively restrained him, pulling the curtains closed so as to banish the mob from my sight and screamed with uncontrolled emotion, "Don’t you dare open that bloody door!" He stopped dead in his tracks. "Let’s get out of here," I mumbled to Chook as we ran through the house and out of the front door on the other side of the house. There is certainly no shame in running as I have said, particularly when ones life is at stake and this was certainly one of those times. We sprinted down the driveway in record time and launched ourselves over the front fence and into a neighbours yard. "There they go," screamed one voice in the darkness from the side of the house. Like two Olympic athlete’s possessed we leaped fences like hurdles and sprinted middle distances without slowing, all the while pursued by the blood-thirsty mob. After what seemed an eternity of running we hid out in a building site, collapsing with exhaustion behind a freshly laid wall of bricks, and cowered for hours until we were certain the coast was clear. The walk back home was long and frightful as we made our way along the back streets, hiding in the shadows from every passing car. Of course I was victorious over Mason and had nothing more to prove, but there is something very humiliating about being forced to run for your life. Something that ate away at my soul and was agitated with every death threat and hoaxed telephone call my father received on my behalf after that party. I felt a hatred burning inside I had not known before, consuming my every waking hour and dominating my dreams. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not get that bloody Mason out of my head and it seemed that I could not rest until the ledger had been set straight once and for all. And so it was one evening some weeks later fate dealt Mason a very poor hand. I was alighting a train at Central Station after having been out with a few of the other skins when I spotted Mason waiting for a train on the other platform. I wish I had a camera to capture the look of surprise on his face when he saw me ploughing out of that train and steaming straight toward him in a flash. The look of horror in his eyes was priceless. It was more than fear, it was real bone shaking terror because he knew that the kicking I had given him previously was only a sample of what was about to be exacted. This time he was the one cornered, against the edge of the platform with no place to hide. "I hear you’ve been looking for me Mason," I said sardonically as I savoured the moment. "Yyeah I have," he drawled quietly in reply looking at his shoes. "Well what the hell do you want?," I boomed with power reasserting myself as the top dog in this fight. "Nothing," he muttered feebly as the boys erupted with laughter and closed in with anticipation. And then at this point Mason did something stupid. I mean something really stupid that only some swell fool would have the lack of intelligence to do. He pulled a knife from his back pocket and started waving it around like crazy. The blade flashed in the light and my eyes reciprocated with rage. I always live by the philosophy that if you are going to pull a knife you had better be prepared to use it and I presume that anyone else in that situation would think the same way as me. But that’s always been a fundamental flaw of mine. I expect others to behave exactly the same way as me - however the fact is that guys like that are idiots so how can I possibly expect any behaviour other than idiocy. One day I may learn. He thrust the knife half heartedly in my direction and threatened, "You’d better back off, all of you, or I’ll let you have it." Mason was clearly beside himself with fright. You could be excused for thinking I was the one holding the knife from the way he was trembling. I know not fear, as death only knocks on the door of those who shy from her gentle kiss the most, only those who truly value the sweet chastity of life. I have learnt through experience that something can only hurt you if you fear it - or love it. That’s why I have always known it is my destiny to lead a long stinking life, because of my contempt for death and my resolve not to love. I welcome the prospect of death with open arms over spending my life in this stinking gaol. I was glad he had pulled the knife because it made me feel better about what I was about to do to him. "The worst that could happen is I will receive a few scratches and what do I care about a few more scars?," I reassured myself. "They really just amount to a few more stories to tell." I approached Mason calmly. He lunged at me suddenly taking me completely by surprise and deliberately stopped short of sticking the knife into my chest as if proving a point. He could have had me - I admit it but that’s his problem. I paused momentarily in astonishment before instinctively grabbing the knife handle and attempting to wrench it from his clasp. The others began to close in but I screamed for them not to get involved because I was determined to savour every inch of this glory on my own. We scrambled together desperately, twisting this way and that for control of the knife, wrestling on the platform before rolling over the edge onto the tracks. I fell on top of Mason as his head hit the ground pretty hard, his grip loosening on the knife. Maybe he lost consciousness when we hit the ground? I didn’t really know what had happened but I wasn’t asking questions and so proceeded to wrench it from his grasp and thrust it deep into his torso. I climbed off of him in a state of shock as the realisation of what I had done began to sink in. I didn’t think it possible that he was dead. Maybe he wasn’t but after we ran off in the hope of saving ourselves from prosecution a train came in and put the matter well beyond dispute. Pieces of Mason were spread all over the tracks. My fingerprints on the knife in his body were well known to police and it was only a matter of hours before I was captured and arrested. The court case was a bloody farce. A real kangaroo court in regular Australian tradition. The judge was more interested in legalities and procedure than facts and truth. He wouldn’t listen to a damned thing I said. When I was first led into the court the skins were in the public gallery, and greeted my entry with repeated chants of "Sieg Heil." Good fortune and victory they were screaming just willing me on. Well the judge almost had a fit - it was the most hilarious thing I have ever seen. Obviously he didn’t appreciate the sentiments as they were all cleared from the courtroom at his instruction. Every last one of them was removed leaving nobody behind to support me but the fledgling lawyer appointed by the court. I should have known the skins would come, God bless every one of ‘em, but that was over a month ago and I haven’t heard from any of ‘em since. Things just got worse from thereon in because my testimony was ridiculed and rejected by the false accusers that dare not look me in the eye. I explained that it was only natural that men fight as had been the case since the dawn of time and it was unreasonable to expect it to cease in the course of a single generation. Someone always has to pay for the frustration of life - I understand that so why can’t they? I’ve been fighting all my life. As a kid I fought for fun and bitter enemies one day were always best of friends the next. It is the foolish pride of manhood that is to blame for Masons death, Masons own pride, and I was merely the tool of implementation. His death was nothing personal - hell I didn’t even mean to kill him really. I don’t even know if it was me that killed him or the fall or the train, and neither do they. The fact of the matter is that if he hadn’t pulled that knife on me, he’d still be alive today. A little worse for wear admittedly but alive none the less. The prosecution painted me out to be a "ruthless killer" and a hardened "racist of hate." That’s just crap as anyone who knows me will attest. I’m sweet by name and even sweeter by nature. Brandishing me a racist would imply that I distinguish one breed of fool from another. I hate all idiots equally and don’t discriminate. All bleeding heart minorities with their hands stretched out wide are part of the same sick demented society and therefore part of the same fundamental problem. If they are all truly equal, how is it that they were ever suppressed in the first place? The egalitarianism dream just doesn’t make sense, it defies Darwinian logic. I’m a single white male under the age of 21 which makes me the most discriminated against demographic in society today. My sentence is a testament to this injustice so if anyone has reason to complain it is me. But now I’m beginning to ramble far from my intended course of fact into the realm of philosophy and so I had better re-direct my monologue more to the point. I was sitting in my cell on the night before the final days proceedings, reflecting despondently upon how I was certain to be found guilty of murder. The writing was on the wall and anyone could see that I didn’t stand a chance. I desperately sought a solution to how I could clear my name and convince the jury that I had never intended to murder anyone. As I pondered the events that had led to my miserable predicament, desperately searching the realms of lunacy for any possible means of escape, it occurred to me that maybe Mason himself had in fact furnished me with the perfect plan. I convinced myself that it was he who had given me the idea from the grave, to right his wrongs on earth and restore balance to a situation created by him and clearly out of my control. This idea gave me a small glimmer of hope to extricate myself from the legal quagmire I found myself slowly sinking into. A very small glimmer of hope I admit, particularly with the benefit of hindsight at my disposal, but at the time it appeared to be just crazy enough to work. I had a plan to escape conviction. Not much of a plan but worth a try in any case. The next morning at breakfast I acquired a home made knife from one of the other inmates. It cost me my first three months of cigarettes for that blunt piece of steel which had been sharpened meticulously to a dull point in the prison workshop. It wasn’t much of a knife really but it was certain to do the job. I carefully hollowed the binding out from my court room transcripts and placed the make-shift knife inside whilst waiting to be taken to trial. The procurement of the knife was however almost in vain and my plan foiled before it even got off the ground. It seems that the judge was unsettled by the skins appearance in court the previous day and ordered extra security measures be taken. This included the installation of metal detectors that everyone was required to pass through before entering the courtroom. "What’s this for?," I inquired as I found myself ushered toward the scanner that was certain to be my undoing. "Just get in there!," ordered the guard as he pushed me through the door. As expected the metal detector went crazy when I passed between the sensors and I was quickly seized by two guards on the other side.
Copyright © 2002 Bradley Postma |