At least this time he hadn’t just started a random fight. This one would actually put some coin in our pockets. More importantly, it would put some food in our stomachs. A small settlement on the edge of the wastes hired us to retrieve a medical shipment that had been ambushed a few days prior by a local group of ne'er do wells. We hadn’t expected the group of dwellers to be that big though. Guess Clyde was gonna get to dance again.
We certainly could have shown up at worse times. It was sunset, so we weren't getting baked alive. The intensity of the sun here in Basin Desert meant most people didn't even need an oven if they just cooked during the day. Didn't used to be a problem, I can still remember when the whole basin was a lake. Oh well, whole 'nother world now. Just gotta find somewhere to sit down in this God forsaken oven and wait for Clyde to handle the rabble.
Clyde was standing in the midst of what I could only describe as a pack of inbred maniacs. He was mostly hidden by a dingy brown cloak he wore at all times. While it kept the sun off him during the day, it was mainly because he thought it looked cool. The same could be said for the wide-brim hat and the sunglasses. No function considered, just form. And then there was that unsettling smile. All these years and it still just creeps me right the hell out.
Clyde spoke first, “Ok guys, look. This doesn’t need to get ugly. You’ve still got the shipment, you know it isn’t yours. Just give it back, nice and quiet, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let all of you walk out of here. It’s been a pretty nice day so far, so I’m in a good mood.”
I would sometimes take bets on how fast whomever he did this with would go through what I'd termed as 'Clyde's Cycle'. He’d walk into their group, completely out numbered and out armed, act like he was the hottest shit since the nuke, and then everything would go through a series of steps.
The first step was always confusion. They’d look around at each other, brows arching as the tonka truck gears struggled to turn within their noggins, and then they’d look outward. Surely this little shit didn’t just walk in without any help.
Then came the amusement. They got here a little quicker than most. Once they realize that it really is just him, they start laughing. They pointed, they prodded each other with their elbows. They laugh and laugh and laugh. And the whole time, Clyde just stands there. An unphased, immovable object. They take notice of his still present smirk. That got them to the last step.
Anger. Now they’re pissed, and the cycle is about to come to it’s logical conclusion. The leader decides to identify himself, “And just what the fuck do you plan to do if we say no? Maybe you should just run back to your mommy. This club's for grown ups.” His crew went back to step two again. He was a monster of a man. 7 feet tall, built like a brick shit house and bald as a cucumber. He’d been through the thick of it too, if the scars were any indication.
Clyde, knowing who the boss is now, takes a step towards him, “Alright, I know it may be hard to get this through your thick, well polished skull, but we can do this the easy way, or...” The smirk grew to a grin that seemed unnaturally wide as his fingers curled into his palms, his knuckles popping, “We can do it the fun way...”
They didn’t like that, not one bit. A pair of grunts were already moving towards him. Clyde lifted his hands from beneath his cloak, “Whoa whoa, hold on one second.”
The leader was the one grinning now. My guess is that he's thinking Clyde was trying to find a way out now that his bluff had been called. The grin faded when, instead of running, Clyde pulled out a pair of earbuds, slipping them into his ears before pulling out a little recorder.
A young girl of around fourteen or fifteen came up beside me, tugging on my sleeve, "Why is he wearing headphones?" I get so sick of that damn question. Too many people poked me in the shoulder whenever Clyde started a fight and asked it. Local law, civilians walking by, sometimes even the victims of the beatings he dealt out. I’d seriously considered carrying around a recorder with the answer on it, or maybe some flash cards. It had become rehearsed to the point of sounding almost mechanical.
I slouched back into a bit of rubble that happened to make a decent little chair, “He likes to listen to music. He says fighting is like dancing. He isn’t wrong.”
“Does that mean he’s right?” was the next question.
“See for yourself. Name's Nicholas by the way, thanks for asking.”
"But I di--" I cut her off, "Yeah, that was sorta my point. Now either shut up and watch or scram."
The cycle started over. They glanced at one another, they laughed, then they got pissed. When they hit step three, they rushed him.
It was too late, the song had already hit it’s first crescendo.
His cloak split, arms rising as the first one of the dwellers closed the gap. The piece of rebar the toothless moron swung towards Clyde's head was the first mistake he’d made in that fight, and the last he’d make in his life. Clyde stepped forward, arm rising to catch his elbow midswing, his other hand moving to the base of the rebar. He claimed the weapon and broke the dweller's arm in a single movement.
The next movement put the point of rebar through his brainpan. Clyde pulled it free as the song moved into it’s first slow bit, taking a step backwards, eyes sliding shut as he took a deep breath, sinking into the moment, into his sweet, malevolent dance.
They closed in on him slowly. Their pace was measured. This too was a mistake. it gave the song a chance to pick back up, and Clyde was on them like a rabid dog. He leapt forth, cloak spreading behind him, the peice of rebar he’d claimed from his first victim slicing through the air in a long curve. The sound only grew worse when it cut into the flank of one of the henchmen, and sickening when the sound of cracking ribs joined it.
Clyde was still grinning. Nobody else heard it, but his strikes were in time with the song. Others might see a maniac swinging wildly, flipping from attack to attack. To those that heard the music before he’d switched to headphones, it was different. It was like a well choreographed ballet, but infinitely more violent. More malevolent.
The song slowed again, and he flipped away, landing on a small pile of rubble a few yards behind him. The remaining foes advanced slowly, cautiously. Their numbers had been halved before most could even realize what was happening. The chrome head that led them bellowed, “Fuck this, grab the fire, boys!”
There was a flurry of motion as they ran for the guns stashed in the broken down bus that was their base of operations. Ammunition was scarce these days, so most only used it in the gravest of situations. Apparently, they'd decided Clyde fit the bill.
The song fell into timing perfectly. The first shot rang out in time of the rise in beat, and Clyde leapt into the air, flipping over the stream of fire and metal, that rebar slipping effortlessly into the ribs of the closest shooter, the aged man screaming in pain. Clyde twisted the metal rod, one hand releasing and grasping the AK from his grasp, wringing it free from the screaming man’s grasp. He rolled away and raised the gun, squeezing and letting three rounds free, two more bodies falling to the sand.
He could have kept firing, the clip was still at least half full, but the song didn’t call for that, it didn’t match the pace. He ejected the clip. His fingers curled around it for but a moment before it swung through the air. The butt of the cartridge connected with the forehead of a younger man. It didn’t knock him out, but it stunned him long enough for the butt of the rifle to finish the job.
All this happened before the flow of lead could turn in pursuit. By the time it finally did, he wasn’t there anymore either. He’d slipped behind a bullet riddled wall to wait out the lull in his song, his dance. Angry metal bit into what was left of it, dust obscuring it. Clyde smiled, taking a deep, centering breath as he stretched. It was getting to the good part.
Once again, life imitated art and the quietest part of the song happened to fall right in with their reload. It picked up again, almost explosively. The same could be said of Clyde. He turned and bolted around the wall, straight at one of the last four standing. The man screamed, trying in vain to press the clip into his weapon. He might have pulled it off too if he hadn’t panicked.
But, of course, he did panic, and Clyde ducked down before rising quickly, heel of his palm rising, connecting with the man’s jaw. He began to fall, but wasn’t left with enough time to hit the ground before Clyde’s hands seized his neck, turning, using him as a makeshift weapon, throwing him into a pair of the remaining dwellers, leaving him enough time to handle the fourth.
Three swift shots to the gut before he pulled back, swinging into the man’s jugular with all his strength, knocking him to the ground like a broken mannequin.
He turned just as the last two had recovered. They didn’t have time to react. Clyde pulled a pair of finely sharpened knives from his belt, and a split second later, the handles were sticking out of the final foe’s foreheads.
Clyde turned towards the last man standing, the leader, and grinned like a demon as he slowly began to advance on him. He reached out, pulling one of the earbuds from his ear. It was loud enough to be heard, and it was building up to the finale.
“This is your last chance... Please don’t take it, I so love finishing my dances...” He was right before him now. The leader, in spite of his stature, his strength, appeared as a frightened child before the boogie man. Personally, it amused the hell out of me considering how much smaller Clyde was than him. Clyde’s hand shot out, fingers latching around the man’s throat. His eyes were wild, enthralled with the violence of his dance. The man cried out in what could only be described as terror.
This was always the worst part... The song built to it’s final moment while he squeezed. Tighter and tighter, fingers digging into the flesh. When the song hit it’s final beat, he’d twist his arm and pull. The song would end. His dance would end. The fight would well and truly be over.
The leader fell to the ground, clutching his torn throat for his last moments. Clyde turned, walking towards me, wiping the dust and blood from his cloak before pulling the headphones from his ears, “Alright, guess we just have to figure out where they hid the shipment.” He’d say, as though commenting on the weather.
“Oh, and you couldn’t have asked him where it was again before tearing out his fucking throat?! It could be hidden anywhere in this damned sand pit!” I sighed, falling back into the wall, leaning against it, “Damnit, I was fucking hungry too... You really gotta learn how to hold back, Clyde...”
Clyde just chuckled, a smile falling across his face. This was always the scariest part, when he went back to what he should be. After all that violence and death, you got reminded that you were dealing with a twelve year old child.
