Some of you may recall a certain martial artist with a knack for driving by the name of Boss. Boss Kusanagi was introduced in the Fall ‘22 story The Getaway Boss and was a character I grew fascinated by when developing the series. I liked the mystery of him, the characterization, and the idea of incorporating more martial arts into the world beyond Evelyn Blanc and some of Lita’s friends.
In “Getaway,” I sewed the seeds of a few goings-on. What happened to Boss? What was so prophetic about Dart going under the wolf’s wheels? Who wants to know all this stuff? Now’s the time to answer some of those questions, in not one, but two stories.
This was always meant to be a trilogy, but I realized the ridiculousness of stringing such a small, but fun story across months. And since both tales combined don’t eclipse the original story’s length, I’ve decided to experiment with a compilation format, in which both short stories are presented in one article. Without further ado, get back behind the wheel and blade of one of the Wasteland’s most powerful fighters in “Heart of Tokyo Steel” and “All-American Muscle.”
Heart of Tokyo Steel
If you put down Teddy on that paper, I’ll slap you right out of the house. Roughriding sonofabitch or no, Evelyn’s the name.
God, sorry about losing my top there. I’m just glad he came out alright. Shit scared me half to death. I get it, we ain’t together no more, but Boss was always good to me and I can’t stand the thought of letting those bastards do what they done to him.
I guess if you want the scoop on me and him…here ya go.
We started as master and pupil, sure, but that didn’t stop any feelings from shining through. He’d always swing by the back door of the house. I’d kiss Mom and Dad goodbye and fling myself into that cute little dune buggy of his. The way that orange rod smiled at me made the whole day slip away. The way he smiled made me melt.
“Ready for training Evelyn?” he’d always lead in with. “You betcha” was always the reply.
He was a man of the summer through and through, looked like a day at the beach every time I rode with him. Never wore a shirt if he could help it, just the shorts, sandals and gloves. Always kept his distance from me during the ride itself though. Said he wanted to keep in the flow with Sora. That was his name for the Manx, Sora. Pretty little name for a buggy like her.
But yeah, it was all part of the feng shui shit he was always talking about. Took me ages to get my head around it. But you could see it in the way he drove. He never showed off when I rode with him. Yeah, he’d take his half-pint to her limit, but his claws never came out. Never growled, never did anything. He was in a zone; total restraint, complete control. Wish I had a thimbleful of whatever he had, especially back then.
How old was I?
About 22, 24ish. He was 28 or so at that point. A gap, sure, but it wasn’t exactly May-December, and he damn sure wasn’t robbing the cradle. Besides, he treated me right. More than I can say for half the hounds I had dated by that point, buncha fucking jerk-offs.
But yeah, we always had a good drive out to his pad in the desert. A nice little one-story home. Glass windows floor-to-ceiling, some tall plants by his front door, a little garage for Sora. Baby’s first Frank Lloyd Wright is what he’d call it, which always cracked me up. Took me a while to learn who that Wright guy was though.
When we get there, he’d kiss his lil’ Sora on the hood, and take me out back behind the house. And then we’d just duke it out.
Actually, we’d meditate first! My bad. Always gotta meditate man, makes you feel whole again. After that, I threw my ankle wraps on, fixed my top and shorts, he’d get me gauzed up, and then it’d be a kumite blitzkrieg.
We fought on the desert floor for ages. Didn’t hold back either. There were days where he’d knock me clean on my ass, and days where, when I’d land a blow, he’d hit the next time zone. I remember once he landed a jump kick so good, it just sent me flying. Chest hurt like hell for a good five seconds, but the adrenaline kept me going and managed a knockout slap kick square in the snout. The fact we were laying each other out and not breaking a bone was a sign that we were pulling just a smidge enough on instinct, or we were titanium-plated on the inside. My money’s on both.
He always wanted it that way, yeah! He was stone cold about it. Said if you can’t take the real thing, you can’t take it period. It was part of why he called it fighting, straight-up. Never got me mixed up in 59 different schools or 98 different practices. It was just learning to fight. It was mixed in as much as the techniques were pulled into his own school.
And at the end of the day, we had more respect for each other as fighters thanks to it. We’d always bow, made our peace if we ever went too far (happened only once, total accident on our part) and he’d take me in to get cleaned up. The key is that we never sparred with aggression. You’d also have to be a dumbass to get mad at him for putting you through the ringer. You’re literally asking for it, the education that is. Besides, after the cleanup and a good meal, we got to the…extracurriculars.
God knows we loved each other. And I still do, and I know he still does. It’s just love on a different plain. Which was exactly what it felt like back in the day. I remember, one night in particular, I’ll never forget. Take good notes on this one.
We were real laid out by that point in the night, enjoying some time in his bedroom together. Wasn’t anything heavy, just cuddling. Over the mantle was something I’d never seen before. A pair of blades sitting on a rack. The mounts on them were black with red bands as, hell, accents or something. Red bands all across the hilt and sheath.
When I asked Boss what they were, he smiled his gentle smile, and with a kiss on the head said “Daishō.” Me being the lil’ ol’ desert rube, hickory-smoked voice-n-all, hadn’t a fuckin’ clue what he meant. And I’ll never forget the reverence he had for them, packed in every cotton-picking word.
“Been studying swordsmanship alongside hand-to-hand,” he started, “Figured it was high-time to get my own set of blades. The large one is in the style of the Tachi, the small in the style of the Wakizashi. It’s all ancient Old World to us, I know, but still, good to know the history. I forged them myself. Found a blacksmith shop in the North to teach me some of the basics.”
He picked the longer blade off the mount and unsheathed it. The silver was blinding, but when I saw my eyes in the blade, I felt a faint breeze drift about me. Goddamn were they beauties.
He sheathed the blade and mounted it once more before sitting down on the bed. I fell into his lap and worked my way up him, until he stopped me with a knowing, faint smile.
I plopped him a kiss on lips anyhow and wrapped my arms around him.
“Alright, no loving,” I conceded, “Can’t say no to the Bossman, right?”
He chuckled and looked me in the eyes. “Let’s go for a drive, get ya behind the wheel, huh?”
Couldn’t say no to an offer like that, so I didn’t. I got my clothes on and bolted out of the bedroom for the garage. Folks weren’t always generous with my driving time, even at that age, so I’d practice on just about anything, Sora top of the list. I slid right behind the wheel and cranked her up. He had dropped his longer sword in the backseat and hopped in shotgun-side.
I just put her to the floor. I made no bones about it, I am a mean-ass mofo when it comes to driving. When I whipped her out of the garage, that alone felt awesome. She handled real smooth-like. Her papa was a fighter, but Sora wouldn’t throw down with anyone behind the wheel. The goodest lil’ lady I knew.
When I kicked the brakes and swung her into place, that’s the very second we see him.
Yes, him! Who the fuck else could it be?
Look, I don’t know what his beef was with him. To me that night, Dart was some crazy-ass stranger with a gun, standing in front of me, my sandalled lead paw, and a pint-sized V8. If I really wanted to break the whole shindig up, I would’ve just stepped on her hard and cracked his head open. But Boss didn’t want it that way.
“Park her,” he said sternly. I did.
He walked over to Dart, his stride confident. He got up real close to him. I put Sora in gear just in case this whack-job got dirty about shit. Boss gave him the ultimatum. “You fight with fists or you fight with steel, which is it?”
Dart looked at him, cocking his gun. “Steel, how bout you play on my turf, you feral fuck.”
Boss looked to him and then walked back to the car.
That’s when he grabbed the sword.
He unsheathed it and walked over to Dart. “We play with steel then.”
He bursts out laughing. “Where the fuck’s your gun, really?”
“Don’t need one,” Boss replied, “Watch.”
Dart starts unloading real, live bullets. None of that laser shit, we’re talking American lead. And if you coulda seen the sparks coming off that blade in that evening light…goddamn was it killer. They plunked off the blade and went flying back at him, left, right, and center into the desert floor. Each shot left this dog shook more and more.
Until he reached the laser cartridge.
When that blood-red fire started hitting, deflecting became one helluva dance. One angle could put shit through Boss’ plate-glass windows, another might’ve sent a bullet in my head. Dart knew this when Boss was spinning himself around to match each bullet as they fired. He got him moving in a nice little circle, the blade facing towards me and Sora. When Dart’s back was to me, I dug into that clutch on reflex and braced myself, eyes shut tight.
ZAP!
He got it right in the heart. One hole, a solid inch, cauterized in seconds. Dropped like a sack of potatoes. The look on Dart’s face was pure shock when it happened. Boss sauntered back to Sora, sheathed his blade, and hopped back in. He looked to me in the strangest way, like I just saw something I wasn’t supposed to see. He went to speak, but he could only sigh. I pulled him close to me and gave him a little peck. I thumbed at his cheek while I asked him the big question on my mind.
“What was the blade for? Before he showed up.”
“What it was used for,” he said softly, “Protection.”
That was all I needed. I put her in reverse and was ready to back away and into the desert when Boss took hold of my hand on the gearshift.
“Hell Patrol don’t care how they get him.”
It was his sly way of wanting to make sure Dart was under the rug for good. I kicked the gas gladly and barreled over him. The ride back home was smooth sailing from there.
I ain’t got no great ruminations on the man. He was good to me, he taught me well, and even if every night I fight in Haven went south the way it just did, I wouldn’t trade the life he gave me for the world. I know I call him every day, but when you chat with him, tell him I said “hi.”
If you’re looking for a drink by the way, scotch is in the back. I’m a J&B bitch through and through, on the rocks as always. Lemme grab you a glass.
All-American Muscle
Bit easy to track me down, being bedridden and all, right?
Nah, I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I didn’t realize you wanted to do this whole history thing on me when it went down. Would’ve saved myself for it. Didn’t think anyone besides the usual suspects gave a damn. Woulda been a funny way to send a hitman too.
Well if you want history, let’s tell you where the story sits right about now.
On that fateful little day, Evelyn pulled up to my house right around four in the afternoon. Promised it’d only take two hours with her car as opposed to Sora. In truth, she probably just wanted to show the rod off to me, and hey, I wasn’t going to say no. I love my Sora, but the pair of us were getting up there. I wanted to make sure she’d be around for the kid to drive when he was ready.
So I kiss Kimiko goodbye, give little Junji a hug, and I swing myself into that Rebel Machine of hers. Eve’s already in her gear, right down to the wraps. And man, she just took off like a bottle rocket and left my house in the dust.
We loved each other, yeah, but it just wasn’t the right time. She wanted a lover, but I wanted love. Kimiko’s got an endless supply of that. Not to say Evelyn doesn’t, just that we never leapt past that last barrier when we were together. But I was her master first and foremost, so I couldn’t turn down seeing a pupil in the ring.
“Lookin’ real mellow Roujin,” she teased, “Don’t tell me you gon’ sof’ on me.”
“Family life has its pleasures and its costs,” I chuckled, “Worth the price of admission too.”
It wasn’t those graying whiskers that tipped her off, it was the way I dressed. All I had was a faded button-up worn like a coat, jeans you could cut with paper, and my sandals. That leather’s one foot in the grave for sure. The shades were still holding out after, oh, twenty years or so though.
Meanwhile, there’s one of my better fighters driving to the tournament in her getup. And when I say getup, I mean Star Spangled to the nines. Not sure if she showed you. The top with the stars and the trunks and ankle wraps with the stripes? When you’re done taking the whole thing down, I can share some of the pictures. Got ‘em in a box somewhere around here.
Mind looking around for me Junji? Little plastic box, filled with photos.
Thanks champ.
But anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the ride out.
We were hanging out, talking each other up as we should. She mimed a few things she picked up on her own (lost control of the car only once), I talked about how the lessons were going. Class size of about 50 at the moment. Nice big round number. Not in the business of expanding anytime soon, especially since the Sensei is out on his ass. But that’s digression. It was good seeing her. Never got enough time between the family and instruction.
True to her word, her claws dug deep into that fraying throttle, we crossed the Marshalls, and slipped through the designated crack in the border around six. Sun’s down right about then. Takes us about five minutes to make it to where the match is. I take her red shades, tuck both our pairs in my shirt pocket, and make our way into the venue.
Just as I remember it Man, just so. Second-hand smoke, half-lighting, the works. I saw some of the old sparrers there, some of the young bucks too. Anthony was there, “Mr. Ten-Tonner” himself. Was there for a student of his own…shit I think it was two actually. One in the men’s division and one in the women’s. Never caught the gal’s name, but the guy you couldn’t miss. Was almost built like Tony.
He was a black wolf by the name of Charles Damier. Had his girl Ashley wrapped right around him. They were cute kids really, though Charles I could see hitting that ring like a jaguar. He’s big, but he’s got a stealth about him. He’d joke about wearing his opponents down so much, he’d blend into the dark of the crowd. When Tony told him about me, I saw that six-foot fighter enter the court of a king. Young man had a newborn’s awe in his eye. I killed it with a shake of his hand.
“Just another spirit like you Son, always in touch.”
I was honored he was honored, but you can’t leave a fighter star-struck like that. Never good for performance.
How does Evelyn stack up? She doesn’t have the fellow’s camouflage in her favor, but she has a sort of…hell, what’d you call it? A kind of luring aura about her. She’s smaller, even compared to fellow females, but it grants her cover. Easier to blind-side an opponent if they don’t expect anything from you. And considering we were coming in from the desert, even the credibility of a ten-time champion training her left a few skeptical. Not for long though.
She was laying them out. Respectfully of course. When I pulled her ringside on her fifth round, I slapped her square in the jaw for leaving her back turned. But that aside, she was excellent. Nothing about that night was off or unpleasant. Until we came to the end.
Evelyn rocked her way right up to the top of women’s division. She was roughed up for sure. Every two rounds or so I was tending to some blood, but she was still standing and cognizant. A gray by the name of Bolo Kei was the men’s champion.
Don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see where we’re going here.
She challenges him and he accepts. Ego begetting ego, and I was close to knocking her out for it afterwards. Before all…this happened.
But the fight went on, and she…she just took him to town. Not at first though. They went for a best two out of three. Bolo took the first round with ease. If you’ll permit me the use of layman’s terms; the left hook nearly broke her snout. I mean she could’ve donated the amount of blood that came out. But then her good ol’ American spirit kicked in and she started working the vulnerability to her advantage. She was weaving ‘round his fists like vines into a basket. It was a tapestry of defense. Pure tapestry.
Then the right jab came out and rocked Bolo with a fair hit in the nose. Didn’t need to scrape him off the mat though, he was on a fire sent straight from the Sun. That left the third round with a lot on the line. A lot of reputations, and I heard enough collective bets to buy out half the block. I don’t think anyone knew where the smart money should’ve gone, because it was on this night we discovered just how good Eve was.
One of the moves she had shown me on the ride up was a double kick in the torso. Remember all those old pictures outta Hong Kong? Guys and gals on wires doing all sorts of acrobatics in sparring? She said she could pull at least one of those moves off for real. In a limited capacity. Like she can’t kick someone ten times in the chest and never touch the ground, but she could make contact twice.
Skeptical was I until, in the haze of that old underground ring, I saw her practically walk across Bolo’s torso, and you could feel the contact made. It was incredible. And it took him out.
Best two out of three, and there we are, leaving the ring. My first half of the spiel was cutting her to ribbons. Because it was foolish, prideful, arrogant, and bloody stupid to do what she did. But the second half, I wrapped my arms around her and held her for a good long while.
She earned it.
As we were about to pile into the Rebel, that’s when the street fight broke out. Bolo had a gang of grays, probably a few shades lighter than I. And they started in on us like wildebeests, bearing down en masse. We both tore back into them with ease. Sweeping kicks, a few well-placed fists to the jaw. The joys of teaching a mixed discipline is knowing when you can turn yourself loose. Self-defense is that time. It’s like a gun. If you’re being threatened, your job is to end that threat. Whether with fists or bullets, your assailant will not make the same mistake twice if you do the job right.
Then this happened. Here in the torso.
Someone brought a knife to a fist fight, and got me good in the abs. Doctors said I was lucky they weren’t packing anything bigger. They could’ve gotten to the stomach, and I think you’d have a pretty good idea of what the acid could do from there.
When Eve saw that, she just…how do you say it…flipped the fuck out.
She grabbed me, hurried me off to the Rebel, but not before getting another dirty trick pulled on her. She took a slice one inch away from her Achilles.
One inch.
And it caught her so off-guard, all it took was a quick twist of her ankle, and she damn near bit the sidewalk. But I was there to pick her up and pull her into the car after me.
So now we’re in the car. I find myself behind the wheel, mostly because she threw me in first. She busts out a bandanna and some of her gauze from the glovebox. She takes my shirt off me and wraps the gauze. And all she does for herself is put the bandanna around her gash. Neither of us questioned it, I think it was just the blur of everything happening. You don’t think too much when you’re trying to get the hell out of there.
She wings the keys at me, I turn her Rebel over, and I shift-kick him in a split second, peeling that slice of muscle right off the curb. The guys who we didn’t drop personally were bowled over. He was a nice rod for it too. Body’s just roll off or roll under, never on. Except for Bolo.
He had obviously had enough of us having enough (try saying that five times fast), and started bolting for us as we took off down the street.
On foot, yeah. In a full sprint. I saw he was going in for a flying kick of his own, and I just looked him dead in the eyes. One foot on the brake, he stops short, and I hit the gas so hard half his ancestors felt it. He wasn’t getting up from that one. From there, Evelyn and I tended to each other’s wounds all along the ride back to my house. Eric came the next day, patched us both up, and here I sit. I consulted with some physicians to size up when I’d be back in full working order. Should be good in another week.
Why use the car? Easy. I’m good at it. I’m good at hand-to-hand, but when you get ganged up on, and the bastards fight dirty, all bets are off. Driving to me is an art in and of itself. You and your machine find yourselves together in a space in time. One cannot move without the other. You are in control, but your beast is the one in motion. Never met a ride I couldn’t get to peak performance. They all have quirks of their own. Her Rebel is a quick-n-dirty sort of character. You open him up, lean on him, shift as needed. With Sora, lots of feathering happening in the footwell, you have to flow with her.
Find the automotive what?
Ha! Leave it to Straker to put it that way, the old goat. I mean if you want to see it that way, be my guest. Pleasure’s all theirs anyway, I don’t feel a thing behind the wheel, I just do it. But again, that’s all digression.
Thanks for stopping by. Great to hear from any pupil, especially one who cared enough to make the trek. Maybe we’ll spar again, for old time’s sake, eh?
Good, glad to…drink you say? Ah, I have just the thing to hit the spot on a Sunday like this. Kimiko dear, mind fetching the lemonade?