Marie-Pierre Duclos (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} duclos) wrote,@ 2008-01-19 05:57:00 |
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The perils of the profession: Toledo, 1931
The first rule of knife-fighting: You are going to be cut. Deal with it, and try to make sure it is in a non-essential part of your anatomy.
The Spaniard comes out of the alley knife-first, as quick as the lightning the flash of the blade resembles. Left forearm raised as a matter of instinct to block the strike from severing the jugular - and a cut so sharp and sudden that only the welling blood makes Marie-Pierre aware that he's been wounded. By the time the pain hits, he's riding well above it on adrenalin, his own blade out and glinting in the moonlight as he dances with the shadows.
Slash, don't stab; keep moving and keep your balance. The Spaniard is small and quick, a constantly-shifting target. Work in from the strong side. Steel and blood in the air, no sound but scuffling feet and heavy breathing. Wear him down one blow at a time, hope he is overwhelmed before you succumb yourself.
Marie-Pierre oversteps, too much force in his blow, off-balance for a moment. The Spaniard's knife comes in again, and all he can do is tilt his head and catch it in the face, a duelling-scar line down one cheek.
A trend - the Spaniard is focussing on slicing his throat. Foolish. You don't bleed out that quickly. Even if he succeeded Marie-Pierre could kill him before he died himself.
Recovering in a heel-heavy twirl like a fandango, cutting out and across from the Spaniard's right, forcing him to defend with his strong arm, making him catch the blow in his bicep. For a moment Deus ex Machina is caught on something - sleeve or bone or flesh - a twist of the wrist and a sharp pull downward, a hissed blasphemy in Spanish the first word spoken.
The Spaniard switches hands and moves again.
Marie-Pierre kicks him between the legs.
He falls.
Marie-Pierre kicks again, at the left wrist; hears a snap, the clatter of knife hitting cobblestones, another profanity; drops himself to sit straddling the Spaniard's chest, knees on his shoulders, left hand tangled in his hair and knife at his throat.
"¿Quiénes es?"
"Hijo de puta!"
"Sí, obviamente. ¡Nombre!" Demand punctuated with a crack, skull on pavement.
The Spaniard spits; a flinch he cannot help, and the man is using his small size, Marie-Pierre's precarious pinioning, to slide out from beneath him.
Deus ex Machina moves as of her own volition, to the nearest sure target, an eye socket, and the Spaniard jerks and falls still.
Marie-Pierre is equally still for a moment, becoming aware of his many small wounds, of the larger one on his arm, of the pain in his face where that cut is being stretched by an unconscious grin; then he's on his feet, leaving the body where it lies, disappearing into shadows.
"Fuck," in English. He hadn't even gotten the name.
The first rule of knife-fighting: You are going to be cut. Deal with it, and try to make sure it is in a non-essential part of your anatomy.
The Spaniard comes out of the alley knife-first, as quick as the lightning the flash of the blade resembles. Left forearm raised as a matter of instinct to block the strike from severing the jugular - and a cut so sharp and sudden that only the welling blood makes Marie-Pierre aware that he's been wounded. By the time the pain hits, he's riding well above it on adrenalin, his own blade out and glinting in the moonlight as he dances with the shadows.
Slash, don't stab; keep moving and keep your balance. The Spaniard is small and quick, a constantly-shifting target. Work in from the strong side. Steel and blood in the air, no sound but scuffling feet and heavy breathing. Wear him down one blow at a time, hope he is overwhelmed before you succumb yourself.
Marie-Pierre oversteps, too much force in his blow, off-balance for a moment. The Spaniard's knife comes in again, and all he can do is tilt his head and catch it in the face, a duelling-scar line down one cheek.
A trend - the Spaniard is focussing on slicing his throat. Foolish. You don't bleed out that quickly. Even if he succeeded Marie-Pierre could kill him before he died himself.
Recovering in a heel-heavy twirl like a fandango, cutting out and across from the Spaniard's right, forcing him to defend with his strong arm, making him catch the blow in his bicep. For a moment Deus ex Machina is caught on something - sleeve or bone or flesh - a twist of the wrist and a sharp pull downward, a hissed blasphemy in Spanish the first word spoken.
The Spaniard switches hands and moves again.
Marie-Pierre kicks him between the legs.
He falls.
Marie-Pierre kicks again, at the left wrist; hears a snap, the clatter of knife hitting cobblestones, another profanity; drops himself to sit straddling the Spaniard's chest, knees on his shoulders, left hand tangled in his hair and knife at his throat.
"¿Quiénes es?"
"Hijo de puta!"
"Sí, obviamente. ¡Nombre!" Demand punctuated with a crack, skull on pavement.
The Spaniard spits; a flinch he cannot help, and the man is using his small size, Marie-Pierre's precarious pinioning, to slide out from beneath him.
Deus ex Machina moves as of her own volition, to the nearest sure target, an eye socket, and the Spaniard jerks and falls still.
Marie-Pierre is equally still for a moment, becoming aware of his many small wounds, of the larger one on his arm, of the pain in his face where that cut is being stretched by an unconscious grin; then he's on his feet, leaving the body where it lies, disappearing into shadows.
"Fuck," in English. He hadn't even gotten the name.