He twirled the nunchuku, then began whipping them around his body, transferring them from one hand to the other. I’d seen this flashy routine in countless martial arts movies. I guess it was supposed to either scare or hypnotize me. With an arrogant grin sometimes, mocking or exaggerated facial expressions other times, he tried to sneak a legitimate blow in occasionally as he showed off with the nunchuku and danced around like Bruce Lee.
“Ooh, you purty quick, for a Nazi,” he taunted, before feinting one way, then striking another. “Uh-oh! How you like that, Mr. Hockey Man? Damn, boy—you got nerves a’ steel, don’cha?”
It was ill-advised to take a swing at him with the stick. I was moving pretty slow by now, for one thing. Plus, it was hard not to telegraph offensive moves with the stick.
I learned from our first encounter that Dreadlocks was quick and experienced enough to see the telegraph every time. But I took my swipe, for some reason, anyway, and he easily dodged it.
“Ahh...you wanna hit me? Ooh, you got bad intentions. Nice try, Mr. Hockey Man.”
He kept dancing around and running his mouth. I took deep breaths and refused to let him get into my head. I had to take him seriously, because he was skilled, but I couldn’t afford to lose my temper over his annoying comedy routine.
My discipline paid off. He flubbed a transfer during one of his razzle-dazzle moves with the nunchuku. While he was mugging and making teasing noises as if it was all part of his smartass master plan, I poked him in the face with my stick, then cracked him across the hands. I sacrificed power for speed, so neither blow was devastating. But with the storm drenching us, we were practically underwater and everything was slick. I hooked the chain that held the nunchucku together, tugged them out of his grip and flung them over my shoulder.
He played it off with more trash talk. “Oh damn—you bad! That was a real ninja move, dawg. What I’ma’ do now?”
He was disarmed and, probably even worse for him: his pride was hurt. I had just gained the upper hand. Not that he would admit to that.
“What I’ma’ do? What I’ma’ do? You got me in a bad spot now, Mr. Hockey Man. I just got one question fo’ you.”
His tireless mouth paused for a moment, but when I ignored his remark, he continued anyway: “Wachu gon’ do when I shove that stick up yo’ ass?”
While he was still talking, he tried to knock the stick out of my hands with a reverse crescent kick. That would have given him even more material for his monologue, but I lowered my stick and he only caught air. Then, during his recovery, I used his face for a puck and delivered one stinger of a slap shot.
He slipped in the mud and went down, scrambling quickly back to his feet. It would have been a perfect opportunity to close with him and cause some serious damage, but I just didn’t have the energy needed for a burst of speed sufficient to pull that off.
Taking more cues from Bruce Lee, Dreadlocks wiped watered-down blood now smeared across his face, and licked it off his fingers.
“You lucky, Hockey Man. Yeah—you real lucky. But yo’ luck just ran out.”
He grabbed the object on his belt with both hands, and I realized what it was with a jolt of fear. He drew the katana and assumed a stance like a samurai in a duel.
