Lesson #2

Warning: Language

“His name is Daphne, sir – Rupert Daphne.”

“Daphne?!” Bill Hargrave blurted disdainfully. “You must be joking, Burnsley.”

He lurched over Burnsley’s shoulder, prying the printed list from his hands. His eyes jerked up and down the pages hoping it were a gag.

“’Fraid not, sir. Daphne was, is, the only recruit we deemed worthy of such mentorship. He’s a bright boy, sir.” Burnsley responded cheerily. “He’s not quite like his father; rather brilliant actually.”

Bill ran his hand through his greying hair as he made out Daphne’s name coupled with his. The notion of seeing such a thing was like ramming one’s face through a barn door. He tossed the stack of papers at Burnsley with a displeasing sigh.

“I’m not convinced, Burnsley. He may have you fooled, but according to my sources, Daphne is a royal pain in the ass.” Bill said, pivoting around. “If you think I’m going to spend my remaining six weeks with that little peckerhead, I’d suggest you accept my resignation now.” He said sternly.

“Do you always have to be so brash, sir?” Burnsley said comically.

“Remember what you said when you started? You said you could polish any recruit into—“

“Into who? James fucking Bond?! Get real, Burnsley! Get your head on straight and open your eyes! That’s Stuart Daphne’s boy, and we all know how that idiot turned out!” Bill padded his forehead with a cloth tucked in his breast pocket, the stress wearing on him ten-fold. “Stuart Daphne was, and will forever be, the nightmare that haunts my dreams ‘til the day I die.”

“Oh, good heavens, you can be so dramatic, sir. He was your partner.”

“He almost got me killed!” Bill’s neck veins popped like industrial piping. He would rather be tortured than reminded of Stuart Daphne, of all people, for six long weeks. One would be amazed at how long it took such a memory to fade, yet astounded how quickly it could re-emerge – something Bill was confronting now.

Burnsley gave Bill a moment to simmer while he thumbed through a file of papers on his desk. He singled out a buff, manila folder with the letters S. M. DAPHNE stamped across the flap. Opening it, he spun it one hundred eighty degrees in Bill’s direction. Bill looked down.

“What’s this?” Bill asked.

“Stuart Mildrake Daphne, born 8-4-1963, deceased 9-15-2015...” Said Burnsley grimly. “It’s been eight years today, sadly. Cancer, if I recall correctly. All that’s left of his legacy is his boy, Rupert, your next protégé. And I presume there…”

Burnsley’s voice faded as Bill peered over the file with subtle hesitancy. Stamped over the profile of Stu Daphne were red block letters that read DECEASED. He stared at the profile a bit longer than anticipated, but it was a younger photo of Stu, one from the service days, long ago. It reminded Bill of their partnership and how it started so auspiciously. How they bonded over old-time baseball cards and rock n’ roll, staying up until the early mornings playing poker with other recruits. How they would argue over who was Maverick and who was Goose, who was Batman and who was Robin - tiny arguments only close friends would share.

The thought of his deceased ex-comrade lodged itself deep inside Bill’s mind. Unsure of what to think or feel about his awaited assignment (the boy, of course), his judgement became clouded with the remaining memories of how such an endearing companionship ended so abruptly. Stuart Daphne was dead, yes, but that did not constitute a rite of passage to stand by and mentor the man’s son as some token of honor. He owed the man nothing, and if (for sake of argument) he were somehow graced with an unexpected visit from Stu himself at this very moment, Bill would be tempted to bury the top of his foot into the dangling sack of the man’s testicles repeatedly – in his mind, some bridges were meant to remain burned.

“It’s a no, Burnsley. Sorry.” Bill said softly. He fumbled the folder back around toward Burnsley and stood up straight, attempting to rinse the painful memories from the pleasant ones that remained.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sir, but your contract states otherwise,” Burnsley began.

Bill froze.

“…and a man of your upstanding nature would be keen to honor that commitment, sir. Take it as it may, it is only six weeks.” Burnsley fastened his tie into a knot and made his way to the door.

Bill broke the patter of Burnsley’s footsteps with a low and forceful interjection, “One condition—“

Burnsley stopped.

“One week.” Bill paused and chose his words carefully. “If the boy doesn’t show promise in one week, I call it quits and retire on my own terms.”

“Stupendous, sir!” Burnsley glanced at his wristwatch. “You’d better find another gear about you, Mr. Daphne is awaiting your presence in Room 214 as we speak.” He pivoted and walked out.

“Oh Christ, Burnsley, are you—“

But Burnsley was gone.

Bill entered Room 214 at a quarter past nine without as much as a glance at the boy, who was stretching willfully in the corner. He placed his briefcase down on a plastic chair and turned, seeing at first, the outline of the boy’s figure from afar. As Bill sized him up, he quickly established the fact that the boy may not last a week, if going based off looks alone. Rupert Daphne was no taller than five foot seven and weighed a generous buck thirty-five soaking wet. His twiggy arms jutted from his plain white tee and his navy blue gym shorts looked a size too big. The tube socks he wore bunched and slid down his bony ankles, making them the thickest part of his legs. Bill’s first thought was that if the boy sneezed it would throw him back about ten feet. He had a short chuckle at the thought. Worst of all, the young boy was knock-kneed, which had all the makings of a career cut short by arthritis. The fragility of the boy alone was almost enough for Bill to gather his belongings and leave. But the thought of seeing the boy flail around aimlessly humored him, so he unbuttoned his overcoat and stayed. One week, he thought. One week.

Rupert Daphne cast a look in Bill’s direction five minutes later and removed his blaring earbuds. He tossed them in his gym bag and walked slowly to the center of the soft, wrestle-mat flooring without saying a word, setting his water jug off to the side. During the five minutes of lead up time, Bill scrolled through Rupert’s file and his discoveries inside were nothing more than average at best. The boy was hardly gifted in any one category, his test scores were unsurprisingly average and his physical capabilities were limited, to say the least. The one ounce of potential he showed was for the art of mouthing off, something Bill had a low tolerance and hairpin temperament for. He could feel his blood pressure rising, knowing what was to come, and for safe measure, Bill remembered his medication and popped a Prinivil (his blood pressure pill) on his walk over. Bill stood as Rupert watched, a tumbleweed of tension toppling its way between the both of them like an old Mexican standoff. He walked slowly toward the Daphne boy and stopped ten yards away. Bill spoke first.

“Your file says you’re twenty-three. That right?” asked Bill directly. He was fully aware of what the file stated, but he hardly believed it. Judging by the boy’s lack of facial hair and mouth of braces, he would have guessed his age to be around seventeen or so.

“Yeah, that’s right. What’s it to you, old man?” Rupert’s voice sounded surprisingly mature, but the words coming out were nothing more than colorful schoolyard banter. Bill grit his teeth and produced an unconvincing grin, trying not to take the bait.

“You look young is all—”

“—And you look older than my dead grandmother, it’s great to meet you, too. Let’s get on with it already, shall we?” commanded Rupert, immaturely. “I fucking hate it here.”

“Watch the attitude, boy. I may be old, but I can still make one hell of a mess if I need to.” responded Bill with a clutched fist. “First lesson, shut the fuck up. How’s that sound, dipshit?”

“Oh fuck off you old—“

“—Zip it or you’re done, comprende?” Bill felt the boy weaken, but had to make sure. “Comprende?” Bill leaned into Rupert’s peripherals.

“Whatever.” The kid hit Bill with an eye roll and crossed his arms over his chest. If he were Bill’s son, he would have cracked him upside the head. If lucky, maybe he’d get the chance.

“Listen kid, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, so let’s cut the bullshit and move on.” The boy remained silent.

“Lesson two, strike aversion.” Bill walked up and stood about two feet from the boy. His six-one, meaty frame overshadowed Rupert like a solar eclipse. The boy stared straight into Bill’s chest and didn’t move. Bill felt no sense of fear emanating from the kid, something he’d often detect in many recruits; recruits many times larger and menacing than this little string bean bastard.

“When I tell you to, throw your best three-strike combination.” said Bill reluctantly. “And try not to break a nail, princess.” Rupert’s face went flush with a strawberry red hue. He took a step back and adopted a fight stance similar to a young Bruce Lee; he was a southpaw like Stu.

“Now!” roared Bill.

The boy startled forward and threw two limp-chicken jabs. Bill shooed them away like fruit flies, counting the number of strikes aloud, “One, two…” What came next was a predictable, poorly thrown, overhanging left, which Bill caught starkly with his beefy right palm and discarded smoothly, “Three.” But the facade of Rupert’s three-strike combo fell to the wayside as a low-swinging, unanticipated pendulum kick barreled itself into Bill’s unprotected gonads. The kick, which packed an immense amount of power for being so hurried, surrendered Bill to his knees in a pulverizing crumble. A ghoulish exhale escaped Bill’s face in runaway spurts of indistinguishable syllables like high-pitched pig grunts.

“Four.” said Rupert cleverly, watching his hefty mentor collapse. “What’s the matter? Didn’t think I could count that high?”

Beet red and pulsating, Bill tuckered at his groin with both hands and slumped to one shoulder in a child’s pose. The monumental pain was like a million nerve endings being set on fire. For a second, Bill thought his eyes were bleeding, and after a firm expulsion of hard coughs, halfway expected to barf up his ballsack. The skinny prick even stood over him and extended a hand to help him up.

“Good on you, old man. You took that like a gangst-“

In a slowish, quickish fashion, Bill lunged and wrapped his arms around the boy’s legs. Rupert dumped to the mat with graceful agility, extracting his ankles from Bill’s grasp slickly. The boy continued into a reverse somersault, and with his shoulders, pushed himself back to a standing position. If Bill weren’t hell-bent on absolutely murdering the boy, he may have found this movement rather impressive.

“Cheap shot, you little prick. I ought to break your chicken-shit neck!” exclaimed Bill in a mumble-tongued voice.

He progressed to a single-leg kneel, placed his hands on his thigh and pushed up into a wobbly stance. Once to his feet, Bill feigned a left jab, sidestepped, and threw a soaring right hook. The boy dipped and countered with a blazing inner knee kick that buckled Bill’s leg outward at the hip, sending him back into a single-leg kneel. Rupert backpedaled and grabbed his water jug, spraying Bill dead in the face with it. By the time Bill reopened his eyes, a size nine Converse came cascading into the bridge of his nose - a sound that could be best summarized as someone open-hand smacking a damp bowling ball. Bill fell backward into a thunderous heap of bruised ego. His nose feeling the size of a beefsteak tomato, and throbbing like a broken heart (Like the Grinch, Bill’s nose grew three sizes that day).

The opening of the gymnasium doors interrupted the trembling moans of whining and cursing as both sounds echoed into the rafters. The man who walked in was Fred Burnsley.

“Morning gents, uhhh—“ He looked over at Bill who was still thriving in pain. He shot a glance at Rupert. “Mr. Daphne, would you mind telling me why Mr. Hargrave is rolling on the floor like a whimpering imbecile?”

“He was teaching me how to react if one got kicked in the face, sir. Lesson number two.” Rupert answered, a cheeky grin assembling on his expression.

“Ah, yes.” Burnsley said, puzzled. “Lesson number two.” He looked at Bill once again.

Bill shot up in a muffled voice, “—UT UP! SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU!” He made his way to his things and began funneling his arms through the armholes of his jacket, seething.

“That boy should be expelled for what he just did, Burnsley! That crazy little shit! Don’t think I’ll be back, Burnsley, don’t call! To utter hell with all of this!” Bill hobbled out of the gymnasium with a red-faced look of agony, slamming the doors behind him.

Burnsley turned to Rupert in dismay. “Well, Mr. Daphne, how was your first lesson?” His dismay quickly turned cheery.

“Excellent, sir. Most exciting lesson I’ve been apart of.” Rupert gave his own cheery smile in return. “Can’t wait for the next lesson, actually. And, Mr. Burnsley, be sure to tell Mr. Hargrave I’m looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow, for Lesson Three?” He said, holding back a snicker.

“I’m sure Mr. Hargrave is planning that very lesson as we speak, Mr. Daphne.” Burnsley said joyfully. “Good day to you, young man.” He tipped his cap and scurried on his way.