Standing at the bar facing the angry bikers, Dominick felt someone grab his ponytail, jerking him off his feet backwards -and then the lights went out. He came to laying in the parking lot next to a trash dumpster, blood in his mouth and with a stream of liquid pouring in his face. Urine? No, too cold. Beer? He hoped.
As he spluttered and his vision cleared, Dom found himself being roughly pulled to his feet by one tough looking character. “What are you, the stupidest fuck on planet earth?” the stranger asked.
Not knowing how to respond to that, Dom looked up and spluttered, “What happened? Who are you.”
“I am the person who just saved your worthless ass.”
Trying to focus on the stranger’s face, Dom asked, “Who hit me? Those bikers?”
“No. Thank me, I did. Probably saved you from the stomping of your life. Tramp and the boys could have killed you for touching his colors,” the stranger added. “I’m Kagan. You gotta be Lunt. Danny asked me to keep an eye out for you.”
Confused, Dom asks, “Thank you? Danny?”
“You’re welcome. Danny. Danica,” the stranger continued impatiently.
By now the fog in Dom’s head was clearing, leaving a blinding headache, but at least his eyes were getting used to the green neon lit parking lot. The stranger was tall, a solid six two, broad shoulders, dark jeans, a leather vest over a red and black work shirt, dark hair greying at the sides and a matching goatee beard.
“Monk, you gotta be Monk,” Dom blurted, relieved.
“Some call me that,” Kagan responded. “Let’s get you out of here before Tramp decides that you haven’t been punished enough for your sins.”
As they walked over to Dom’s Heritage, overloaded with chrome and bolt-on accessories, Dom could see several deep dents in the gas tank and fenders that weren’t there when he had arrived at the bar. As Dom touched them, Kagan said, “Oh those. Animal and Red figured that that was your ride so went at it with ball-peen hammers.”
“What did you let them do that for?”
“Stop your squawking. Just be thankful that it wasn’t your head.” With that, Kagan pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and stuffed it into Dom’s jacket pocket. “That’s directions to my place. You have had enough lessons for one night. Be there in the morning. Early.” Then turned and went back into the bar.
As Dom rode out of the parking lot unsteadily and back to the safety of Beverly Hills and his condo, he wonder what he had got himself into. He had to survive three or more years in a state prison and yet couldn’t even survive three minutes in a biker bar. Maybe he should just put a gun in his mouth now and save everyone any further pain and trouble.
The next morning, after a large breakfast at a cafe in Brentwood, Dom rode north on Pacific Coast Highway and following Monk’s instructions, turned left just before Point Dume.Another half mile and he was at the right address but all he could see of the property was a high wooden fence and equally high gate with a sign that read, “To Hell with the Dog, Beware of the Owner”.
Pushing open the gate, he found himself facing a small wooden house over shadowed by a large concrete structure with a steel roller door, about the size of a three car garage but taller. Luckily no dog.
With no response from the door-bell at the front door, Dom stepped through the open steel side door of the garage and found himself in a large work space that, although it smelled of oil and machinery, was immaculately clean and well organized. To the left was a workbench, a tall red Snap-On tool chest and an old bike, stripped down to the frame and transmission, up on a hoist. The motor, less the distinctive Pan heads and barrels, was sitting in pieces on the workbench.
To the right of the shop was a heavier metal work table, a drill press, an arc welder and a set of gas bottles. There were also high shelves stacked with an assortment of bike parts, gas tanks, fenders – enough to build several bikes by the look of it. A little nervous but more curious, Dom wandered over to look at an immaculate red and white Knuckle with high bars that sat in the back of the work area. He admired the workmanship of the bike, not that he knew what he was looking at, since he wouldn’t know a Shovel from an Evo, let alone what year this bike was.
The back wall of the shop was covered with photos of bikes, bikers, parties, women – but before he could get a closer look, he felt an ominous presence behind him. He turned to find himself facing the largest, Rottweiler he had ever seen. The dog growled and advanced menacingly, backing him into the corner. When Dom tried to move out of the corner the dog snarled and foamed at the mouth, convincing him that it was going to attack. Fortunately, when he stopped moving, the dog stopped snarling, content to just watch with an evil glint in his eye.
For what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only thirty minutes, Dom sweated in the corner. Finally, Monk walked in, seemingly unaffected by the drama being played out in the corner, patted the dog and then said, “Morning. I see you have met Tyson.”
“Thank God you are here, I thought he was doing to tear my throat out,” Dom quaked rubbing his own neck.
Monk smiled and responded, “No chance of that, he is groin trained.” Dom just shivered at the thought, too horrible to contemplate.
Monk, headed to the workbench and began working on the disassembled motor. Not really giving a shit about this wound-too-tight yuppie, but since it was a favor for Danica, he asked, “So what’s the deal. What’s your story? And you can skip the part about being innocent.”
Dom, still collecting himself but happy to be talking, something that like all lawyers he knew he did well, began, “I was left holding the bag. Guess I got greedy and didn’t much care who my clients were. I thought I was delivering legal documents and contracts, then found out it was dope. When I told them I wanted no part of that, they set me up. When the law came to my home, warrant in hand, they found automatic weapons in my closet, dope in my car, photos of me in bad company, phone records and bank deposits that I never knew existed. The works.” Dom added, “In short, the federal charges didn’t fly but the State stuff stuck. Worst case scenario – I’m looking at seven to ten but only expect to do three. That’s about three more years than I think I can survive.”
“How much time you got?” Monk asked without looking up from the set of heads he was working on.
“With a little more legal maneuvering….,” Dom trailed off looking depressed. Then continuing with more resolve, “I expect about 90 days.”
“OK, heres the deal. I’m doing this for Danny, not for you. It’s my way or no way. The first time you screw off, you are on your own. You stay here. You are going to train, work, eat, sleep and shit the hard life.”
Dom looked shocked, “But I need my stuff, and where do I sleep?”
“All you need is what you got, and a good supply of determination. We’ll throw a mattress in the corner of the work shop. Tyson will enjoy the company.” Monk challenged him to protest. “And another thing. Cut that ponytail off. It looks ridiculous and is too easy to grab in a fight.”
Before Dominick could protest further, Monk smiled and said,
“Ready to get started?” as he put down his tools.
Making a weak attempt at a Hollywood martial arts pose Dom asked, “What are we going to do -Kung Fu, Jeet Kun Do, Hapkido, Kempo….?
Monk, looking disgusted and just grunted, “CQB!”
Dom, looking puzzled, “CQB. Never heard of it. What is it?”
“Close Quarters Battle. It was developed for military special operations teams. For real combat, not Hollywood”, Monk explains as if talking to a child.
With that Monk turned and lightly back-fisted Dom in the stomach. Not hard, but hard enough to get the desired effect. It knocked the wind out of Dom as he buckled forward, unable to speak or breathe, his face turned red, and then in a violent spasm he threw up his breakfast in one long technicolor yawn. Monk just shook his head while Tyson trotted over to investigate and licked Dom’s face.
“Your other life doesn’t exist. You are not only going to train hard, you are going to live hard.” Monk continued, “Modern living has made you soft and dulled your less civilized primal skills that were once necessary for survival and self defense. Do you think the muscle bound monsters who frequent the iron piles in the joint are getting softer? Quite the opposite. Your tax dollars are paying their gym fees and post-graduate studies in intimidation, violence and mayhem.”
Dom listened as he struggled to pick himself up and wipe away the vomit.
“On the other hand, you probably drive everywhere, avoid stairs, never carry your own bags, eat processed foods, use a remote garage door opener, and with a channel changer not even leave the couch to surf the TV channels. You probably expect your old lady to do all the work in bed and have an expensive gym membership that you never use. Well, time for a reality check. You are going to be in pain everyday for the next ninety days
Are you ready for that, or wanna quit now and save us both a lot of time and energy?”
Between clenched teeth and chunks of vomit Dom managed to spit out a defiant, “Fuck you!”, but without conviction.
“OK then,” pointing to a pile of scrap metal in one corner, “First thing is to build yourself an iron pile and start working on those puny arms and flabby gut.”
With that, Monk showed him how to use the welder and the cutting torch and how to scribe a circle on metal and then turned him loose. The rest of the day would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. As Monk worked on the old Pan motor he listened to Dom curse, moan and struggle with the heavy iron. Sparks from the welder burned his forearms; a metal off-cut dropped onto his foot; the leg of his jeans caught fire from molten slag; he hit his hand with a hammer and a wrench slipped off of a bolt and grazed his knuckles. His shirt got shredded when he let it get too close to the grinder, and he grumbled constantly about his back as he wrestled the one inch thick plates on and off of the workbench.
Monk couldn’t recall ever seeing such a klutz with tools. But by nightfall Dominick had put together a bench-press bench, a bar with assorted plates and a set of dumbbells. The cuts were rough and the welds questionable but he had stuck to it. “Maybe there was hope for this wingnut yet,” Monk mused.
Dom fell asleep on his mattress in the corner that night, fully dressed and too tired to even finish the cold beer clutched in his burned, bruised and blistered hands. This was undoubtedly the first days physical work he had done since he was a student.
The next morning training began in earnest. Monk and Tyson led Dom on a run down to the beach. A short run – but before they had gone even half a mile Dominick was puking in the gutter and trying to catch his breath at the same time. It was a pathetic sight to see a grown man whimpering like a whipped puppy. Three months would just not be enough time.
However, after a breakfast of oatmeal and egg whites Dom felt better. But not for long. An hour of pumping iron on the pile and he had lost his breakfast. In the afternoon Monk introduced him to the basics of balance and movement, explaining that this was the foundation of all fighting -but by three o’clock Dom was rat shit so Monk let him relax in the sun as he went back to work on his bike.
For Dom, the next few days became a blur of sweat, strain, blood and vomit. But by the end of one week, he felt his body slowly responding to the effort. His recovery time was a little better each day and he was even managing to holding a few meals down.
At the start of the second week, in the middle of his weight routine, he was surprised to find Danica, his attorney, standing at the edge of the pit watching him.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, “and how did you get passed Tyson?” With that Tyson padded over and affectionately rubbed up against her leg.
“Oh, I just dropped by to see how you were doing. You’re looking good,” she said as she smiled and leaned down to scratch Tyson’s ear. “Where is Michael – I mean Monk?”
“Went into town to get some bike parts, I think. He doesn’t exactly tell me his business,” Dom said racking the bar and toweling himself off. He was kind of proud that he was already benching 135 pounds and his flabby stomach was beginning to respond to the endless sit-ups and crunches.
“Danica, while I have you alone, answer something for me. Who is this guy and what’s with this Monk stuff?”
“He hasn’t told you?” she asked.
“Hell, if it doesn’t relate to training he doesn’t even talk to me. I haven’t even been invited into his house,” Dom complained.
Danica thought for a second and then said, “You are right, he doesn’t talk about himself. As best I could tell from his military records, he was a navy Seal attached to a thing called SOG in Vietnam. He saw a lot of action but most of his file was classified. One thing I did learn was that instead of taking R&R in Hawaii, like everyone else, he would go off and stay at some monastery and studied martial arts. When his third tour was up, he chose to spend a year visiting other monasteries and training centers in South East Asia. I guess the local monks pretty much accepted him as one of their own.” She continued, “When he finally returned home he used his accrued military back-pay to buy this place. I think he still does some advisory work for Uncle Sam but doesn’t talk about it and pretty much keeps to himself. Just likes to build bikes and seems most comfortable around other bikers. He has even been asked to join a couple of the clubs, but says he has never found the urge to wear colors.”
With that they heard Monk’s bike pull into the workshop so walked inside. Monk ignored Dom but seemed genuinely pleased to see Danica, giving her a hug and displaying the closest thing Dom had ever seen to a smile from him.
Eventually he turned to Dom and said, “Strip the bike,” pointing to Dom’s Heritage in the corner. It had sat there since Dom first arrived, the ball-peen hammer marks still a grim reminder of their meeting.
“What do you mean, strip it?”
“I mean fenders off, tank off, motor out, tranny out, wheels off, down to the last nut and bolt. You are going to learn more about Harleys than just the retail price and where to stick the gas.”
Trying to save some face and act tough in front of Danica, Dom said, “I’ll do it tomorrow. I got to go into town and see someone. It’s been a couple of weeks and I need to get some pussy.”
“Listen, shit-bird. If you don’t work and train you will be the pussy. You will be spreading your pink cheeks for half the prison population of where ever you end up.” That was enough to send a shudder through Dom and motivate him to get to work stripping his bike. Dom didn’t see Danica squeeze Monk’s ass as they turned and went into the house.
Over the next few weeks Monk explained and demonstrated the eight key principles of street fighting to Dominick. The first lesson came when Dom put his fists up to fight, school-boy style, and Monk kicked him in the stomach.
“First rule – there are no rules – fight dirty. Don’t hesitate to kick, gouge, stamp or bite if necessary, and use any available weapon to win,” Monk lectured as Dom rolled on the ground hugging his gut.
The next day Dom learned to attack vital areas such as the eyes, throat, groin and joints, not wasting energy on the parts of the body with strong bones and heavy muscles.
On day three Monk taught him the importance of aggression and attacking the attacker; intimidating him with ferocity and a willingness to mix it up.
The lesson for day four was the KISS principal – keep it simple stupid. No Hollywood kung fu or spinning kicks. Just short, fast, hard and violent techniques that worked in the close confines of a bar or cell.
On day five Dom learned not to stop until his opponent was beaten and out of the fight, and never to let him get up after having knocked him down.
When Dom showed hesitation or caution, Monk taught him number six, that he should expect to get hurt in any fight. If he accepted that he would get hit or even cut, he could just let the pain make him more determined or even go psycho on his attacker.
The seventh lesson was never to go to the ground or lose mobility. Dom learned to stay standing, kicking, punching and stamping, and always aware of the potential for multiple attackers.
The last lesson, number eight was to be mentally prepared at all times. This meant knowing who was near him, who was behind him and who may pose a threat at any time. Dom learned that he had to know where he could move and what he could utilize for a weapon. To live in a state of semi-paranoia – like an animal in the wilds or a soldier in a combat zone.
Over the next month Dom fell into the painful daily routine of run, puke, train, puke, work, sweat, sleep. He lost track of time. He rose with the sun and by dark fell exhausted onto his mattress in the corner. That smelly old mattress felt better than any king-sized bed in any five star hotel. It wasn’t much but it was his mattress, his space. Even if Tyson often times felt he could share it.
As time wore on, Dom got a training routine going and was able to progress, at least with the weights, without Monk’s constant vigilance. In the afternoons, the fight training progressed into the forming of a fist, striking techniques, work on the heavy bag, followed by the intricacies of aikido wrist and joint locks and the simple brutality of the CQB techniques. Dom never ceased to be amazed at Monk’s speed and power – he even had the aches and bruises as testament. He hadn’t had the time to think about his other life, his legal problems or even his friends, and Monk had no phone with which he could call them.
After six weeks of hard training and a high protein diet, Dom was fitter than he had ever been in high school. The steroids he had been taking had also added muscle mass and an extra edge to his workouts. But he still wasn’t happy with what he saw in the mirror. Even though his arms were getting bigger and he could now run the length of Zuma Beach without throwing up, he still felt that he didn’t look tough. He wanted tattoos like Monk’s and the other bikers he had seen.
That evening, he rode into Hollywood, went to the first tattoo parlor he saw and had a small tattoo of a skull put on his upper right arm. The next morning as they got ready to train, he pulled off his shirt and displayed it to Monk.
“What’s that little thing?” Monk asked
“What does it look like. It’s a tattoo.” Dom said proudly, but a little hurt by Monk’s reaction.
“Its so small. Only wanna-bes and yuppies get little tattoos. If you want tattoos, get something that has meaning. Make a statement. Getting something you can wear with pride.”
That afternoon, when it came time to spar, Monk kept popping Dom on the right arm making the tattoo bleed. But that was not unusual since he always seemed to find and target Dom’s weaknesses.
That evening they rode back into town where Monk took Dom to meet Frank at Tattoo Mania on Sunset Boulevard. As he slapped down a wad of hundreds he had taken from Dom’s wallet, he said, “Frank, take care of this boy and make it bad.” Then left.
For the next couple of hours Dom went through back issues of Savage and Tattoo Magazine while Frank sketched up some designs. They settled on an arm piece for his left arm and shoulder of a blind-folded Lady Justice with flowing robes, a sword in one hand and the scales of justice in the other. She stood on a mound of tormented skulls and the whole piece was surrounded by heavy black tribal work.
At first Dom was concerned at the size of it, but soon succumbed to the addictive dull ache of the needle and the open admiration of the steady steam of people who came in to watch Frank work.
It took most of the night, but at least Monk didn’t target his arm the next day at training. In fact, he seemed quite impressed with both Frank’s work and Dom’s commitment.
Over the next few weeks, when Monk wasn’t running him ragged, Dom went back to see Frank several times, drawing more money from an ATM machine with a card that Monk hadn’t found in his jacket. The small skull tattoo was soon lost under an arm band of barbed wire, some more tribal up and over the shoulder and an oriental dragon winding down the forearm. Combined with his new leaner body, slicked back shorter hair, moustache, goatee and Blues Brothers shades, he felt that he had begun to look quite the part.
The CQB had become Dom’s favorite part of the day. Monk had taught him a small but effective repertoire of fighting techniques, each with a specific application and all brutally efficient. Each day he worked on the bag with his vertical punches, horizontal punches, ridge hand strikes and palm heel strikes – visualizing attacks to the eyes, throat, groin, nerve centers and joints. He practiced his blocks and turns, often incorporating kicks and strikes, a thousand repetitions each. No wasted motion, balance, speed, power – and no mercy.
When he sparred with Monk he held back nothing, even though he knew Monk was holding back and could slaughter him if he wished. He also knew that if he didn’t attack hard and with conviction, Monk would teach him another painful lesson. There had been all too many of those – one even breaking Dom’s nose and another cracking a rib. The rib still hurt but he now wore the bent nose with pride – the mark of a fighter.
The new Heritage that he had ridden in on was now unrecognizable. Most of the bike’s accessories sat unused in the corner. They would remain unused. Dom, with Monk’s guidance, had cut and stretched the frame; rebuilt the motor and transmission; set-up a 180 rear tire with a chain drive; redesigned the exhaust pipes; bobbed the rear fender and stretched the gas tank. Still without paint or molding, and almost devoid of chrome but for the high bars, it was now a lean, rowdy little chopper.
The night that they finally got the bike back together and the motor running, Monk suggested they head to a bar over in the valley to celebrate.
As they pulled up outside, Dom saw that it was not the biker bar he had expected. In fact there were no bikes, just a parking lot full of pick-up trucks and a sign that said “Saloon”. Country dance music drifted out into the street.
“Go on in and grab us a couple of beers while I lock the bikes,” Monk told him.
Dom had barely reached the bar when a big cowboy, complete with Stetson, Rodeo belt buckle and snake skin boots, leaned into his face and said, “We don’t like no white trash bikers in here.”
Getting past the initial shock Dom smiled and explained, “Hey, no need to get hostile, we just came in for a beer.”
“I don’t see no WE and I think I am just gonna stomp YOU, you piss-ant,” the cowboy shot back.
Dom tried again, “Listen, let me buy you and your buddies a beer,” hoping Monk would come to back him up. But no such luck.
“Outside asshole. You and me are gonna dance,” the cowboy snarled.
Feeling confidence coming back, Dom said, “Fine, lets go,” and turned to walk back outside. That’s when the lights went out.
Again he came to in the parking lot with beer being poured in his face, another blinding headache, but this time with blood matting his hair at the back of his head.
As he looked up at Monk he asked, “What happened?”
“You fucked up. That’s what happened,” Monk explained. “First, when that shit-kicker got in your face you tried to talk your way out of it. That was interpreted as fear. Then when you agreed to go outside you turned your back on him and he popped you with a beer bottle.”
“So what did you do?” Dom asked, puzzled.
“Oh, I had a beer while the bouncers dragged you out here.” Monk smiled. “I had to let you learn a lesson – and remember, pain is an awfully good teacher.”
Dom was getting mad, his head still hurt and this sucked. He picked himself up, headed back into the saloon, found the big cowboystill leaning on the bar, and hit him as hard as he could in the kidneys. This did not have the desired effect. The cowboy grunted then turned and charged at Dom like a wounded bull.
Dom had just learned another lesson. One punch knock-outs didn’t exist – at least not for him. But now he was not only mad, he was frustrated.
He side-stepped the charge and caught the cowboy in the solar-plexus with a ridge-hand strike. This got another grunt but did not stop the cowboy turning and coming at him again – this time a little more cautiously. Dom at least thought he had hurt the cowboy so he balled up his fists and prepared to duke it out.
As the cowboy swung a huge right fist, Dom ducked under it, stepped in and fired a palm heel strike to the base of his nose. Dom then stepped back and executed a side kick to the cowboy’s knee. As the cowboy went down Dom stepped back to admire his work.
As the injured but enraged cowboy picked himself up, he picked up a chair and, as Dom tried to duck, crashed it into his back and shoulder. Immediately that shoulder and arm went numb.
Just then the sound of approaching police sirens could be heard. The cowboy’s friends immediately stopped his next attack and hustled out of the bar before everyone ended up in the slammer.
At the same time, Monk walked over and pulled Dom out the door. When they reached the bikes Dom doubled forward and vomited all over the sidewalk. The nerves had kicked in and he was shaking and sweating all over.
This lad just ain’t gonna make it, Monk thought to himself.
When Dom had composed himself a little, he asked hopefully, “So how did I do?”
“Not good. First you went in mad, forgetting that revenge is a plate best served cold. Your fighting must be coldly efficient not blinded by rage. Second, you didn’t go for vitals when you had the opportunity, and thirdly, you let the slob get up after you had already knocked him down.”
Monk made the training the next day harder and more brutal than usual. Just when Dom was feeling some confidence and a growing bond with Monk, here he was treating him like when he had first arrived. This went on for the next few days with Monk driving him to the brink of exhaustion, making Dom use everything he had learned just to survive the workouts.
One evening, while cleaning up the work area, Dom said, “This is my last night. Its been ninety days and I go before the judge tomorrow for final sentencing. Do you have any advice for me?”
“You’ll be OK,” was all Monk said but not really believing it.
Dom had acquired some fighting skills and was at least in better shape than he had ever been in his life, but Monk was not convinced that he had the heart or the street savvy to survive in the joint. Occasionally he would see a glimmer of hope during training but then Dom would fold under serious pressure. Hell, Monk had even come to sort of like the guy, but that was the last thing Dom needed to hear the day before he faced the toughest test of his life.
“Keep in touch. I’ll have your bike here when you get out. We’ll take a long ride somewhere,” was all Monk could manage to say.
COPYRIGHTS:The author – Mark Lonsdale – holds all copyrights to this three part fiction and retains the rights to all books, screenplays, television projects or features derived from this work. By allowing one time magazine publication as a short story, the author gives up no rights to this property.
