Knife Hand Strike

Knife Hand Strike

by B. B. Irvine

Copyright 2014 B. B. Irvine

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1 Six Months Ago

Andy Bosch never saw it coming.

POW!

Wakey wakey!

Whap!

Get out of the way!

WHACK!

"No, not that way, the other way!

WHACK!

No!

WHAP-WHAP!

"No! The other way!"

WHACK!

"The other way! What, are you losing it? Let’s go!"

WHOMMPH!!

Uh-oh. No air in his lungs; where did it all go? And when would it be coming back?

Not in the near future; but the last time this happened, he had been told, Never let them know you’re hurt.

So Bosch smiles, despite looking rather gray.

Hunh! Okay, sit down!

Yes, sir. Good thing the chest protector acted like a vertical splint, or he might have fallen over when he bowed.

And then Andy Bosch teetered over to the area near the trophies wall and very carefully sat down and crossed his legs. He didn’t touch the wall. His prime concern during the short trip across the dojang floor was ensuring no major or essential parts fell off. Two new students were watching, and Bosch knew it was bad for morale when a black belt’s arm or leg fell off after sparring. One of them was a young woman about his age, and it would be bad for his own morale should she see his head go rolling off.

Actually, his ribcage hurt the worst this time. As impressive (and stinging) as the repeated kicks to his head had been, the last thump to his liver area had pretty much ended the match. Body shots really were effective, especially when delivered with force.

Although his teacher pushed him pretty hard, the last kick had been a mistake, thrown much harder than sparring contact permitted. But his teacher would never admit it, he just peered at Bosch to make sure he was okay (or, if hurt, would scold him for not being –– enough to avoid whatever new injury he’d just added to his history), and that’s the way they had trained in Tae Kwon Do for the last two years as Bosch worked his way up from white to black belt.

Bosch got his wind back as he watched Eddie dodging (and often returning) most of their teacher’s shots. Eddie’s were generally blocked, but not always; he was better at sparring than Bosch was, having had some practical street experience in his past.

Eddie was pretty good, but their teacher Frank Royal was a block of well-tuned muscle who looked thirty but was believed to be in his very early (late) forties. Frank had studied Tae Kwon Do for over a decade now, done the competition circuit, worked his way back after a major training injury – a modern working martial artist’s resume, which was his angle in his personal training services business.

Square jawed, dark haired, super fit, frequently scowling; relentless in his own physical training regimen, and not too different when training others, he had taught Bosch all the way from white belt (I got a yellow belt in judo in college ten years ago, though, Bosch had said when he started taking Frank’s class, hoping that indicated he might not be a total klutz) to finally, just the previous Friday night, a black belt.

Flora Louis was giving him a big smiley thumbs up, so Bosch gave her a weak grin; she had missed Friday’s school promotion test and was congratulating him. She usually took her tests privately, with the school’s Master, setting her own time up. Recently she had been unhappy with Frank’s teaching style; Bosch thought she might not be coming in to train much longer. He had watched (and helped) her go from white belt to her current brown belt, training even when she was a pregnant red belt.

It was kind of funny how a hard liver shot made his own current belt color seem irrelevant in the extreme.

Frank was tough: he was demanding (itself not such a bad thing), but his teaching style could be abrasive. He suffered fools madly, and poorly dedicated, or awkward, or inept students, or those who had little discipline about practice between classes were, in his book, fools.

Or worse: "Goofy. He’s goofy. Andy, you go in the back, try and work with him," Frank would mutter when it came time for specific instruction and techniques drill work.

Since perhaps a third of students at most martial arts schools might fit into either category, there was an awareness in the Tae Kwon Do school that Frank’s section was one of the most rigorous in techniques drilling and forms performance, but it was an acquired taste, for those who didn’t mind sore muscles after every class, and getting some black and blues periodically.

There was no question his students tended to look very well prepared on school tests, but… were his methods sound?

There was now philosophical dissension (Western-style jealousy, said Frank) between Frank and the other senior black belts, and even the Master had spoken to Frank about being less strict.

A brooding Frank still thought he was right, and he had no intention of changing the way he taught.

Since Bosch had always been the senior student, he had assisted with teaching (like simple drilling or kicking pad practice at first, then forms), and over the past two years he’d gotten all the goofy students Frank might lose patience with. Bosch was a doctor who had taught students before, and it happened he was a good teacher of Tae Kwon Do, so it had worked out well.

Today had been a nice class, Andy’s first as a black belt.

Frank had congratulated everybody for a good promotion test and for making him look good; then Bosch thanked everybody for their help during training and at the test itself. Next they did Frank’s vigorous twenty minute warm-up. After some straight kicking drills, Frank reviewed and taught the white belts how to do a knife hand strike, one of the most easily recognized martial arts strikes there is, as Bosch put it a few minutes later. He was in the back of the dojang with the white belts for further drilling and corrections.

Bosch held up his hand and demonstrated: It’s that strike where your hand is open, fingers together and extended, palm flat, thumb across the palm. You have to strike with the blade-edge of the palm, not with either your wrist or pinky finger. He grinned. "The slang is, ‘a karate chop,’ in other systems. This is Tae Kwon Do we are learning here in this school, and in Tae Kwon Do, this is a knife hand strike. Sahnkal cheegi, in Korean."

Bosch could have gone on about it more, but martial arts need doing, so he drilled the white belts while he thought about: breaking boards with knife hand strike; the number of movies where someone delivers a knife hand strike chop to the rear of the neck to knock someone else out; and finally, how the famous film detective Inspector Clouseau, had made art of its use.

Then drill time ended and it was time for forms, including a new second degree black belt form for Bosch. And finally: time for sparring.

Despite the pads on shins, feet, forearms, fists, a sparring helmet, and a padded chest protector, one could get thumped pretty good when sparring. The school wanted, "no, or light contact," but individual referees – the black belt teaching class or other black belts assistant teaching – were in charge of any given session.

Frank was not a headhunter, or sloppy (he was in fact very precise, and hit you exactly where he wanted to), but as he could take hard contact, he tended to give it sometimes when he was sparring.

He would always point out the student was too open (not blocking), or not dodging fast enough; that might be true, but Frank was so good it was never a contest, and some people – like Flora Louis – were not happy about getting knocked around, too open or not.

Whether because of fear, or just greater tolerance for unpleasantness in the pursuit of something (he’d survived medical school, after all!), Bosch got through it, even the sparring sessions. He’d learned to dodge, learned to manage distance in a fight, and every once in a while, he had even countered with a kick or punch that scored nicely.

He knew before he started that learning Tae Kwon Do would not be easy, so the issue of Frank’s teaching style was rolled into the bigger tasks at hand. No, Bosch didn’t like getting whacked hard, but in some other schools (and over in Korea), they hit a lot harder. That’s just Tae Kwon Do. He would try to redirect his energies toward how to get out of the way, or push it off and then counter-strike Frank next time.

The air seemed to be thinner now, easier to get in and out of his lungs than before, and his pulse rate was once again close to normal. Bosch shifted his legs.

Eddie’s left foot clocked Frank square in the head.

It was hard not to cheer the achievement, and even Frank was pleased; he liked sparring with Eddie, who always gave him a run for the money and got enough shots in to be a challenge. Eddie was from the South Bronx and had been in some fights growing up, so mind-set and body memory came together during sparring more easily than it did for Bosch; Tae Kwon Do sparring was the only physical fighting he had ever done, not counting the last time he was beaten up (in fourth grade).

Eddie could also take a whacking, which was fortunate, because Frank now went after him, until his own attack (all blocked) left him open, and Eddie got a quick side kick into Frank’s chest. Both were now winded, and Frank signalled end of round. They bowed to each other, then Eddie went over and shook hands, clapping Frank on the shoulder.

That was Eddie, 110% spirit, 100% of the time.

In the locker room after class, Bosch almost forgot the combination to his lock; he was more winded than he’d thought.

So how was your first class as a black belt, Andy? asked Frank, pulling off his dobok top, drenched off-white with sweat.

Exhausting, sir. Thanks. Bosch took a package from his locker and gave it to Frank. This is for you, sir. You were the teacher I needed to get this far, and I’m looking forward to the next steps ahead. Thank you. He bowed.

Frank bowed and took the package.

Bosch took another package out of his locker and gave it to Eddie. Eddie, you really made my one-steps sharp during training, and your spirit has been a real help. Thanks, man. They bowed.

Eddie’s present was a Tae Keon Do textbook with the black belt forms he needed next; Frank got an encyclopedia of martial arts.

Thanks, Andy, said Frank. Outside the dojang he was a slightly different guy, more relaxed and casual in talk, but an undercurrent of stern expectations remained present at all times. And Frank always suffered fools madly; woe befell those he considered goofy.

Frank was Frank: his name was his approach and attitude to life. Bosch could tolerate it, and Frank liked Bosch as a good student and a smart, easy going sort of guy who just thought too much some times (but never talked down, and never flaunted his education).

As he sat to tie his shoelaces, Bosch felt like taking the rest of the day off. He was happy enough (especially now that he and breathing were old friends again), but tired.

Frank was in a hurry. I’ve gotta get going. I’ve got a new class I’m teaching. He dropped it casually, but Bosch and Eddie gave a quick cheer.

Where, Frank? asked Eddie. A new school?

Frank scowled. "Don’t even say that, you knucklehead! No, over at the Total Iron Gym. He couldn’t help beaming. This madam called my service, and she wants me to train her and five of her ‘escort ladies.’ Also teach them Tae Kwon Do, too."

Eddie looked pop-eyed. Really?! Really?!

Frank leaned over and swatted Eddie’s head. Let’s show some decorum here.

Hey, Frank, that’s great, said Bosch. I hope it turns into a steady gig for you, man. Good luck! Wondering about Cat House Black Belt or Black Belt in a Cat House as the title for a new painting: which was better, and what was the image? But Frank earned his living as a personal trainer, and this was potentially a reasonable amount of money for a reasonable length of time – if things worked out.

Cat House Black Belt sounded more forthright, cheery, and defiant, decided Bosch as he knotted his tie. Where and what, straight up. He still wasn’t sure what the image would be (so far only decidedly sexy ones of some of the women he had trained with over the past two years were drifting by…)

Bosch was pretty sore as he walked down the stairs to the street below. It was raining outside: he stood in the vestibule and cursed. Riverview Hospital was a good three and a half ‘avenue’ blocks over to East End Avenue, then two blocks south. Quite a hike in the rain.

He stepped through the door and stood under the awning of the restaurant next door, trying to gauge the rain. Words no less than heavy and almost torrential applied.

A limousine pulled up. Andy!

Bosch looked around.

Andy! It definitely seemed to be coming from the limo. The door opened – it was Frank! Hey, need a lift?

Bosch dove into the limo.

There was plenty of room. He thought he recognized the woman wearing a nice suit under a sharp raincoat, seated in the back. She seemed to know who Bosch was.

Frank turned to the woman. Diana Shelton, this is my black belt student, Doctor Andy Bosch. He smiled at Bosch. Diana is the C.E.O. of Security Escorts.

Diana smiled and nodded. Hello, Doctor Bosch. She was in her mid thirties, confident, relaxed.

"Please – it’s ‘Andy.’ Didn’t I see your yellow belt test at the school promotions test last week?" She was one of the students in the evening class Frank assisted at. She had done very well; her forms had looked sure, crisp, and strong.

Frank nodded. "Yeah, she did okay."

Diana nudged him. Yeah, didn’t you say I did ‘very well’ that night, after I finished?

What night?

Oooh! The night of the test. She turned to Bosch. "He said I did very well. He did! Sorry I had to leave, though. I missed your black belt test! I heard you were great!"

Well, I had an excellent teacher. Your agency can only gain by working with him. Bosch nodded. You can go far in Tae Kwon Do yourself, Diana. Your test was excellent and I hope you keep training. He smiled.

Oh, I intend to! she replied. I’ve invested in a new program to upgrade the agency, and Frank’s going to be my program’s trainer.

Sounds great.

"Yes, if it all works out, I’m thinking we can run an ad campaign with the theme, ‘We put the body in bodyguard’ to break in. Diana grinned. The target audience is C.E.O.’s, still mostly males, and males get the bigger travel accounts."

Bosch smiled. I’m sure it’ll be very effective.

Frank cocked his head to indicate the limousine. Diana set this up because this is a boss with class!

Bosch held up his hand. Yeah, I know what you mean, Frank. This is very nice. One of Frank’s peeves was the way he felt the Tae Kwon Do school’s owner treated him. Bosch hoped he wouldn’t go into another tedious rant about it. No way to be in the best mood while getting his new job started. Does it have a fridge? I could use some water.

The search for water, a cup, and ice ("I’m very impressed," said Bosch, which puffed Frank up nicely and pleased Diana as well) deflected Frank, and by the time it was done, they were turning onto East End Avenue, and Riverview Hospital was just half a block away.

Want to come check out the class? asked Frank as the limo pulled to a stop.

Yes, Andy, said Diana. That’d be great!

Bosch shook his head. Sorry, thanks. I’ve got a server full of x-rays to review for a conference. Some other time, or maybe I’ll help with a demonstration – give me a call. Hey, thanks for the lift. He turned to Frank. Good luck, sir.

Bosch opened the door, got out, shut it and ran for the entrance as the limo pulled away into the rain.

The Total Iron Gym Center was a multi-floor converted commercial brownstone in the east nineties off Second Avenue. There was a free weights floor, a machines floor, an aerobics floor, stuff on the roof, everything except a pool and sauna/spa (which all the members were proud of, because they felt this absence meant they were more serious.)

On the aerobics floor were three different dance-space studio aerobics rooms, as well as the juices/snacks/smoothies bar, and the workout gear and merchandise concession.

Diana had gotten the smallest aerobics room. Five women ranging from mid-twenties to early thirties were inside it when Frank arrived, following Diana in. Some of the women were seated, some stood; they were all fairly fit, striking looking women, even though they looked surly at the moment.

Basically fit people, Frank could work with. Surly ones are harder – Tae Kwon Do does require a certain attitude about the time that learning it will take. One of the more striking women looked fat, he thought. Stamina and energy might be a problem there.

Nobody looked impossible to train, nobody was off in their little world or was obviously goofy… they were just pissed to be here.

That was a relief for Frank. Even the heavy chick wasn’t… Well, wait and see. Now, as far as attitude –

Diana sensed the mood. "Okay, kids. This is MISTER ROYAL, or ‘SIR’ or ‘Sah-Boh-NIM’ in Tae kwon Do class. He will be giving us fitness training direction and teaching us Tae Kwon Do. I expect you to listen to what he says and bring ANY complaints to ME. Got it?"

Mutters of Yup, and yeah.

Yes, m’am! said Karen (or Karen-with-the-Older-Brother-complex, as usual).

Um-hmm. A couple of nodding heads.

Diana exploded. "Goddamnit! I asked you if you’d all be willing to work a bit harder so we could change our business to a smarter situation. You all said, ‘Sure, Diana, great!’" She began to pace back and forth.

The woman were now more scared than surly.

Karen stood at attention – she always got it before anyone else did.

"Well, ladies, we’ve gone out of our way to get this space and hire an excellent teacher and trainer, Mister Frank Royal. Diana stopped in front of one woman, who now stood at attention. I asked you, I told you we had to show some good spirit when we met Mister Royal, and that any of your complaints should be brought