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    Flying Dragon
    Flying Dragon
    Flying Dragon
    Ebook269 pages4 hours

    Flying Dragon

    By Bert Marshall

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    About this ebook

    Weary of being called a sissy and a multitude of racial slurs, young Tan Lin learns to defend himself, eventually studying martial arts to the exclusion of a social life. His life is tested when his master instructor accidentally kills two 1%'er motorcycle gang members and he is forced to live a life of violence in a world which spins dangerously out of control.

    Vietnamese American Tan Lin learns his skills with his hands, feet, and his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol will not only keep him alive, but help him to move to the top of the food chain in the new government when the world spins out of control with international violence.

    Along the way his beautiful companions make life at the top worth the deep dark places absolute power can take a person.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBert Marshall
    Release dateDec 16, 2013
    ISBN9781311033253
    Flying Dragon
    Author

    Bert Marshall

    Bert Marshall lives in Baytown, Texas and is a Baytown Sun Columnist, Blogger, martial artist, geocacher, PC repair specialist, Jeeper, hiker, indoor cycling instructor, past Texas State Emergency Care Attendant, Hunter education instructor, and a USAF Vietnam Veteran with two tours (651 days in-country).

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      Book preview

      Flying Dragon - Bert Marshall

      The Flying Dragon

      By Bert Marshall

      Published by Bert Marshall at Smashwords

      Copyright 2013 Bert Marshall

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      People made fun of me the first fifteen years of my life. Well, that’s not entirely true, as I don’t remember it happening the first five years of my life. Being a fat Asian American made me the butt of many a joke and it caused me to be a very quiet socially awkward and inhibited kid. Having a last name that funny words could be joined to simply added to my discomfort.

      Harry Chin, Fat Chin, Chinny Chin – hell, I’ve heard every variation. My name is or was Arnold Oscar Chin and I hated the combination of names so much; I had my name changed after my family was killed in a car wreck three years ago. Now, I simply go by the name Tan. Officially my name is now Tan Lin. Lin was my Pop’s middle name and although we never agreed on a damned thing, I took it to honor him and not disturb my ancestors’ ghosts.

      Hell, who am I kidding? Their ghosts were disturbed the second I forsook Chinese martial arts and began studying a hybrid of American, Japanese, and Korean styles. I was attracted to the ten principles of Small Circle JuJitsu and the hard karate-style of Song Moo Kwan Taekwondo.

      At nineteen years of age, I began working out at a local kwan studying Wing Chun Gung-fu and two years into it on my twenty-first birthday, I got the shit beat out of me by some ex-football jock in a club on Texas Avenue in Baytown, Texas - my hometown since birth. I’ve known the arrogant prick since the seventh grade and he learned I was studying gung-fu and that is what made it so humiliating. So, in order to gain some form of self-respect and keep myself from becoming a continuous target, I sought out a school where I could learn to actually fight.

      Now, eight years later, I am about two tests away from gaining my fourth degree black belt in my hybrid style here at Flying Dragon school, which we call a dojang. My instructor is a Chil-dan; a seventh degree black belt and she is no one to truck with. At forty-seven years old, she is the real deal and although I am her top student, she never breaks protocol, even when we meet away from the school. To me she is Master Trevino. Her certificates from the Kukkiwon in Korea and the World Taekwondo Federation show her name to be Lucinda Maria Trevino, but she is known to me and her students simply as Master.

      She is slim, not all that tall, and not particularly attractive and if you were to pass her by on the street, you most likely wouldn’t notice her. She wears her hair in a short ponytail and if she wears make-up, it is minimal. Just yesterday it hit me that I do not really know this woman who I’ve been around for years. Her private life is a total secret and I probably spend more time around her than anyone else since we both live in the dojang.

      I occupy the room in the back and she, the whole upstairs floor. Occasionally I’ll hear a door shut, or the bass of her stereo, but other than that, she keeps to herself. The school has over one hundred students and she pays me well. Her new luxury car she buys every three years is a sign she’s prospering, so why doesn’t she socialize?

      I ponder these things while I shower, preparing for a date with a yellow belt student that joined three months ago. She’s cute, divorced, and has one kid and her interest in me was apparent from her first lesson. Her body is lush even though the baggy dobak uniform hides it well and she always smells real good too. Her nine year old son is also a yellow belt and pretty much worships me. All the kids show great respect, but I suspect his attitude is a direct reflection of hers.

      Karate has been good to me. At five nine, I weigh a solid one hundred and forty-five pounds and am rock hard. I’m very fast and dominate the tournament scene in Houston in point karate when it fancies me. Mixed martial arts are not my thing, but self-defense is and I’ve spent these many years learning not how to win MMA bouts, but how to take a man’s life with my hands and feet – God forbid that I ever will be forced to.

      I also have a concealed handgun permit and routinely carry a Glock model 23 in .40 S&W. For all my preparations, I haven’t been in a fight since that night in the bar when I had studied Gung-Fu and lost. I now possess an easy confidence that has backed down more than one possible assailant and according to my master; this is the goal of every true marital artist.

      ----

      Arlene Wagner is divorced, thirty years old, and our small age difference doesn’t bother me a bit, but when it comes to experience in the bed, she has much more than I and three hours after our meal and some accelerated groping on her couch, she leads me to her bed. At my age, I should be very experienced, but this is one side of my life that has been slow to develop. I’ve thrown myself into my martial arts training to the point I rarely take time to socialize; spending upward of twelve hours a day working out or tending to the needs of students.

      Sundays I usually sleep to catch up, and then run twelve or more miles. This is the sum of my life and when she sees me fumbling about in the dark, she coos and directs her hands to place me in just the right position for consummation… and then the ride began. Holy smokes. Where in the hell have I been?

      Two hours later we repeat the process and this time she really takes command and assumes the superior position and works her hips until in the dark, I hear her moan and cry out in pain, but no? I guess I have a lot to learn, because she snuggled up next to me afterward and told me I did everything right. In the past when I’ve had sex, getting away was all I could think of, but not with her.

      Her alarm wakes both of us and she sits up giggling and kissing me, telling me I better get your little buns out before my baby is dropped off. We got to get ready for school! Bye! and with that, she giggles again and hops out of bed. I watch her naked body disappear into the bathroom.

      She said I have little buns.

      ----

      Mean Johnny Taggard is an old school Harley rider and he kick-starts his 1967 FLH Shovelhead and hears it roar into life under him. The cloud of white smoke that blasts out initially signals a ring failure on one of the twin cylinders as usual, but fuck it.

      He patched out in the Bandidos MC eleven years ago after transporting fourteen pounds of meth through a police checkpoint while they were looking for drunk drivers and his attitude was such, the police simply felt it was wise to let him pass. Four years ago he was allowed to patch out in the more violent-prone Sons of Satan MC, better known as the SoS.

      The Sons of Satan are all Bandidos, at least initially, but are now an even more exclusive outlaw group with an even smaller membership. The Texas version of this group are the opposite of the Pennsylvania Pagan MC version, as with the Pagans, the S0S are subservient to the main club. In Texas, they are elite and rivals of the Pagans. They control meth, prostitutes, human trafficking, and guns and other Bandidos steer wide of them for the most part, preferring a more subtle way to work outside of the law. They wear the colors of both clubs, but sport a triangular gold patch with a skull on it opposite of the 1%er tag.

      MJ is meaner than hell and has a perpetual scowl on his unshaven face. If you fuck with Johnny, Johnny will rip your head off and skull-fuck you is his favorite quote and something he actually did in Afghanistan. The action was covered up by the marine corps and Lance Corporal Johnny Taggard was discharged for Medical reasons with one hundred per cent disability because it was deemed he was mentally ill.

      Tonight, Mean Johnny Taggart is going to make the biggest mistake of his thirty-three year life and ultimately ignite the most violent open war between the Sons of Satan and the Baytown police department

      ----

      Luci is in the mood for a little nasty action. As the long time martial arts practitioner readies herself for a night of decadence and sexual release, she waits for her number one student to leave the school. What she does for entertainment is no one’s business but her own. Dressed in a skin-tight pair of black leather riding pants and vest only, she pushes her feet into her custom Harley boots and looks at her heavily made-up face. The transformation is incredible.

      She is now a hardcore biker chick and she is in the mood to kick ass and get rode hard. Going out her private entrance, she slides into her Lexus and opening the garage door, she eases out into the cool night air. Her bike is about a mile away on the north side of town and as she drives, she begins to feel the excitement building. Her bike is a Harley Davidson Forty-Eight and seeing she weighs only one hundred and fourteen pounds, the five hundred and sixty-two pound 1200cc bike is more than enough to grab other biker’s attention.

      Luci hasn’t felt a man’s rough hands on her tight body in over a month and seeing she has a curious addiction to dangerous men, there is only one logical place to find them close-by. Normally she goes much further away. Little does she know she is about to meet a very dangerous man indeed and this time, it will turn real ugly.

      Cranking the bike, it jumps to life and Luci, being the alpha female she is, slides her leg across the seat, letting it massage her crotch. Oh, she is so primed! She prides herself on a few things. For instance, she doesn’t smoke or drink. She doesn’t use drugs. She doesn’t even use profanity.

      Her one vice is she loves rough sex, but only on her terms. The cool air flowing over her naked skin causes her nipples to push against her vest as if they were going to poke holes in it and this is the effect she’s looking for when she pulls into Pontoon Junction on the south side of town. It’s early and the place is full of 1%’ers. Heads collectively turn when they see the lone hot chick get off her bike, adjust her plain black leather vest and walk into the ice house. Hey baby, how about sitting on my face?

      Luci smiles at the already half-intoxicated and bearded rider, who is missing his front teeth and smiles. I may just take you up on that… bitch, she spits out contemptuously, causing the other men around him to laugh loudly and he runs his hand up toward her tightly-wrapped ass, but she scoots past him, winking.

      There are at least twenty biker chicks in the place and every one of them are curious about this new flavor who carries herself with confidence. Luci walks up to the bar and orders a Bud-Lite and attracts the attention of Mean Johnny Taggart. Johnny is an officer in the Nation and no one to truck with and at the moment the ranking member in the bar and then there is the SoS diamond on his vest. This gives Johnny first pick of the available pussy and he is rapidly making this little filly choice number one by pulling her in close and running his finger directly between her legs.

      Ooh, you are one horny mother fucker, ain’t cha big boy? Luci coos but doesn’t stop him.

      "Fuckin’ A, little girl. You wanna see my angry white snake missy?

      If you’re man enough to show that little thing, I’m woman enough to handle it.

      Everyone can hear their words and instantly the place crowds around, pushing and shoving each other to get a better look. The woman is hotter’n a throw-down pistol, Butch One biker says to his cousin.

      Here, let me help you, Luci says and with practiced ease, she unzips the man’s pants and pulls out his limp dick. Try as she might, she can’t get him aroused due to the fact that he is seriously dehydrated and this causes much embarrassment and laughter. She drops to her knees and begins to fellate him, but nothing happens and he angrily shoves her away claiming she is the reason.

      She easily gains her feet and laughs with everyone and this is when the shit hits the fan. Mean Johnny Taggart takes a swing at her face and the next thing happens so fast, no one can say for sure exactly how Mean Johnny Taggart flipped and struck his face on the corner of the bar snapping his neck like it was a crispy pretzel.

      Holy fuck! are the only words spoken and everyone looks at the dead man, then at the little woman in the black leathers.

      Suddenly a very fat biker grabs the little woman from behind and in a flash he flies over her shoulder and pile-drives the same corner of the bar with the same results. Now the place goes stone cold quiet and people begin backing away from her.

      Luci turns on her heel and slowly walks toward the exit and as she does, one by one each biker follows her. She mounts her bike and drives slowly off and then the whole group explodes in anger over the loss of two family members. If you fuck with one Bandido, you fuck with all of them and this is triple true when it comes to the SoS.

      Luci hammers the powerful bike and takes a right onto Highway 99 and rapidly brings it up to ninety miles per hour crossing Cedar Bayou in less than twenty seconds. In her vibrating rear view mirror she can see what looks like a hundred headlights following her. She is in deep shit. These people don’t play games and she will be hunted down and killed, or worse, tortured and killed. The adrenaline coursing through her veins slowly changes from dread to outright excitement. Fuck yeah! she says through clenched teeth. Bring ‘em on, mother fuckers!

      She power slides the big bike almost losing control and turns onto Interstate 10 and heads back toward Baytown now about a quarter of a mile ahead of the nearest rider and shortly afterward, takes the Mont Belvieu exit with an eighteen-wheeler directly blocking her view from them. Taking a right without stopping on SH-146, she sees a whole posse of motorcycles passing behind her still on the Interstate and she motors in behind the dilapidated International House of Pancakes building and kills the motor.

      She looks at her right hand and it’s shaking with adrenaline – not fear and she feels so alive she wants to whoop. Suddenly from behind her she hears a couple of big bikes go roaring past the building, heading north on SH-146 and she knows they are searching. The Nation is no one to truck with, as they see each other as family and they will go to no small lengths to make her pay for her sins – and that is why she loves mixing it up with them occasionally. She knows nothing of the Sons of Satan, or she would never have walked into this particular den of misfits.

      Violent men turn her on and there are few men any more dangerous than this group of MC 1% bikers. She slides deliciously off the leather seat of her bike and walks toward the front of the building just as two more bikers and their women turn and pass under the overpass and pull into the Chevron gas station across the road from her location. They are obviously undecided as to her whereabouts when one of the bikers pulls a cell phone from his vest and they motor off south toward Baytown.

      Almost immediately the other two bikes that had gone by before come rolling past and also head into town. Feeling confidant no other bikers headed north, Luci fires up her Harley and heads north to Dayton planning to overnight in Cleveland at another instructor’s house. This will hopefully give them time to defuse.

      The truth is they have no intention of defusing and one of the biker chicks works at an attorney’s office and got a very good look at the killer’s license plate. Her first cousin is a jailer who is sleeping with a desk sergeant at the Harris County Sheriff’s Department and one phone call through them, renders the address of the martial arts instructor’s abode and her thin file; which amounts to one parking ticket.

      About the time I am indulging in Arlene Wagner’s wonders, Big Harold is tossing a number ten pickle jar of gasoline and diesel fuel against the front of the dojang and his old lady, Skunk fires a flare pistol against it to see it ignite with a whoosh. They are not in a bit of a hurry and they repeat this act of arson against the back of the building and drive off celebrating, by cutting a donut in the heavily landscaped front yard of Fancy Boutique and lose control of the bike.

      Big Harold’s front tire wedges in between two iron garden sculptures and throws both of them over the handlebars. Skunk, who is not a bad looking woman, gained her nickname in high school when a lone line of white began to show in her otherwise black head of hair. Add to it her wild left eye and she was marked as a misfit from that day forward. She is the shared property of Big Harold, who at six feet four inches tall doesn’t particularly like to share her, but does to his many brothers. What Harold has in giant size, he lacks in intelligence and for this reason, Skunk pretty much calls the shots in their relationship.

      Mother fucker, Harold! I almost broke my neck! She says and standing up, she jerks him around and pops him in the face with a balled-up fist. There is not a chance in hell she would do this if any other bikers were around, but when it’s just the two of them, she can vent her anger. Oh fuck! her head comes up at the sound of sirens.

      Don saw it all. Don saw them torch the judo shop. Don doesn’t want to get involved, but thanks to President Obama, Don has a cell phone and he calls 911 when the first explosive mixture ignites and tells them, Is a big biker and a woman with a skunk on her head what did it. Don lives in the woods in an old camper shell and ignoring the sirens; he climbs back into his tattered sleeping bag and rolls over.

      Preston Perry Pfeiffer III is a fourth generation Baytown police officer and is first on the scene, coming from the opposite direction of the fire trucks and spots the arsonists fly past his cruiser and barely make a turn onto Kilgore Road. His cruiser is actually the DARE vehicle, a confiscated Corvette running almost six hundred ponies under the hood and somehow used to educate children about the dangers of drugs by doing parking lot burn-outs and he rapidly catches the motorcycle as it nears East James Street, which is a four lane road.

      Big Harold is a two time felon and is carrying a Glock model 22 and this by itself will land him back in Huntsville State prison and with nothing to lose, he motors on, blowing through stop sign after stop sign. Skunk eases the short-barreled semi-automatic Mossberg model 500 shotgun out of its scabbard, slides it between her body and arm and lets it rip off five triple-aught buckshot rounds through the hood and windshield of the Corvette as they fly through the red lights at Business SH-146 and East James.

      Preston Perry Pfeiffer III sees the muzzle of the shotgun one quarter of a second before his windshield explodes. Witness to this is Baytown Police Sergeant Monica Horton, nine year veteran of the department and the current happily married chief of police’s play thing. Screaming into her radio for back-up and EMS, she ignores the fallen officer – who she can’t stand – and spins the tires of her powerful police ghost Tahoe and pursues the two biker speeders.

      At North Main Street, Big Harold, who has somehow managed to inhale enough cocaine to intoxicate a small party, turns right, crosses both lanes and if it were not for a wide crack in the curb, both him and his ol’ lady would be history. Over-correcting the bike, he sideswipes the long metal fence, sending an impressive shower of sparks out behind him. Three young black men watch the whole thing and all one of them can say is, "Shit,

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