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    The Finisher Series: Numbers
    The Finisher Series: Numbers
    The Finisher Series: Numbers
    Ebook171 pages2 hours

    The Finisher Series: Numbers

    By Bert Marshall

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    About this ebook

    Abraham Monroe Lincoln is the name on my birth certificate, but that's not the truth or is it the date of my birth. No one really knows who my parents were, where or exactly when I was born, and frankly, it doesn't mean jack shit to me. Everyone calls me Linc or Link, or hell, they can call me shit head for all that really matters, as long as they don't say it with attitude.

    I was raised in a juve home on the east side of Houston before it was burned to the ground by some gang bangers and that was the night I first saw what a bullet can do to a man's head. I was eleven and after six years of not being adopted, I had become a force to be reckoned with. No one fucked with me, as I was abnormally aggressive when threatened and over the years had learned what works and what doesn't when it comes to fighting.

    The night five young men decided to see what would happen if they robbed the front office and lit the place on fire, I was in detention in one of the out buildings. Hell, I had threatened to knife one of the other kids and the asshole in charge thought I was serious and penned me up for the night. The place suddenly lit up with flames and I eased through the plywood wall in the back corner to get a better look and as I popped out, the five thieves become arsons came running around the side of the building and nearly trampled me.

    I rolled to the side and the last one whipped out a pistol and shot the damned thing nearly in my face. Then two things happened. The first was I leaped forward causing the pistol to go off a foot behind my ear and the second was the impact caused him to drop it as he stumbled and fell. He scrambled to grab the small gun, but I came up with it first and pointing it at him, I fired it, like I've seen people do on TV.

    There appeared a hole in the center of his forehead and he stood completely still for about three seconds, and then dropped to his knees and fell backward. The other four guys never stopped running and even though I was just a kid, I knew what I did would go against me. Now these TV programs are real good at showing what to do in a case like this and I used my t-shirt and wiped down the gun real good and laid it in front of the dead guy and ran back toward the burning structure.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBert Marshall
    Release dateMar 9, 2017
    ISBN9781370276677
    The Finisher Series: Numbers
    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

      The Finisher Series - Bert Marshall

      The Finisher Series – Numbers

      By Bert Marshall

      Published by Bert Marshall at Smashwords

      Copyright 2017 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 are 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.

      Abraham Monroe Lincoln is the name on my birth certificate, but that's not the truth or is it the date of my birth. No one really knows who my parents were, where or exactly when I was born, and frankly, it doesn't mean jack shit to me. Everyone calls me Linc or Link, or hell, they can call me shithead for all that really matters, as long as they don't say it with attitude.

      I was raised in a juvy home on the east side of Houston before it was burned to the ground by some gang-bangers and that was the night I first saw what a bullet can do to a man's head. I was eleven and after six years of not being adopted, I had become a force to be reckoned with. No one fucked with me. I was abnormally aggressive when threatened and over the years had learned what works and what doesn't when it comes to fighting.

      The night five young men decided to see what would happen if they robbed the front office and lit the place on fire, I was in detention in one of the out buildings. Hell, I had threatened to knife one of the other kids and the asshole in charge thought I was serious and penned me up for the night. The place suddenly lit up with flames and I eased through the plywood wall in the back corner to get a better look and as I popped out, the five thieves become arsons came running around the side of the building and nearly trampled me.

      I rolled to the side and the last one whipped out a pistol and shot the damned thing nearly in my face. Then two things happened. The first was I leaped forward causing the pistol to go off a foot behind my ear and the second was the impact caused him to drop it as he stumbled and fell. He scrambled to grab the small gun, but I came up with it first and pointing it at him, I fired it like I've seen people do on TV.

      There appeared a hole in the center of his forehead and he stood completely still for about three seconds, and then dropped to his knees and fell backward. The other four guys never stopped running and even though I was just a kid, I knew what I did would go against me. Now these TV programs are real good at showing what to do in a case like this and I used my t-shirt and wiped down the gun real good and laid it in front of the dead guy and ran back toward the burning structure.

      No one ever bothered to question me and I was moved to a foster home in a community named Baytown, over by the Houston ship channel. My new parents were Ralph and Marjorie Denton and both were doctors and what this meant was I would be raised by the public school system until they picked me up after football, basketball, or baseball practice. Hell, I didn’t need actual parents; I was just happy to have a home and be free of prison.

      I was big for my age and smart as a whip according to the counselor lady and the very last thing I wanted was to go back to the Juvenile detention system - so I kept my mouth and especially my temper to myself. Junior high is really when I started to develop true social skills, which pretty much meant telling teachers, adults and older girls what they wanted to hear. I found that if you tell girls they are pretty and you are nice to them, they would let you feel them up and I liked this a lot. Now in the year two thousand, most thirteen year old girls have boobs and pubic hair and when I hit my fourteenth birthday, I was rewarded with my first blowjob by a sixteen year old cheerleader after our team won our fifth game in a row. It was amateurish at best, but I thought it was amazing.

      I was the star of the game and had sixty-eight yards rushing and three TD's and Carmel Garrett rewarded me in a most satisfactory way and also gave me gonorrhea in the back of her Dad's Dodge Grand Caravan the following week when I screwed her after our sixth win.

      My mom was disgusted with me and my dad thought it was funny and this was apparently the final straw in their floundering marriage. Mom filed for divorce the following Monday and dad didn't bat an eye when he was served the papers. I found out years later that both of them were having affairs and the sad truth was their separation simply meant that I lived with dad and like before did whatever the hell I wanted.

      On any given night I had a different girl in my bed and dad supplied the condoms and often, a few cans of beer. I got up one night when I thought I heard something and dear old dad had a woman moaning like she was a ghost and I stood outside his closed bedroom door and listened to her beg don't cum in me baby! I stood in the hallway and spilled my seed on the beige carpet listening to her.

      High school meant mixing it up with jocks bigger and stronger than me and with more talent on the court, diamond, and field and one of the coaches suggested I take martial arts when I complained about their size. I'm five eleven when I stretch it, but almost everyone is taller and heavier. I'm a solid one sixty-five and have low body fat. It doesn't matter what I eat, I never gain a pound.

      I fall in love with Taekwondo during my first lesson. The style is Song moo kwan and my instructor is a thirty-one year old fourth degree black belt named Susan Yung. I am also totally infatuated with her and drop school sports to train five days a week. Her dojang is old school and has no amenities, not even air conditioning and because she insists on being a traditional instructor, her classes are smaller and harder. Her system of belts is not set up on the fast reward system of current martial arts schools where they have eighteen different belts before you make the coveted black belt.

      She uses the old Korean belt system of two whites, two blues, and four browns before you make your first black belt. Three months in and I am awarded my first blue belt; skipping the second white belt. She has only did this twice before and I am under her constant tutelage. She also introduced me to judo, which I pick up just as fast, loving the hip throw.

      By my fifteenth and sixteenth years, I work out seven days a week and earn my black belt in a record eight months and test before her master in Houston, who is an eighth degree.

      He shows no emotion, but inwardly decides I might just be the student every master desires and asks me to move to Houston to train directly under him. Master Kim Yun Park has trained many gifted students, but this one is something special. It shows when he spars and his intuitive method of picking off attackers is possibly the best he has ever seen. In the rank test he sparred two third degree brothers and they did everything they could to land a strike without success. It was almost as if it were scripted.

      The master sent seven more fighters at me one by one and one by one I made them look like white belts. Each time one of them would set me up for an attack, I would move to the exact last place they suspected and either kick, punch, or throw them to the mat. I guess I made it look easy, but I was earning every bit of it, believe me.

      He has four long time students in attendance and all of them are like this boy’s instructor - fourth degree black belts with twenty years experience and each of them nod. Yes, he's special and Susan Yung knows in her heart that in another year, none of them will be able to out-spar her loyal student. Hell, he's already better than she is and that is why she will bow down to the master's request of training the young man. She has nothing left to teach him.

      I guess it is time to note the conflicts I had at school and every one of them was because of girls and their boyfriends. My first fight - if you can call it that, happened on a Saturday night when a girl I had been intimate with whispered in my ear at a football game that Brock Henderson was going to kick my ass after the game for what he telling everyone,raping my girlfriend.

      I had indeed screwed his willing girlfriend three times and each time it was her wish. Kimi McCullah is possibly the best built girl at Robert E. Lee high school with a world class set of knockers and an ass made for sin. Her pussy is waxed as smooth as a billiard ball. I know this because I have been there. According to the girl beside me, Kimi told someone, who told someone, etc.

      Just like most sixteen year old boys, I scoff it off and keep talking to her and ten minutes after the game is over, here comes Brock with the whole school behind him, except Kimi. I do not see her in the crowd and the reason is, she is sick to her stomach that he found out. When he did, he punched her in the face and she told her parents she fell down and didn't make the game.

      Like about ninety-nine per cent of the school, Brock has no idea I am a black belt and a gifted one at that and he walks right up and swings at my face. I duck under it and strike him eight times in the solar plexus and as he folds over, I do a spinning back kick and strike him in the head. The strike is brutal and launches him backwards into the group of students. It all happens so fast, no one is sure exactly what happened, except that Brock is unconscious.

      Hell, he's more than unconscious. He has a broken neck. It is not my kick that did it though. He struck his head on the edge of the steel bleacher and after a Grand Jury debates the incident, I am cleared of all charges. The downside is Brock is elevated to near-saint status and I am labeled a killer. The pussy I was getting drops off to near nothing and my dad is viewed as a doctor who raised a psycho. It didn’t help that I offered no sign of regret. Hell, I didn’t even comment when I heard people talking.

      Three months pass and I continue to train with Susan Yung as the master wants all of this put behind me before I make the move. My dad, who has money to burn bought me the vehicle of my choice for my sixteenth birthday and it's a Jeep Wrangler with the coveted Dana 44 front and rear end axles. I make a run to Walmart and who do I bump into but beautiful Kimi McCullah. She looks around as if to see if anyone sees us together and whispers that she would like to see me. I haven't been laid since we did it over five months ago and I tell her to come to my house tonight about nine. That's when dad leaves to go see one of his women.

      Kimi's adult woman’s body is so wonderful; we screw three times before she sneaks out at 4:30am. We could have done it four times, but I could not find another condom. We didn't sleep more than a few minutes that night and she told me that there are other girls who think what I did was self-defense and would like to resume what we might have, she says and we both laugh.

      This is great news and I tell her I am most likely moving to Houston to train and she gives me her phone number and kisses me before she leaves. I have no more fights with the guys even though word gets out that I am tapping into the local female high school population. Brock was considered a badass and the way I handled him, makes everyone else a bunch of posers with all talk and no action.

      My move to Houston came about two months and five girls later and I move into the dojang with six other hopeful's. My first degree is the lowest rank of the six and all are young and about my age. I now have almost two years in the art and these guys have closer to ten years each. By my seventeenth birthday, the master moves me to third degree and I rule the flock. My rank is even approved by the Korean martial arts governing body Kukkiwon and authenticated via video conference. I am also awarded a first degree in Small-Circle jujitsu and another in American Judo after two more strenuous tests also witnessed via teleconference by the Kukkiwon.

      I graduate high school a week later through an online State test and spend the next year taking first place in every major tournament across the state and that is when I meet Master John Strong. Master Strong is a ninth degree black belt with belts is seven styles and purportedly a real badass jiu-jitsu fighter. To prove his point, he takes me to the floor and pins me within thirty seconds and letting me up, he does it again. I got in a couple of good licks on him though, but it had little apparent effect.

      You, my man have real promise. I want you to join me at my compound free of charge and I'll ask Master Park, if you agree. We are old friends by the way. The man looks to be about seventy years old, except he is thick with muscle and I admit I am interested. No one has bested me, let alone like that and by an old man to boot.

      Master Strong moved me to Los Angeles and I join a group of twenty martial artists he has taken under his wing and four of them are women. I have read about most of them in Karate Illustrated or Black Belt magazine and I am the lone unknown. Each of them are bad-asses in their own right and we begin training in earnest. The days are twenty hours long and we learn the ancient art of real combat grappling. At first I fall prey to six of them including two of the women and I double my efforts. My judo helps, mostly when I break my falls, although my hip throw is impressive.

      The average person wouldn't have a Chinaman's chance against any of these people but by week three only one fighter can best me and Master Strong visits my room just before bedtime and tells me what I am doing wrong. Unbeknownst to me, he visits each room and doles out advice. He's been doing this about once a week and each of us believe he is playing us

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