Without thinking, Al shot a glance at the deformed ork when he mentioned his father's lynching. Where Al had come from, like everywhere else, it had a history. Lynch Creek had earned its name over a century before Al was born. But some things stayed the same even as others changed. There hadn't been many metas in their mountains when Al was growing up, and what few did turn up in their community had not been warmly welcomed. Al's father had preached over his pulpit that all should be included, but not all the brethren had felt that way. Al's own conscience was clean, but he knew that not all the disappearances were simply people moving on of their own accord.
It wasn't something he wanted to talk about, and he doubted Thorn did either.
So he just answered the question.
"Heh heh. Yessir, reckon ol' Al's seen his fair share. I'll allow as I was a bit of a hothead in the tenderness o' my youth. First coupla years off'n the farm, so ta speak, worked in a cannery down New Orleans way. Well we'd go out drinkin' most ever' night, an' damned if I warn't inna fight goin' on twice a week. At least. Gen'rally got my ass whupped first thirty times or so. Warn't a real big feller. But reckon I got better. Hell, eventually became a problem. Got so's when I'd hit a body they'd go down an' sometimes not get back up. Now that was rarely my intention, and did become a source o' much consternation onna part o' yours truly, not ta mention the local constabulary."
He set his half-spent cigarette in the ashtray in the armrest, blew his nose into the space between thumb and forefinger, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and put the cigarette back in his mouth, where it danced around as he spoke.
"Now I knew I din't have no magic in me, cuz that were of the devil - no offense - an' I was jist gittin' acquanted with the voodoo gods at that time, so it warn't their doin' neither. But I had to suss out the cause, an' so I figured, an' subsequently confirmed without a doubt, that I was jist some sorta savant at beatin' folk ta death. An' that, lemme tell ya, that were a cruel cross ta bear. Cuz if'n ya can't get drunk off yer ass an' let off a little steam, well, what ya got left, really, if ya think about it? Fortunately, I come across Grandmaster Ryder's teachin's whilst watchin' the trid late one night. That's one o' the benefits o' watchin' the trid, the way it helps ya stay on top o' the imporant doin's in this fallen an' benighted world we's in. Now I don't know too much about this MMA o' yours - that's where they mix up kickin' an' wrasslin', right? - an' nothin' about no penta-whatsit - but I'm tellin' ya now onna stack o' Bibles and a Koran or two ta boot that I'd never be the man I am today without havin' taken up Dragon-Phoenix Death Style killer karate. Danged irony of it all was, most folk, they buy the chips ta learn, you know, the secret death-point strikes. Me, I already was takin' lives - I bought the course ta learn how ta control my gift, keep things friendly an' all. An' I'll be a damned monkey's uncle if I ain't kept on practicin' every' week or two ever since. Hell, sometimes much as fifteen minutes at a stretch. But that's the sorta discipline it takes, ya know, that's what it takes if'n ya wanna be great like ol' Al here."
