Paradox in Pain

Contrary to what some may think, delivering a proper beating requires an extraordinary degree of skills.

Any gorilla can put a hurtin’ on someone. Just throw hands with bad intentions and you can break bones or have blood and teeth flying. But there’s no art to it; it’s akin to a toddler splattering paint on the walls: it’s easy to do and while the ankle biter’s parents may love it, it lacks style and finesse.

A common misconception is that a professional fighter would be the gold standard on such a martial task, but that’s not necessarily true. Sure, their skillset provides them with a greater array of weapons to dole out punishment. They have the timing, the skill, the speed, and strength to cause a variety of damage. But combined with their egos and natural aggression, they’re wired to finish the fight as quickly as possible. A fighter’s aggression serves him well in the ring or octagon, but it’s anathema to what I’m talking about.

You see, to deliver a proper beating, one must be detached. Dispassionate. It’s not just about hurting someone or causing maximum damage. It’s about sending a message. Too much machismo and the victim can lose consciousness and said message is lost in translation or not fully realized. A true craftsman of the trade can deliver targeted blows and not even break a sweat. They’re like Michaelangelo or Gogan. True craftsmen.

These thoughts crossed my mind as I watched Carter in action. Standing a shade under six-and-a-half feet, he was the prototypical goon, with knuckles the size and consistency of walnuts, shoulders wider than some bridges and body hair that would be the envy of any silverback. He had the stereotypical, though pointedly accurate, lantern jaw and a brow that suggested he hadn’t quite evolved from Cro-Magnon. He rarely spoke and his appearance and background, he was a veritable sweetheart. He had a dimpled smile that was shockingly disarming, was a fan of classical music and wore 1970s style bifocals. I’d seen him reading Thoreau, Hoffer, and Kerouac. For Pete’s sake, the man was an origami savant. Which made what he was doing now, while vibing with his physical appearance, completely away from who I knew him to be.

Mind you, I wasn’t happy to be here. Point in fact, I abhorred violence. Particularly when it was perpetrated on a no-nothing scrub who had no chance at defending himself. But I’m human and, right or wrong, we are often attracted to the trainwreck, the disaster playing out before our eyes. So, I watched in fascination as he worked over the poor schlub who tried, and failed, to protect himself from the assault. Every blow was measured, focused on delivering maximum pain with minimum long-term damage; in that, he never struck the same place twice and often used an open-handed approach that was far lasting than those piledrivers he called fists would have.

He was a maestro, expertly crafting a symphony of pain, drawing the notes out just long enough to induce shocked gasps and or bubbling grunts that begged for mercy. Digging a knuckle into the nerve-cluster of the shoulder. An open-handed smack to the inside of the leg. Palm strike to the liver. A pinched squeeze to the upper side of the pec. A lazy kick to the calf. A four-fingered smack to the old fun bags. It was a privilege to watch such an expert in his craft at work.

Through it all, Barringer—Carter’s bossman—watched with an almost orgasmic glee as his instrument deconstructed the hapless victim. Every strike, every strained cry from the poor sap garnered a reaction from the low-level street boss. While I appreciated Carter’s professionalism, Barringer sadistic ministrations were sickening. I wanted to say something—anything—to let the bastard know that I knew he was enjoying this far too much. But why upset the applecart.

The dissertation of beating a man until he was a blubbering mess who’d soiled himself lasted for several minutes, though it seemed far longer. I glanced up at Barringer who grabbed his junk like he was watching a skin flick and my vision blurred. He must’ve seen something then because he brushed Carter’s bare arm and just said, “that’s enough.”

Carter looked down at his work and winced. He and the victim, while not friends, were acquaintances. Friendly acquaintances no less. Hell, they’d even shared a game or six of chess. They both knew it was just business and though the victim shakily got to all fours, he nodded at the giant, a sign that there were no hard feelings.

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” Barringer said. “We had a deal. And you reneged on it. It makes me feel lied to. It makes me feel cheap. Like a regular nobody.”

I held in the laugh that threatened to burst out at the falsity of his words. Guys like Barringer didn’t take too kindly to being laughed at.

“And this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, my friend. It makes me feel like you don’t appreciate me. Like this relationship is one-sided.”

“Barringer…” the sap tried to reason with the mid-level thug but was having trouble regaining his breath.

Barringer knelt beside Thomas and placed a ringed finger on his quivering lips. “Shhhh.” He glanced at his fingertip to see blood smeared across it. He licked it off and shivered like a vampire would before standing back up. “I had a mind to end you right here, you know. In this dirty, rat and garbage-infested alley. Leave you for the crows, as they say. But no, I think I’ll give you a second chance.”

“How noble of you,” I muttered. I shook my head—not the best idea—and came back to myself. For several minutes it had seemed like it all was happening to someone else; an out-of-body experience, if you will. Now? There wasn't a part of me that didn't hurt and, yeah, pissing one's self due to pain? Not the manliest of things. Look, I won’t lie, I’m about as cowardly as Dorothy’s lion-y friend but a combination of pain and humiliation can sometimes get me to say things I normally wouldn’t dare. Most especially when my life was in the hands of a degenerate. Thus, when I said, “Wish you’d stop being so good to me, Captain” I could have kicked my own ass.

Barringer cocked his head to the side and smiled. The dim streetlight glistened off the silver grill of his upper teeth. “I told Carter to go easy on you, what with this being your first time experiencing his…talents. I think I was a bit too forgiving.”

I held up a hand in supplication. “Barringer, you are too kind…and I appreciate it. I appreciate the hell out of it. I…”

“Carter,” he said and turned his back to me. “Break something.”

The big man sighed and removed the jacket he'd almost put on. His eyes said everything. Sorry, man. But you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“Barringer,” I moaned.

“Break a few things,” he said. “Just not the face. Wouldn’t want people asking too many questions.” With that he walked out of the alley, leaving me alone with a master who never took pleasure in his craft.

“I don’t suppose you can Rocky this, Carter?” On his questioned look, I explained. “Tell him you didn’t think it’d be a good idea to break anything considering it’ll make it that much harder to pay him back.”

Carter shrugged. “Can’t do that, chief.”

“How about you tell him I overpowered you, scampered before you could get at me?”

His glare said it all.

It was my turn to sigh then. “No, I guess you couldn’t do that either.”

“Remember to breathe,” he said. He gave me a moment to prepare. I took two, three, then four deep breaths then nodded.

“Let’s get this over with.”