CHAPTER ELEVEN: SPECIAL TRAINING! HELL IN A BUCKET - THE FALL OF
HIERONYMOUS SMITH?

--

In Bakersfield, things were afoot.

Bernard Petroff, considerably worse for the wear after his night out on
the town, was knee-deep in the Bakersfield Swamplands and Municipal Sewage
Department. In his backpack were the Scrolls of the Petroff Environmental
Combat School, wherein he hoped to find a new technique that would defeat
Hieronymous Smith once and for all. The swine would die like the knave he
was, Petroff had vowed; not only was the terrible mess in the strip club
his fault, but now he was receiving challengers and mysterious assassins
that should have been his! (The fact that the entire mess was not
Hieronymous's fault, but in fact had more to do with Bernard's own
inability to correctly metabolize women, was of course inconsequential;
this is one of the benefits of a selective memory.)

He had taken new, terrible vows of Warrior Purity that would aid him in
his quest for vengeance. Not only was he now only eating rice crackers and
drinking pure rain water, but starting today he had decided to ritually
purify himself every morning by dumping a bucket of cold water over his
head, then hitting himself five hundred times with a rolled up sushi mat.
Against such odds, how could the cretinous Smith survive?

In the middle of the Main Street of Bakersfield, the Restaurant Owner had
finished demolishing Captain Nemo's Undersea Curry Adventure, and watched
as the contractors began laying the groundwork for his new project. While
he had never previously opened up a franchise before, he felt in his bones
that this was to be his best effort yet. He had hired staff for this new
venture - staff, he was assured, with musical talents. He had purchased a
brand new fish dispenser, and had bought five hundred feet of pink neon
lights.

Soon his new restaurant would open; in the mean time, he was doing a brisk
turn of business as "Yngwi's Sweet Potatoes Roasted in a Large Roaring
Fire in the Middle of the Street." His daughter, Petunia, poked the
foil-wrapped roasted potatoes with a stick and compared her soul to a
block of soggy tofu.

A martial artist with a giant scroll on his back disconsolately plodded
through the streets of Bakersfield, shouting "Hieronymous Smith, prepare
to die!" at passers-by. Mortimus J. Finkelstein, amnesiac super-spy, heard
the young man shouting; he felt sure that this Hieronymous Smith person
was important, but couldn't quite remember why.

Mrs. Maple, with her arm bound up, was searching for the Ceremonial
Challenge Equipment. There was such an awful lot of it, and she only hoped
that she had something in Hieronymous's size.

At the Ancient and Venerable Home of the Smith Clan, an aged, warped
figure in a high backed chair stared at the pile of invitations in front
of him, all signed in a scrawling, nearly-illegible hand. Soon it would be
time for a convergence such as the world had never seen...

Last but not least, a group of warriors were assembling on top of a very
large mountain overlooking the town. It was a pointy mountain; every so
often, one of the warriors would fall off and the others would have to
lower a rope so that he could climb up.

Argbargle, the man who had organized the meeting, would like to have
believed that they were the best of the best, but this simply wasn't true.
In fact, they were a pretty scruffy-looking lot, but they were the best
contractors that he could find on such short notice, and with so little
money to pay them. He had wanted to hold a bake sale, but the Powers that
Be were against it.

Instead, he inspected his troops and called the roll.

"Shippo the Beast Hurler." A large man, covered in the fur of many dead
animals, raised his hand and growled, exposing a menacing set of canines.

"Kickoman." A man in the back hesitatantly raised his foot.

Argbargle stared at the rest of the names in the list. He was going to get
his pay lowered again; ordinarily this would be upsetting, but the fact
was that the Ancient Evil didn't actually pay him anything at this point.
Theoretically they'd eventually have to start paying him in order to lower
his pay; however this day had yet to come. Groaning, he continued:

"Terry the Twelve-Inch Tanto. Benji the Flautist. Nerevek the Corpse. Crun
the Barbarian. Oh god, I can't do this... here, you, finish taking
attendance. I'm going to be crying my eyes out." With that, he fell off
the mountain.

The motley crew of assassins, rogues, and cut-throats known only as the
Eager Blades stayed there on that cliff for three more days. In hindsight,
it was probably a mistake for Argbargle to transfer administrative duties
to Nerevek the Corpse.

---

"Finish your breakfast, lad," said Wilf cheerfully, "it's time for special
training." With that, he wandered out of the room.

Hieronymous, feeling a little bit apprehensive, slowly chewed his way
through Wilf's Infusion of Hot Grease disguised as a hangover cure. The
last time he'd done any training with Wilf, it had involved desks and
badgers; before that, it had involved dastardly devices known only as "the
Head Clamps", which he'd rather not think about.

"I'll be out back," yelled Wilf from the hallway. "Meet me in ten
minutes." Groaning, Hieronymous scarfed down the rest of his breakfast and
headed out.

Wilf was seated in the driver's seat of the same large, black van that he
had previously used to resce Mortimus J. Finkelstein. Hieronymous opened
the passenger side door and stared at the contents of the van in awe and
horror. The back of the van was filled with big sticks, staves, large
polse, large pads, punching bags, sushi mats, heavy iron weights, iron
rings, iron geta, various other iron things, and a personal-sized
stainless steel refrigerator.

"All this for one day of training?" asked Hieronymous.

"Yep," replied Wilf. "By the time this day is done, you'll be able to
clobber just about anything that moves, and hopefully you might stand a
chance against your challenger. Maggie knows some good stuff, but nothing
beats special training." With that he put his foot down on the pedal and
the van shot off.

Wilf was quiet throughout the trip. He acted as though he was lost in
another world, and only left his trancelike state in order to stop the van
crashing into things. Hieronymous wondered what was on his mind, but
simply shrugged and decided to let him be. Instead he reached into the
glove compartment, wondering what he'd find there today. While the classic
Japanese literature was acceptable reading material, the Edwardian butler
pornography wasn't - he'd simply have to take his chances. Instead of
finding either of these volumes, however, he was pleasantly surprised to
find a book by Jane Austen.

Hieronymous opened the book and started to read. Halfway through the book,
he closed it and stared at Wilf.

"Wilf?"

Wilf, momentarily shaken out of his reverie, turned and looked at
Hieronymous.

"No!" Hieronymous yelled. "Ack! Keep your eyes on the road!"

"Oh ah," replied Wilf and diverted his attention back to his driving. "Now
what was it you wanted to ask me?"

"It's about this book," replied Hieronymous. "Under normal circumstances,
I'd expect this to be a classic work about life in the rural society of
1813. On the other hand," he continued, waving the book under
Hieronymous's nose, "what we have here is a book set in 1813 which is not
about rural society at all. In fact it's about.. about..."

"A man's love for his fellow man?"

"Yes! No! Whatever, that's besides the point. The question is, what's it
doing here and why is Jane Austen writing pornography?"

Wilf gazed at the book thoughtfully. "Tell me," he inquired, "what exactly
did you expect from a book called 'Pride and Prejudice'?"

"Oh."

"Ah."

And with that, they drove on in silence.

"Tell me," Hieronymous inquired an hour later, "where are we going?"

"We are going," replied Wilf slowly, "to the Secret and Ancient Training
Grounds that the Ancient Society has visited since the dawn of time."

"The YMCA?" asked Hieronymous with a groan.

"Not this time," replied Wilf. "No, I think we've outstayed our welcome
there for a little while. We'll probably end up smashing it to pieces when
you answer your challenge, so I thought we'd go somewhere else for now."

The van pulled it up in front of a very large forest. Hieronymous could
see a small trail through the trees, leading into the depths of a dark and
mysterious-looking woodland. In the distance, Hieronymous could hear
running water and the sound of owls snoring.

"C'mon, lad," said Wilf cheerfully as he hopped out of the van. "Grab the
stuff and follow me."

"Which stuff?" asked Hieronymous.

"All of it!" replied Wilf, and ran into the forest with surprising speed
for a man of his age. Shrugging, Hieronymous got out of the van and opened
the back door. He stared at the pile of things, most of which were lumps
of solid metal.

"He expects me to carry all THIS?" he asked out loud. He was greeted by
only the sound of silence, running water, and the snoring of the owls.
Shrugging, he grabbed as much of it as he could, strapped the small
refrigerator to his back, and headed off into the forest.

"Wilf?" he yelled.

"OVER HERE!" came a voice from the other side of the forest. "You'll have
to run if you want to catch up!"

"Fuck," muttered Hieronymous, and he set off as fast as he could. He felt
his arms and legs start to burn under the weight of the weights and the
refrigerator. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. His heart
threatened to leap out of his chest. His vision started to blur.

Finally he could take it no more; he collapsed to the ground with a
clanking noise. The fridge jabbed into his floating ribs. Wilf appeared
from behind a tree and stared at the pitiful collapsed wreck of a man.

"Hmm," he muttered. "You made it two feet from the van... not bad."
Sighing, the old man wandered over to his pupil and dragged him to his
feet - weights, fridge and all. He opened the fridge, removed a bottle of
water and passed it to Hieronymous who accepted it gratefully.

"Better?" he asked.

"Sort of," Hieronymous replied.

"Good!" exclaimed Wilf and ran off into the forest again. "Come on then!"

"Oh ah," replied Hieronymous exhaustedly and set off at a running stumble.
It wasn't long before he collapsed again and Wilf had to pull him back to
his feet.

"Five feet that time," said Wilf cheerfully. "Getting better." He helped
Hieronymous to his feet again, and disappeared into the forest. "Not long
now!" he yelled as he ran down the path. "Only a mile to go!"

"WHAT?!" yelled Hieronymous, and collapsed again.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Hieronymous was a wreck. He
was reasonably sure that he'd pulled most of his muscles, and he could
feel aches in places that he didn't know existed.

"That took longer than it should have," grumbled Wilf. "Maggie's gettin'
soft on you in her old age. Why, the last student of hers did it in half
the time."

"Other student?" Hieronymous asked inquisitively.

"Eh..." mumbled Wilf. "He was... a bad egg, let's put it that way. Oh ah.
Anyways, now that we've completed our warm-up exercises, let's do some
stretches!"

"Oh good," said Hieronymous weakly. He threw his equipment down to the
ground and took the fridge off of his back. Wilf motioned him over to a
small grove filled with trees.

"This stretch," Wilf mumbled as he attached bungie cords to Hieronymous's
ankles, "is a good full-body stretch, working the groin muscles." The old
man slung a lasso around Hieronymous's waist and attached it to the ground
by means of a tent peg.

"Umm..."

"Don't worry," Wilf assured Hieronymous, "this'll improve your flexibility
in no time." He slowly bent down a small, flexible sapling and looped one
of the bungie cords to one side - then, stretching across to the other
side of the clearing, he bent down another tree and attached Hieronymous's
other ankle to it by means of a second bungie cord.

"Umm! Umm! Umm!"

"Right!" Wilf yelled, and let go of the trees. The results were quite
predictable.

"Wilf, you UWAAARRGHHHH!"

***

"Damnit Wilf, I might have actually wanted to use that, you know?"

"Trust me, lad, you're better off without it. Anyways, this next stretch
works on the hamstrings."

"Wilf... why are you bending that tree down again?"

"Well, this time we're going to attach this leg to the ground and this leg
to the tree. This way, you can practice kicking above your head!"

"UYAARGRRAAAAH!"

"Oh my," muttered Wilf. "We've got a lot of work to do." He cut
Hieronymous loose from the tree gingerly. "Right. Next leg!"

"UYAARGRRAAAAH!"

***

Half an hour later, Hieronymous had decided that he had broken most of his
bones, pulled all of his muscles, and was now busily destroying his dental
work. His body ached, and the bits that didn't ache had probably fallen
off. He could feel a strange tingling in his lower abdomen below his
navel, like millions of little butterflies were floating around in his
innards.

"Well, that's the stretching," said Wilf. "Now we get down to real work."

"Real work?" asked Hieronymous weakly. "What now?"

"Follow me," replied Wilf cheerfully, "and bring the fridge." Hieronymous
somehow managed to hoist the fridge onto his back, and slowly stumbled off
after Wilf. They walked through the forest for a few minutes, then finally
emerged in front of a small grassy area with a river running through it
and a set of tall bamboo poles painted bright red. Next to them was a
smaller, higher set of bamboo poles painted a darker red. Next to them was
an even higher, even smaller set of bamboo poles, and so on.

"You can put down the fridge for a while," said Wilf. Wheezing and
panting, Hieronymous did so. "Before we can begin training you on the
poles, we need to purify your body in the river."

"How do we do that?" asked Hieronymous.

"Like so," replied Wilf happily, and pushed Hieronymous into the drink.
Hieronymous spluttered and thrashed about for a minute, then hauled
himself to his feet and started to shiver - the water was cold, damnit,
and he wasn't sure if he was refreshed or dead.

Wilf handed him a ladle. "Here, pour water over yourself with this," he
intoned, "while I recite a poem." A shivering Hieronymous dumped ladleful
after ladleful of freezing cold river water over his prostrate form while
Wilf slowly intoned:

"On the Mountains of the Prairie, 
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
He the Master of Life, descending, 
On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations,
Called the tribes of men together."

(Splash, splash. "BRRR!")

"From his footprints flowed a river,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O'er the precipice plunging downward
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.
And the Spirit, stooping earthward,
With his finger on the meadow
Traced a winding pathway for it,
Saying to it, 'Run in this way!'"

Hieronymous stared at Wilf in astonishment. "Pardon me for asking," he
finally managed, "but are you intending to recite the whole of Hiawatha?"

"Yep!" replied Wilf. "One of my favourite poems, that is."

"All of it?" Wilf looked thoughtful.

"I dunno," he said after a moment's pause. "Maybe not Part II, Verse 11. I
never liked that." And so he continued.

***

"In his lodge beside a river,
Close beside a frozen river,"

(Splash! Splash! Splash!)

"Sat an old man, sad and lonely.
White his hair was as a snow-drift;
Dull and low his fire was burning,
And the old man shook and trembled,"

(Splash! Splah... "Damnit, where'd that ladle go? Bugger.... bugger! Ah!" Splash!)

"Folded in his Waubewyon, 
 In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, 
 Hearing nothing but the tempest 
 As it roared along the forest, 
 Seeing nothing but the snow-storm,
 As it whirled and hissed and drifted."

(Splash! Splash!)

***

Finally, a soaking wet Hieronymous pulled himself out of the river. Wilf
threw him a fuzzy towel with ducks and bunnies on it, which he accepted
gratefully.

"What next?" he asked. The funny feeling in his stomach was getting even
funnier. It felt like he'd swallowed a lightning bolt.

"Next," said Wilf, "we ascend the Plum Flower Posts." The old geezer
slowly took off his jacket, revealing a plain white T-shirt with "Kiss the
Sifu" written on it in large black letters. To Hieronymous's astonishment,
his arms were wrapped in what appeared to be heavy metal chains that
threaded under his shirt and were attached to his wrists with metal bands.
Despite their obvious weight, he moved as if they were nothing - a mere
nuisance, nothing more. His motion was still as twitchy and spastic as
ever, but underneath that were the vaguest hints of something that was,
once upon a time.... something else. Hieronymous wasn't sure what exactly.

"Behold," Wilf solemly intoned, "a training method invented three
thousand, two hundred years ago by Shaolin Monks - the Plum Flower Posts!"
He leaped into the air with a cry of "Kiaa!", and to Hieronymous's
amazement landed, on one leg, on top of a post six feet high in the air.
From out of nowhere the wind picked up, and the posts began to sway. Wilf,
from atop his pole, acted as though he couldn't care less.

"In days gone by, the Shaolin Monks would have to leap up the mountainside
on thousands of these poles, carrying buckets of water in each hand!"
yelled Wilf. "If they spilt even a drop, they would have to start again
from the bottom of the mountain! For now though, we'll start you on the
lower but smaller ones."

Finally, thought Hieronymous to himself, sweet sweet moderation. "What,
these ones?" he asked, pointing to a cluster of short, red poles next to
the river.

"No, no," replied Wilf as he jumped off of his pole and landed on the
ground. "These ones over here." He pointed to a patch littered with very
low, very small poles.

"Wilf..." said Hieronymous slowly, "those are toothpicks."

"Nonsense!"

"They certainly are! Look, they're mint-flavoured!"

Wilf picked up a Plum Flower Toothpick and gingerly stuck it between his
teeth. "Hmm," he mumbled. "Perhaps you're right. Eh... you're a big boy,
you can handle the tall poles. First, strap that fridge on your back."

"Ummm... Excuse me," asked Hieronymous, "but why am I strapping a fridge
on my back?"

"In case you get thirsty!" exclaimed Wilf grumpily. "I would of thought
that that was obvious!" Muttering something about disobedient students, he
helped Hieronymous on with his fridge and then leaped back on top of one
of the poles. "You'd best climb up for now," he explained.

Groaning, Hieronymous made his way up to the top of the Plum Blossom
Poles. The poles were tall, slippery and wobbly, and it was a treacherous
climb. The fridge didn't help. Finally he made it to the top of the poles,
and slowly managed to plunk himself down into a horse stance, with his
feet on two poles arranged in a straight line.

Wilf, still perched on one leg like a crane, stared at his pupil
thoughtfully. "Now that you're up here," he asked himself, "what do we
teach you?" He stuck his finger in his ear and twisted. "Hieronymous, lad,
what has Maggie shown you?"

"Not much," admitted Hieronymous. "Some stances, a few blocks, a few
punches, and how to take a fall."

"Damnit," replied Wilf. "If I'd known that she hadn't shown you that much,
we'd have... well, we'd have done something else. Self-defense is vital,
boy! Vital! The Ancient Evil could be anywhere, at any time, and without
good martial arts you'll be defenseless?"

"What about a gun?" asked Hieronymous.

"Bah!" replied Wilf grumpily. "Bullets are fine for some things, but
against opponents such as you'll face nothing will suffice save for the
mighty power of kung fu - the pounding of bone on bone, and occasionally
poking your opponent with some really sharp, funky looking spear things.
Oh ah. Now then," he continued, "we will have to teach you a few things.
First, what do you know about chi?"

"Not much."

"Ahh." Wilf assumed a horse stance similar to Hieronymous's and slowly
started moving through a form, indicating that he should follow along.
Hieronymous did so - slowly, carefully, and with great trepidation moving
across the wobbly, six foot high poles with a fridge strapped on his back.

"As you may or may not know - no, no, lad, turn left! left! That's it! -
everybody has different ideas about what chi is. There is a school of
thought that believes that it simply means 'breathing', there is a school
of thought that feel that it refers to various combinations of breathing
and movement, and there is the school of thought that believes that it's a
mystical, all-permeating energy. Now punch, stand on one leg, kick, spin,
and kick again."

Hieronymous slowly followed along as best he could, with very little grace
indeed. "So which is it?" he asked, his teeth gritted as he tried to
ignore the burning sensations coming from his legs and his arms and that
strange feeling in his stomach that was threatening to spill out of his
stomach, out his throat, and through his mouth. It didn't feel like he was
going to be sick per se, just... strange. A mysterious and creepy
tingling. In a way, it was sort of an exciting feeling. He could feel it
sloshing around as he moved on the poles, sliding down one leg, then up
and into his right arm, then back into his abdomen again.

"Ah..." replied Wilf sagely, "that's where it gets confusing. Chi is all
of those things, and none of those things. It is energy, it is breathing,
and it is a combination of breathing and movement. You'll know it once you
feel it, but until then you'll probably be in the dark. It operates as a
metaphor, and is whatever you think it is."

"That's very useful," said Hieronymous, "except for the ambiguity part."

"Oh ah," replied Wilf. "Well, you'll get the idea. Now one thing about chi
is that no matter what level your metaphor operates on, there are limits
to what it can and cannot do. Even if you accept that chi is energy, you
can't use it to throw great big flaming fireballs or anything fancy like
that. You can use it, however, to gain an advantage over your enemies."
The set slowly ended with a salute, and the two men returned to their
horse stances.

"A little lower, I think," muttered Wilf. Hieronymous complied, and the
burning increased. He felt as though steam was going to come out of his
ears. "Don't worry if it seems too bad," Wilf added, "you'll soon get your
second wind."

"I used up my second wind lugging the damned equipment up here," muttered
Hieronymous through gritted teeth. His knees felt like they were going to
explode.

"Tighten your muscles!" Wilf yelled suddenly, and leapt onto Hieronymous's
set of poles.

"What? Aaagh!" yelled Hieronymous, as Wilf threw a kick in his direction.
It was a slow snap kick, but even still Hieronymous just barely avoided it
by twisting his body under Wilf's foot. "What are you doing - trying to
kill me?"

"Yep!" replied Wilf cheerfully, as he pressed his attack. He twisted on
one leg atop his Plum Blossom Post and prepared to deliver a side kick to
Hieronymous's exposed chest. Hieronymous hastily swept himself up from his
horse stance onto one leg, shifting his entire body onto one pole. Wilf
seized his advantage and leapt onto the poles recently vacated by
Hieronymous, leaving him trapped and with nowhere to go except down.

The old man no longer seemed like his usual amiable, friendly or senile
self, but was instead possessed of a burning intensity that Hieronymous
had never seen him with before. He desperately tried to counterattack, but
Wilf blocked his wobbly, inexpertly thrown punch with a crane block and
shot his other hand forward, aiming for Hieronymous's face with a tiger
claw attack to the eyes. Hieronymous wobbled and swerved out of the way,
but he quickly noticed that Wilf's attack was a feint. The real attack
came in the form of another side kick, aimed right for Hieronymous's
chest. Even if he managed to block the kick, the impulse from absorbing
the blow would still knock him off the pole and down onto the ground. He
had nowhere to dodge, and nowhere else to put his feet. The fridge on his
back was threatening to send him tumbling towards the ground at any
minute, and only served to make his movements even more clumsy and
dangerous.

He racked his mind for options, but found none. There was no way out for
Hieronymous Smith.

"Now, boy," yelled Wilf, "now we'll see if you've got what it takes!"