Slick Victory
A Kung Fu Cinema Love Letter
Inspired by Hong Kong Blood Opera
By Waylon L. Royce
Enjoy.
Rain falls where it may.
Two bitter men stand several feet apart from each other in a straight line, one decked out in black leather and the other wearing only a tank top and jeans.
Both stare each other down through the cold onslaught of droplets. They each then get into their respective stances.
Tao Wong is a dangerous Pak Mai specialist. Like a Wing Chun master, his hands are his best weapons. Lightning fast counter attacks, strong blocks, and a focus on forward flurries. But he mixes it up with devastating throws and isn’t afraid to use the environment.
Across from him, rolling his shoulders to relieve tension, is Hector Gracie. A Brazilian immigrant with Mexican heritage, he has the genes for combat and the traditions that taught him honor, respect, and loyalty. All forms of positive, spiritual strength. This is reflected in his training: Baji Quan, the Kung Fu form that closely resembled Silat with its focus on brutal elbows and knees outside of grappling, distancing it from Mauy Thai but also sharing the power and speed from it’s raw striking.
The combatants are set, and the gods are watching. No one will be around to witness this game of death two broken souls are about to play.
And with their own bodies.
Almost as if a gong sounded, the fighters charge.
Hector comes flying in with a superman elbow. Tao deftly ducks under and avoids a follow up jab, deflecting a straight immediately after and then seizing Hector’s head by spinning inside his space and quickly hip-tossing him to the soaked, rough concrete below.
Hector cautiously climbs to his feet, angrily glaring at his opponent the entire time.
This time Tao advances.
Hector struggles to block a flurry of blows, and, after taking a few hard shots to the body, switches to visor guard, a high block with the elbows sticking out, to make his opponent hit fist to sharp joint. It works after a couple more attacks, and Tao sends his right hand careening into one of Hector’s elbows. There’s a loud pop and Tao grunts in pain, distracting him long enough for Hector to strike his left hand away, then unleash a combo of his own. He lands a back elbow, a low flying knee, and then clinches his opponent to begin hammering his face with more elbows.
But Tao recovers not too long after and creates distance with an explosive arm drag. He then drops down and attempts a Dragon Tail leg sweep. Hector springs upward to avoid it but is nailed with a spinning back kick and then a regular single leg sweep. He crashes below once more.
Tao Wong yanks on the ends of his sleek, shining jacket to adjust it. He settles into his stance once more and slowly approaches his enemy.
Hector painfully steadies himself. Once he’s up, he follows suit and, repeatedly, two fighters stare the other down again in the dim light of a derelict Hong Kong backstreet, surrounding by shabby apartments and darkness.
It’s Yin and Yang from any rooftop view. Tao in his black leather standing on one side, the light more present in his area, and Hector on the other side, in his bright white wife beater, more darkness around him.
Two perfect opposers.
Clashing in the night.
Hector comes in flying with a high Superman elbow. Tao spins away. Hector closes the distance with a stepping side kick which is blocked, and parries a received combo before shooting back with his own. Tao deflects an elbow, sidesteps a palm strike, blocks a knee, and then invades once he avoids a mid straight, parrying it effortlessly and pressing on with multiple straights and palm strikes of his own, even slaps. Hector is bombarded, and blocks high, which Tao takes advantage of and throws a vicious roundhouse to his liver, doubling the man over before grappling him and sweeping his legs while he shoves his head down. Once grounded, Tao simply stays floating above his opponent and begins bombarding Hector with mixed strikes once again, his attacks seemingly as fast as the rain.
Hector is dazed and down, but not out. He sends his assailant back with his feet, exploding upwards and spinning away from a punch as he turns into a side kick which his opponent catches.
Perfect.
Hector jumps and twists, kicking Tao away with the other foot and then throws a wild tornado kick, which his opponent ducks but not the subsequent 540, which nails him straight in the jaw and drops him instantly.
Hector is something of an experimental pioneer in the streets.
And he’s not afraid to reach deep down in the proverbial well.
He tries to rub some of the rainwater from his eyes as he watches Tao writhe in pain before barely making it back up.
Tao realizes he needs to finish this now.
For the final time, both fighters square up.
Here in the Kung Fu capital, mutual combat can get this bloody.
And in honorable combat, you fight to your own end.
Both men advance, circling each other ever so slowly. Studying each other. Twitching at every movement and daring the other every second to advance first.
It’s not style vs style.
It’s not heritage vs heritage.
It’s not even origin vs origin.
It was never that shallow.
Maybe with other arts, but, the misguided and overplayed school rivalries aside, Kung Fu, despite its many doubters and naysayers over the years, has always maintained its most important teaching. From the sanctified slums to the mountainous Shaolin temples, one thing has always held steadfast and true since it’s ancient origins in China. One forgotten tradition many people and even teachers choose to ignore these days.
Repetition. In practice, in maintaining balance, and, most importantly, in times of need.
As one legendary fighter once said, “Absorb what is useful, discard what is not.”
And, like most aspects of Kung Fu, that still rings true today.
Hector has no defense for the flurries.
If I can just focus my chi, my breathing, my will on one more series, I can finish him, Tao realizes.
He adjusts his stance accordingly, midway for neutral protection, but also for a hard to read appearance.
He gestures for the man to take the initiative.
Hector does. He let’s out a war cry and throws a crisp jab.
Blocked. It’s not what Tao needed.
Then a straight comes.
Parried. You’re getting warmer, hombre.
Then, finally, an angry hook, swinging wide. Tao’s pupils dilate instantly, like a snake before it’s bite. He clocks Hector with an elbow, the slashes twin tiger claws down his face, following up with a teep kick to his left knee, and an axe kick over top and behind his head as he falls.
Tao smells blood like a shark, and closes in.
Finish it, a voice in his head commands coldly.
Just like that, Hector is knocked unconscious, and Tao Wong stands victorious, but not for long. He bows deeply to his fallen foe before kneeling before him and asking the gods to bless him with a good recovery for fighting fearlessly and being a worthy opponent.
The man then removes his jacket and covers Hector with it to shield him from the rain after dragging him off the street and propping him comfortably against a wall.
“Duō xiè," Tao says, before wandering off into the night, slick but victorious.
(Some martial arts movies are really good.)Anyway, it depends on the story’s background.
