Murdock: A Tale of Anger

[BadKnight]

The adrenaline that surges through the body when combat is entered is unlike anything else. All human worries subside - doubt and fear become distant memories from the combatant. A primal, intrinsic, ancient relationship to violence is brought forward. One that is closer in shape to that of an animal than the falsely judged man. Sensibility and etiquette are lost in the warfare. Fingers dig into holes and sockets, ripping and scratching. Blood is swallowed with invigorating pleasure creating an thirst that had not previously existed. The sound of bone breaking and crunching, your own or not, is that of a sweet symphony - encouraging the repetition of the action. There is no thought toward health and well-being, no sympathy for the opponent because there is none for you. Pain is endorsed; a threshold that is beckoned to be tested and only satiated by the howl of pain that finally leaks through enraged lips. A scowl is not belittling, a growl is not feral but welcome; there is no judgment here.

To return from that is a most daunting process. A process that some might deem impossible. To go from such an extreme in violence and mayhem, to come back to the ground; to be a man on a street corner speaking to a merchant. The concept of intimacy, of humble relationships, of civilization are foreign to one who chews on an enemy’s neck in order to grant victory. How can a man then be expected to function normally in society?

The rage of a barbarian is said to be a terrifying thing; one that makes man a vessel for the unleashed fury. Then, when either victory or defeat meets them, they return to their tribe; to their den of uncivilization.

But where does that rage go?

Murdock was not fortunate. It was not the wild, though try as hard as he might, that he rested in. The allure of alcohol too strong to dismiss mankind, the temptation of a woman’s flesh too pleasing to succumb to abstinence. It was the tavern that he sought for his solace on most nights; and a man of his mind-frame would find it most difficult to conduct a regular dialogue with another patron. To witness a bar fight to occur right before his waking eyes, to feel the heat and intensity of battle before him and have the hairs on his neck stand on edge.

“What should we do with him?” the first man asked.

“I’m not certain…” a second man replied.

“His father was no better,” a third man grunted. “His mother was a whore, as well. What could be expected from this mongrel?”

“Aye,” the first man responded. “I can attest for his mother myself,” he chuckled coldly at that his own, cruel words.

“Prison?” The second man finally, exasperated. “Exile? Death?”

“The leader of his fang says he shows great potential,” the third man continued, not truly considering the options given by his associate.

“He shows a rage that few Berserkers do; a rage that many would desire.”

“His rage can not be controlled.” The first man stated firmly. “He has no place here. He should be killed the same way his father was. This dog needs to be put d--”

“No!”

The three men turned their attention toward the shout. Not far from them he kneeled; his neck, wrists and ankles bound by steel and rope to the wall behind him. He was naked. His sinewy, hairy body hunched on the ground. Bruises of a variety of colors painted his physique; blood, fresh and dried, hung to his skin with desperation. His head was shaved down past the root, past the skin, and into the bone - pieces of the inner working of man showed through the damaged person.

“No,” Murdock stated again as the silence blanketed the room. The veins on his neck revealed themselves brilliantly on his neck. His breathing was heavy and the look of a madman took hold of his gaze. He fought against the restraints until blood broke from his wrists and neck; the pressure stopping his breath each time he fought. His panting was hoarse and uneven.

“He speaks,” the first man said after the silence had enveloped the room for nearly a minute. His footsteps echoed throughout the chamber as his strides brought him closer to Murdock.

Murdock resisted as he could; moving his neck wildly so he could not be grabbed, but his restrictions made the inevitable even more certain. The first man grabbed him by the jaw, squeezing his mouth open with the pressure of his thumb and index finger. He then spit straight into Murdock’s mouth, down his leveled throat, sending Murdock choking on the other man’s saliva.

“Speak out of turn like that again and I’ll be putting fouler things down you,” the first man threatened menacingly.

“I ain’t afraid of a cunt -,” Murdock’s words were ended quickly as the first man struck him across the face with an opened palm.

The blow was quickly followed up with a foot to the stomach. It sent Murdock groaning on the floor; a thick, red mark of a boot tarnishing his abdominal.

“You’re testing my patience,” the first man said, attempting to regain his former composure. The two other men quickly joined his sides as they all looked down at Murdock with displeasure.

“Death it shall be,” the third man said, finally answering the second man’s question.

“Combat!” Murdock blurted out in-between fits of choking. “I demand trial by fuckin’ combat!”

The three men looked at each other, seeming to have a telepathic conversation; one that exempt Murdock from hearing the dialogue.

After their long stare, they turned back to look at Murdock. “Very well,” the first man eventually said. “But you forget what I said about speaking out of turn.”

The man unzipped his trousers.