Douglas Song
Mountain Park Street
... all until a group of men loitering about a car caught sight of him. Three of the five figures, those kneeling beside one of the wheels, stood slowly. The other two, both by the trunk of the sedan, lookouts as they were, began speaking among one another. The interloper and stranger kept on his walk down the cracked sidewalk despite the glares and bolstering they did; a series of subtle metallic ringings striking out by the tire, the thieves picking up of their tools.
Song paused then in his stride and came to a halt, as of yet to look up at the quintet of young men. Some of them wore bandannas about the face, another a partial mask, and the last nothing more than the brim of his crisp hat, that which still bore a glinting sticker on its bill. The standoff was drawn-out, laden with a sense of understanding that they had been caught in the act. They spoke a bit among one another and fanned out on each side of the car, some brandishing tire irons, slim jims, another a ratchet. The tallest among them, the one with hat, lingered back a bit, seeming to size up something about all of this was off; his four cohorts however, did not.
"Not sure why you stopped, probably about to regret it."
"Wrong side of the street, man. You could'a left."
Those words, among others began, to fill the late night air though the black clad man interfering chose to do only one thing. He reached for the zipper of his coat and shed the black hoodie, casting it to the corner of a building, still keeping the white cowl over his head. The four aggressors paused - it was a strange gesture, perhaps just as strange as some random Asian man far out of his own neighbor hood showing up to pick a fight while wearing a fairly ornate jacket under another one. Song finally looked to them as they stood there, a bit delayed.
"First." The Golden Tiger commanded, to which they looked at one another in even more baffled gawking.
The "first" were two on the left, followed by the far right, and by the time the first swing of the metal pry bar came, the interloper had dropped into a low, wide set stance. He pivoted in on the leading foot, completely avoiding the blunt weapon's impact, and snapped the base of the leading fist into the attacker's throat, sending him heaving into a heap, gasping for air. The second attacker, seeing the back of their now intended victim, swung wide and wild the tire iron, two of its four rusted prongs rushing past the Golden Tiger who, with preternatural agility and insight, leaned back to the point he was almost a perfectly parallel with the ground before snapping back up.
Off balance from the weight and awkwardness of his own weapon, the second man stumbled and prepared another attack while the third man brought down an overhead blow with the slim jim, wielding it like a makeshift yet blunted sword. Song merely stepped into the attack, sending the man's forearms crashing into his shoulder. Instead of a scored hit against the Golden Tiger with a weapon, the martial artist delivered a flurry of some seven short, tight punches chambered from the waist to the other's abdomen, sending him staggering back. Not content to disorient the attacker, the Golden Tiger leapt and spun, the first of the bolley kick catching the man in the face, the second striking into his side before the recipient of the attack even hit the pavement; another attacker fell, truly unconscious.
The second man, wheeling around once more, swung with an uppercut, leading with the tire iron, only to have the target step back out of the way as his own weight and momentum carried him through and past. The last of the four attackers followed, charging in at what he saw for an opportunity, drawing back to punch mid-charge and only finding himself coming to roaring halt as the monk dropped low; a single, enormous strike of the tiger's paw to his sternum took all the wind from him - the blow amplified by literally running headlong into it. Song, his most recent attacker collapsed on the ground, pivoted again to catch the falling bite of the tire iron and chose to defend against the last standing attacker's blow at the wrist. The sudden jarring through the man's arm and up hiss shoulder, caught at a nerve through the counterattack, only made him howl in pain and twist his body in toward Song.
At this point the dubiously christened hero only twisted the man's arm and rolled under it, stepping in and behind him, pinning it to his back until it gave. Weapon dropped, clattering to the ground, the pair stood there for no longer than a thought; the man went to beg to spare his arm, but by then it was much too late. Twisting back around, once more in front of his attacker, the Golden Tiger swung the man forward until the arm gave and his opponent rolled over his back - Song leaning forward - ensuring the tire iron's bearer slammed into the concrete. Releasing the now limp, broken arm of the final felled figure, it dropped beside the groaning man, loomed over by the still standing white, gold, and black marauder.
The fifth man took a step back, lifting his hands in submission.
"'Ey man, like, you beat my boys to sh-"
Having wisely stayed out of the conflict, the Golden Tiger gave a single nod.
"Your money."
"My what?"
"Your money. Give it to me." Song said as he did not so much as flinch or twist, allowing the eerie stillness of his posture speak for him alongside the miserable sounds of four very broken thugs.
The man started to reach for his wallet, hesitating, but committed when he soon realized things were not going well. The Golden Tiger had more demands, his eyes beneath the white cowl sizing up the jacketed figure as he handed over his cash. There was no sense of danger or urgency, the other four were not going anywhere any time soon, but the last man had something else, something the martial artist was going to relieve him of other than his cash.
"The gun." His voice added, icy cold as he slowly closed his fist about the contents of the wallet.
Needless to say, the man complied as well, slowly lifting up his shirt and carefully withdrawing the smooth black metallic finish of a handgun. Looking away, ashamed he either hadn't the courage to have pulled it or that he was being robbed by a man with no weapons, he placed it in the other free hand Song had put forth while the original had gone to pocket the cash. The Beretta's metal grip fell into the Golden Tiger's palm and he ferreted it away into the sash under his jacket, that which rode tight against his abdomen.
"Leave. Take them."
Aghast, the hatted crook of the pair shuffled past, hands still up by his shoulders. All that the fighter did then was collect his jacket, layer it over himself, and disappear into the night before the storm.
