There's no greater teacher than experience.
Eddie Dryden kept telling himself that as he walked through one of the more blue-collar districts of Greenfield. Stevedores and mechanics lived here, their homes cheap but proud and well-maintained. The type of people who would go out for a drink or nine at night but were still too straight-laced to visit the Lush District. Physically strong, prideful, drunk men- exactly what Eddie was after this cold November night.
Eddie knew in his heart that he was a genius and possessed of incredible physical power, but even he knew that it would take more than that. Eddie had been in a few scuffles in high school, but nothing serious, nothing like the fights he imagined Joshua would face in the near future. He doubted that Handsome Jack had never thrown a punch before taking on Sam Giancana back in '63. And so Eddie was out and about this fine evening looking for someone to pick a fight with. Because there's no greater teacher than experience.
It was cold, but that was no real surprise, this was the Bay Area after all. Eddie drew his black trenchcoat around himself- it had been chosen more for aesthetics than warmth. Besides he didn't have far to go. He saw the many beer signs in the window of Noonan's, the local Irish pub in this working-class neighborhood. Excellent. Eddie stole into the gravel wasteland behind the bar, a graveyard of discarded bottles- the staff didn't care if the patrons bought one last beer for the walk home, and in their inebriated state the patrons didn't care where they dropped that one last beer. Animals. Eddie sneered. He did not drink himself, so of course anyone who drank was stupid and wrong. That was a fact.
Crouched behind a car, Eddie knew he wouldn't have long to wait. Beer gives a man a powerful urge, and with the bathrooms no doubt full inside it wouldn't be long until some fool staggered out to relieve himself in this vacant lot.
As if on cue, the back door swung open and some fool staggered out. Some kind of blue-collar worker, still wearing his denims and dark blue work shirt. Getting a couple drinks on the way home. The man undid his fly and sighed in contentment as Eddie slowly picked his way towards him, making as little sound as possible until he was about three feet behind the man. He was a little bigger than Eddie, more filled out, a couple years older. Good. This would make a good test. “Hey, motherfucker,” he whispered. He intended to sound hoarse, deep, mature, but Eddie was a little dismayed that his voice instead sounded petulant and immature. “Maybe you should get yourself a diaper?”
The man- the embroidered nametag revealed his name to be Dennis- spun around to face Eddie, his fly still open. “Jesus, dude, don't go sneaking around like that,” he raged.
“Why, worried someone's going to see that?” Eddie said with a wave at the man. “Nothing to see there.”
Drunk as he was, Dennis at least had the presence of mind to zip up before grabbing the lapel of Eddie's long coat. “Listen, punk-”
His threat turned into a grunt as Eddie grabbed the man's hand with his own and applied a hapkido joint lock he had religiously studied on online demonstration videos. At least that was the plan- turns out doing a fairly complicated martial arts maneuver on a non-compliant opponent is pretty difficult. Rather than falling down and becoming helpless putty in Eddie's hands, Dennis growled at the show of resistance and yanked his hand free with ease.
Eddie went to plan B, a low kick to his knee. It connected with an audible crack. Already off-balance from beer and pulling himself free, Dennis gave a groan and dropped down to one knee, massaging his injured knee. Eddie pressed the attack, but Dennis recovered more quickly than he could have assumed, straightening as Eddie swarmed into him and swinging a fist.
Eddie had never really been seriously punched, and as such was not really prepared for the weight of the fist crashing against his chin, the whiplash in his neck as his head flew back, the green and purple lights in front of his eyes. Luckily, he had a second chance to observe the effects of being punched less than a second later as Dennis landed a left hook on him again. Stumbling backwards, blood in his mouth and hands raised blindly in front of him, Eddie shook his head in an effort to clear the sparks. “Had enough?” Dennis demanded, fists waggling, lightly bouncing on his toes.
Eddie had not had enough. Instead he threw himself forwards, thumbs outstretched like the claws of a cat. And this time he found his target. The thumping jukebox inside Noonan's covered the sound of Dennis screaming in pain.
Eddie, for his own part was fascinated by what he felt with his thumbs. The hot blood, the sticky yellow fluid of the retinas, the soft white flesh of the eyes. He had never considered what this might feel like, but now that he was in here he was suddenly curious. Eddie strained, pushing his thumbs in further, felt them burst like grapes inside Dennis' head. Dennis was suddenly powerless, unable to weep the tears this pain would normally bring, unable to fight back. Instead he just sank to the gravel, whimpering in agony.
Eddie finally drew his hands free, wiped his dripping thumbs on the other man's shirt as he rolled in the gravel clutching at his face. “Good fight,” Eddie said. “That was my first time. So, uh, any advice or notes?” Dennis gave a strangled sob in response. Eddie shrugged. “That's the problem with Jericho,” he said. “Nobody wants to help anyone else.”
He walked off into the night, in search of more practice. Because there's no greater teacher than experience. Anyone nearby might have heard a few whistled snatches of “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho” on the cold November wind.
