Rejas was nudged onto the path to war on August fourteenth, though at the time, we were unaware of where we were headed. For me, it began as I lectured a group of my students on knife fighting and personal philosophy.
“So what makes this stuff you teach any different than the old taekwondo I took when I was a kid?” Rene Herrera had started classes a year ago after her husband had been killed during a skirmish with a band of looters. A fierce, determined woman, her attitude sometimes bordered on belligerence. Her fighting style was aggressive, but effective. In Rene’s particular case, I was less concerned with her fighting techniques than with her mental and emotional self-control. So when she asked a seemingly insolent question, I usually chose to ignore the tone and address the question itself.
In this instance, I had a ready answer since I had often been asked the same thing when I spoke with prospective students back in Houston. “It’s a different way of looking at things. Let me ask you something. If a rattlesnake attacks you, what do you do?”
“Get out of the way”
“And if you can’t? Say, if your back is to a wall, and there’s just no place to run. Then what would you do?”
“I guess I’d try to kill the snake.”
“All right. So what if you were back against that same wall, and you were being attacked by a mouse?”
She chuckled. “What?”
I repeated, “You’re in the same corner, nowhere to run, but this time it’s a mouse coming after you.”
“I think I’d probably wet myself laughing!” Many of the others laughed, too. I smiled with them as I paced.
“Why? What’s the difference? Why are you more worried about the snake than the mouse?” I turned back to Rene. “I know it seems silly, but there is a point to this.”
The young woman looked at me like I was crazy. “’Cause the snake is poisonous?” Her uncertainty made it seem as if she was asking a question.
“So what if I tell you that the snake isn’t poisonous, and the mouse is? Then which one are you more worried about?”
“The mouse, of course.”
“So it isn’t the snake you’re afraid of, it’s the bite, right?”
“Okay,” Rene conceded cautiously, apparently wary of being caught in a trap.
“Now, what if you’re being attacked by the same rattlesnake, but he hasn’t got any fangs? Are you still afraid of him?”
Her answer was firmer this time. “No. If he can’t bite me, he’s just dinner.”
“Exactly! If you take away his fangs, he’s no longer a danger. So if you and I are fighting, and everything about us is equally matched-skill, speed, weapons, reach, determination-are you afraid?”
“Not if everything is equal. Sounds like a standoff.”
“That’s it. But what if I lose my weapon? I’m just like that rattlesnake, right? No fangs. In Kali, we learn to de-fang snakes. The difference in this and what most martial arts teach is simple, but it’s important. If a man punches at you, and you’ve studied a traditional martial art, you’ll more than likely block or parry, then counterattack, usually by punching or kicking to the head, legs, or torso.
“If the same man punches you, and you’ve studied Kali, your block
It was time to move on to the next part of my lecture. “There are very few things you can count on in life. The pre-D saying was that the only two things you could count on were death and taxes. But I haven’t seen the IRS in quite some time.”
They laughed obligingly, and I continued, “That seems to indicate the only thing that’s inevitable is death. Now you may not be able to avoid Death, but with the right attitude, and proper preparation, you can usually convince Him that there are easier pickings elsewhere.”
“Rule number one.” I pulled a throwing knife out of my belt. “Always carry at least two knives. Always. If you lose one…” I threw the blade, and they all watched as it stuck in the wooden target. When they turned back to face me, I had drawn two others from hidden arm sheathes. Image and attitude were everything in martial arts, so I continued unperturbed, as if I had done nothing in the least bit surprising. “You have a backup, and you’re never unprepared. Remember, it’s better to…”
They all knew the saying by that time, and joined in, “… have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”
I saw some of the students glance over my shoulder, then back. I had repeatedly stressed to my classes that they should always be prepared for the unexpected, never underestimate their opponents, and never let themselves be taken by surprise.
It had therefore become something of an ongoing challenge for them to try and catch me by surprise, and they all wanted to be on hand if it happened. I could tell by the way they studiously avoided looking toward me that someone was coming from the house. Searching their faces, I noted that Rene had an expression of intense loathing on her face.
Remembering how her husband had died, I spoke without turning. “What is it, Billy?” Image again.
I sensed his surprise as well as that of the gathered students as he paused before speaking. “Sensei, someone to see you.”
I turned to face the young man who had come up beside me. Billy Worecski had changed quite a bit since Ken and I had carried him into the hospital two years back, not so much physically, as emotionally.
At first insisting on his innocence in the attack on the ill-fated Robertsons, he had testified at his trial that he and his friends had come upon the scene after the couple was dead. They had simply taken advantage of the empty house full of food and liquor.
When Megan, Ken, and I testified that his buddies were also “taking advantage” of Pat Robertson’s corpse, and that we had heard two of the thugs joking about how they had killed John Robertson, it became obvious to him that he was in a losing situation. At that point, he changed his story completely. He broke down, admitting he had been with the group when they had overrun the Robertson’s home, but still denying that he had actually killed anyone. He was a young kid who had been swept up with a group of killers and was too afraid to leave.
Rejas’s forensic specialist supported this testimony, stating that none of the wounds sustained by John Robertson had been made by the rifle I had taken from Billy that day.
The judge, however, found him guilty of felony murder since the Robertsons had both died during the commission of a felonious act in which Billy admitted involvement. He deliberated a long time before passing a most unusual sentence.
“I have never before been called upon to pass judgment on a case so terrible. It has, in the past, been my great fortune to preside in a peaceful town. I have always been a believer in the sanctity of life, and it infuriates me to hear of the brutal deaths of two of my townspeople. I am sorely tempted to pass a sentence of death as an example to any who might think to repeat such a heinous act.” He had paused dramatically, staring straight into Worecski’s eyes, making him shift nervously in his seat.
“But since the insanity of the Doomsday War,” he continued, “it seems to me that every life is doubly precious, and I find I cannot bring myself to take another, even such a miserable life as that of Billy Worecski, as it won’t bring John or Patricia Robertson back to us.
“So I am faced with the problem of finding a way to assure myself and my constituents of Mr. Worecski’s good behavior if I allow him to live. Life in prison would be the normal sentence, but the nearest prison is in Huntsville and, considering the condition of the country right now, it is probably full of radioactive fallout and dead prisoners.
“I therefore have granted myself a bit of imaginative license. I rule that Billy Worecski shall be marked with a tattoo in the middle of his forehead for all to see and recognize. He shall be released into the custody of Kenneth Simms, as it is Mr. Simms who spared his life when he could easily have taken it. He shall be Mr. Simms’ charge for a period of ten years, at which time his record shall be reviewed. If he has shown himself to be a dependable
