Traveller Inceptio

After the wet chill of New Zealand’s rugged South Island, the warmth of their short flight to Auckland saw most of the team catch up on sleep. Their Swanndris steamed damply and most woke to find themselves in the final approach for a couple of days of R&R. Their departure from the hunting camps had been emotional, as each of the men had made enduring friendships with their kind and generous hosts. To Hunter’s amusement, Kai had also enlisted the services of a taxidermist to professionally prepare and pack their trophy antlers and boar-jaws for transport.

“What the fuck am I going to do with two sets of antlers?” whispered Hurley quizzically.

“Or any of us.” Hunter nodded to the impressive pile prepared for shipment with their usually minimal personal luggage.

“Well, at least we aren’t Poxon,” noted Hurley, and there were laughs all round, for Poxon had been barely seen, having been accosted by Paula, the attractive young woman who seemed intent on making their final moments together even more memorable.

Hunter was relieved that, for once, the powers-that-be didn’t skimp on expenses, as they were to stay in the Auckland Hyatt. Their arrival caused a stir among the more salubrious crowd as the men arrived still dressed in their smelly, dirty gear and muddy combat boots. Hunter recalled the Auckland of his early childhood as little more than a sleepy town. Now it was a glittering city of international renown.

Hunter made the most of the five-star life, luxuriating in a hot shower, and then crashed onto a real bed to watch some TV. Thankfully his phone soon rang, as the lads were ready to hit the town, so he met Hurley, Leishman and Morris at reception. It was Saturday night in Auckland, so they hoped there was a lot to see and do. They dined at a superb restaurant on Auckland Harbour, their first civilised meal in what seemed months, and then followed a waiter’s directions to some nightspots. They ended up in one of the more adventurous clubs on Auckland’s once notorious Karangahape Road, called K Road, littered with the usual seedy strip clubs, tattoo parlours, convenience stores, and drinking establishments. Hurley was particularly interested in having a drink, so they selected one club that seemed to have promise. After being inspected by the bull-necked Pacific Islander security, they were welcomed with a curt, friendly nod. Hunter smiled at the image they must have projected with their moustaches, beards, and scruffy hair, as unmilitary as possible.

The club was the usual for most of the western world, as it was dimly lit with flashing light shows, giant video screens, loud repetitive music, and a sparse population of young people who were just doing what kids normally do when on the town. For clubs, the night was still young, so after Hurley bought the first round of drinks, they found a pool table and watched the girls while they played a round or two. Hurley and Leishman were a deadly combination, impossible to beat, while Morris just seemed to enjoy life in general, his genial smile growing broader with every beer consumed. To Hunter, he looked like a real Viking, for Morris took pride in his big, blonde moustache that was far more luxuriant than any of the others’ efforts. Leishman seemed to have trouble growing anything at all, something Morris never let him forget. Hunter knew that Morris had served with Leishman in joint operations in Afghanistan and together they made an odd couple, the tall muscular Viking with the skinny kid from Idaho. Leishman was a Mormon, raised to eschew alcohol, tobacco, and recreational drugs. He drank his soda water with a slice of lemon while the rest drank their beers, though they knew their tolerances. Morris jokingly called Leishman “Stork”, and with his slim build and beaky nose, the friendly jibe had become his team nickname.

By midnight the club had filled and the girls were more numerous, though to Hunter they were far too young for the endlessly futile pursuit of romance. They could still appreciate the scenery and Leishman, who was the youngest, seemed to go by the SAS adage of ‘Who Dares Wins’ and busily chatted with a couple of attractive and friendly Polynesian girls. Morris did a lot of laughing and Hurley and Hunter enjoyed the rare night away from training.

Leishman racked up another set and was ready to break when he was approached by a big, muscular Maori lad. By now the club was a happening place, crowds of drinkers and dancers providing some entertaining people watching. Many were Polynesian, a mix of Maoris, Tongans, Samoans, and a range of other island nations all mixed together into a polyglot mass. Murdoch’s training selection process tended to favour men who weren’t giants, with Morris and Osborne the exceptions. Morris was a muscular 6ft 2, so some of the big Islanders towered over the visitors, as did the Maori boy who was talking to Leishman. Hunter leaned forward to hear what was going on through the noise of the crowd and the thumping music.

“This is my table, bro!” the man exclaimed.

Leishman leaned forward to pretend he hadn’t heard, and to Hunter’s amusement, immediately made himself look vulnerable. “Sorry?” he said.

“No sorry, this is my table, bro!” The antagonist was big and beefy, with the arrogance and barely curtailed violence of a football player. His pockmarked visage scowled in a manner that would have made Wallace proud. Hurley was also aware of what was happening and, with Morris, watched the interaction as the Canadian laughed out loud.

“You have a problem, bro? This is my table now.” The interloper reached out for the cue Leishman held and looked over to a couple of big lads who had appeared at the opposite side of the table. They watched Leishman with hostile stares that were set to intimidate the skinny little Yank who, if all went to plan, was certainly going to get the shit kicked out of him at any minute.

Leishman looked at his adversaries with wide eyes and then, unable to maintain the façade, burst out in laughter. “No, buddy, we’re here now, but you can play after we’re done with this game if you like.”

The big lad stopped for a second in astonished delight, as it wasn’t the response he was used to or expected. Each of the team knew some pubs had the types who saw intimidating others out of their pool tables as a time-honoured tradition and a way to score some free pool, or perhaps initiate a little biff. The Maori looked to his back-up in delight and they seemed to swell in size and threat. One of them picked up the cue ball as the other sauntered to step closer to Leishman. The big lad then turned swiftly to seize Leishman by the front of his shirt. That was his intent, but as often happens in life, things don’t quite go as planned.

Without any visible effort, Leishman grasped the big man’s thumb and folded it down onto itself and squeezed. Leishman was a black belt in karate and aikido and, like the others, had been thoroughly trained in the Russian military’s brutally effective martial arts. Each knew how this crippling hold should be applied and how it felt, so there was no surprise when the big man grimaced, paled, and then dropped to his knees as if he had been hit by an M60 round. He was suddenly in the position to do whatever Leishman wanted.

The two companions were also stalled. Hunter placed a hand on the chest of one of the big lads, smiled, and just shook his head in warning as Morris simply stepped into the path of the other, smiled his big, blonde mustachio smile and put out his hand for the pool ball, which was likely to be used as a weapon. The aggressors looked at each other in surprise before the ball was meekly placed into Morris’ hand where it was gently returned to the table.

Leishman leaned forward and spoke into the kneeling man’s ear with a hiss. “Listen, you piece of shit, I can kill you in a dozen ways right now and each one of my friends can make this the last night you and your friends spend on earth. I suggest you just wait and we’ll give you the table after our game, okay?” He watched as the fashionably shaved and gelled hair rose and fell with a sullen nod. Leishman let go of the hand, and ignoring the man’s involuntary sigh of relief, returned to the table to place his next shot.

Humiliated, the big man stood, and head down, sidled off while holding his thumb tenderly in his other hand. His two accomplices again looked at each other and simply followed as they melted into the noisy bustle of the crowd.

Hunter, Hurley, and Morris watched Leishman as he quickly potted three balls. He looked up and smiled his boyish smile and shrugged as Morris laughed loudly.

“I must be hearing things, cos I’m sure I heard you swear, Stork,” Morris called out over the music.

Leishman just laughed and shook his head.

Hunter could tell that Hurley was in the mood for some action, so was relieved that the trio of bullies had cleared off. Two hulking security staff members immediately made an appearance. Hunter guessed they knew the culprits and that fights were a frequent occurrence when they were in the pool-table area. Leishman simply nodded a greeting and Morris waved a friendly hello. Vague surprise on their simian faces, they shrugged and wandered into the crowd to cruise for any infraction, real or imagined, that would allow them to instigate a forced ejection and the occasional thump if resisted. After all, that was their job.

The potential for senseless violence caused the men to become bored with the club scene, so they decided to leave. As they exited, they passed crowds of fashionably dressed club-goers lined up on the grubby sidewalk as security monitored who would be permitted the privilege of paying for entry. Lights flashed gaudily on a shabby canopy rimmed with light globes. A few had blown, like a smile with missing teeth. They watched as a beefy young woman screamed colourful abuse at one of the bouncers. His reaction was a hefty shove in her face that sent her flying down the street. She landed with an undignified thump onto her ample bottom, legs spread and knickers flashing as shoes flew. The only reaction from the crowd was an odd titter of amusement, as if the young woman’s plight was a normal occurrence. The chastened woman, obviously worse for wear from alcohol, was helped from the grubby sidewalk to her unsteady feet by Hurley. Compared to the inside of the club, the entrance had a mood that was ugly and expectant, where despite the security and CCTV cameras, violence was a normal and anticipated part of the evening’s entertainment.

The young blonde barely acknowledged Hurley as he assisted her and she swayed alarmingly. “Can we call you a taxi, love?” he asked solicitously, but she shrugged off his hand, and without a word of thanks, teetered off down the street, carrying one of her shoes with a newly broken heel. Hurley shook his head in disbelief.

Leishman was about to make a comment when they heard the scuffle of feet behind them. Hunter turned in alarm in time to see Leishman hit from behind. The American had barely raised an arm in protection and he went down as the same big Maori bully they had met inside obviously decided to take revenge on his earlier humiliation.