Anything But a Gentleman

We find a young man taking the first step in changing his life forever...

A young man with shaggy hazel-colored hair tucked underneath a dark brown knit cap sat alone at a dimly-lit bar. The rickety wooden stool underneath him creaked and moaned with each motion he made, threatening to drop him to the equally rickety floorboards below. His gaze wandered all around the room as he sipped his drink. It was a quiet scene. The entire bar was littered with half-burnt out candles that reflected against the boy’s face in the shadowy room; the ceiling fan hung, both dusty and motionless in the center of the ceiling; no more than six patrons occupied the shabby tables of the bar, and the bartender stood solemnly in front of a shelf of both aged liquors and homemade spirits. The young man silently indulged in his warm mug of beer, cringing at both the flavor and temperature of the poorly-made alcohol. He looked past the statue of a bartender and into the backroom. The ragged still was absolutely caked in rust, and from one taste of his own mug, he could tell that the beer was as watered down as it could possibly be, but what kind of quality could you expect in Sector 3?

The teenage boy shrugged and brushed aside a tuft of hair that poked from underneath his cap. He had already paid for his beer, so there wasn’t any point in complaining about it now. He had planned on quietly indulging in his disgusting drink until a less-than-friendly looking man took a seat beside him. His name, known by many due to his rowdiness, was Clyde. His bald head was covered in scars from previous bar fights gone wrong, and half of the teeth on the right side of his jaw were nowhere to be found. To top it all off, his breath reeked of alcohol.

“Can I help you?” Julian, the boy, tossed an uninterested glance toward the rugged man next to him.

“I’m just over here thinkin’ that you’re a lil’ too young to be in here, kid,” Clyde retorted, a sneer marking his face. Julian slammed his mug down, then turned to face his antagonist.

“Piss off, Clyde! I’m no kid!” the fiery nineteen-year old proclaimed.

“Fooled me.” Julian knew how people in Sector 3 were; he knew that Clyde was just trying to pick a fight and that he should just walk away. He knew that, but unfortunately, Julian wasn’t exactly a man of common sense.

The young man slammed his hand on the counter and stood, puffing his chest out like a territorial rooster ready for a fight. His drunken enemy did the same with a grin on his face.

“Well, this kid is about to kick your a*s if you don’t step off!” Julian threatened, feeling an indignant fire raging in his belly.

“Oh, yeah?” Clyde grinned and nodded, then slowly pandered to three men seated across the room. “Love to see ya fight all four of us, kid.” The man’s compatriots rose and sauntered toward the scene at a lumbering but threatening pace.

Julian knew he had made yet another crucial miscalculation, but his pride wouldn’t let him back down now. It was do or die.

“I really stepped in it this time,” Julian muttered, then clocked Clyde in the nose. The rugged male stumbled back, tripping over a bar stool and landing flat on his back with a dull thud while reeling from the boy’s punch. Before he could continue his assault, Julian was roughly spun around by the three, all of whom were wickedly grinning.

“Ya know, violence is never the answer,” Julian weakly attempted to sway the crowd.

The young man went soaring through the bar’s front window, landing in the Dumpster outside. With feet hanging out of the metal bin and upper body submerged in an ocean of trash, Julian reflected on his decisions.

“I was right. Violence isn’t the answer; it’s the question, and the answer is yes!” Julian vigorously thrashed about in a vain attempt to exhume himself from the garbage bin. With a sigh, he ceased his furious kicking.

“Really? Again?” The evicted boy heard a familiar, authoritarian tone.

“You really got trashed this time!” A more brash voice permeated the wall of garbage blocking Julian’s ears.

“Enough, Marshall. Up and at ‘em, Julian.” A third man speaking in a sing song voice was heard, followed by the feeling of two hands on his ankles. Julian was hoisted from his trash prison and greeted by the faces of the only men he had ever been able to count on.

“Thanks, Leon,” Julian said, earning a quick wave-off from the tan man.

“Who knocked ya around this time?” Marshall, the tallest of the four by nearly a foot, interrogated the defeated boy.

“I dunno. Some guy.” The scrappy boy shrugged with a deep frown set in his face.

“Some guy?” Augustus questioned, finding the answer to be quite unsatisfactory. “What fo--” Augustus was interrupted by the jeering of four men from the door frame of the bar.

“You wanna go another round? They got another window over here!” Clyde mocked him, pointing to the non-shattered window. Julian lowered his gaze to the ground, both shame and rage flowing through him.

“Yeah, you’re right! And you’re goin’ through it!” Julian picked his head up to hear Marshall’s hearty threats. Marshall turned to the beaten boy, grinned and vigorously nodded toward the door. Seeing Julian gathering reinforcements for a secondary charge, Clyde and his goons cowered away from the scene, then slammed the door behind them.

“Oh, you’re not gettin’ away!” Leon shouted with a smile, joining in on the raid the two had planned.

“Cowardly, if you ask me!” Augustus commented, then stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the three, ready to breach the bar. Julian, feeling more invigorated than ever by the presence of his comrades, eagerly sprinted forward.

The quartette burst through the entrance, finding Clyde and his gang hesitant but ready to fight. Marshall wasted no time in finding his opponent. The giant charged forward like a raging bull, tackling one man and lifting him off his feet, then carrying him to the far corner and slamming him into the wall. With their numbers divided, Clyde’s group began to doubt their combat abilities. Leon reeled back then caught one unlucky man with a right cross, causing him to stagger away from the remaining two. Augustus produced a small police baton that was secured by a latch on his belt, then cracked the man on the right with it, splitting the duo and leaving Clyde to stand alone. Julian, finally allowed a fair fight, strode forward, pulled a leg to his chest, then kicked the man in the gut, launching him against the bar as Julian unceremoniously stumbled forward.

Julian regained his balance then stalked forward, throwing a downward punch that he dodged, leaving Julian to slam his knuckles against the wooden bar. Clyde gripped the boy by the shoulders, roughly slammed him against the bar, then caught him on the right cheek with a haymaker. The punch momentarily knocked the sense out of the boy as he nearly collapsed onto the ancient wooden countertop. The same mug he had slammed onto the bar earlier caught his eye. Julian, determined to not lose a second time, gripped the handle of the stray mug resting on the bar, tossed the foul alcohol in the attacker’s face, then grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face into the bar. Looking over for a moment to check on his companions, Julian witnessed Augustus wrap up his fight by sweeping the man’s leg with his baton, then deliver a swift blow that knocked him unconscious. Leon, standing roughly ten feet from his compatriot, was still caught in the middle of what seemed to be an impromptu boxing match. The tan Spaniard ducked several sloppy punches, then caught his attacker off guard with two quick jabs to the nose. Julian cheered for his friend’s success, but momentarily lost sight of his own battle.

Unfortunately, this distraction was long enough for Clyde to gain the upper hand on Julian and catch him with a hearty punch to the gut. Julian doubled over, feeling the beer from earlier rising up his throat. The young man stepped back, narrowly dodging another punch from his enemy. He caught the outstretched arm, pinned it to the bar, then clocked the man for a second time in his bruised nose. Julian made it a third, then a fourth, then a fifth. Clyde’s head violently snapped back and forth with each blow until he finally found the strength to yank his arm away from Julian. He backpedaled and steadied himself against a nearby table. As Julian approached, Clyde growled like a rabid animal, gripped the handle of a glass mug, smashed it against the table, then spun around and stabbed him in the gut with it. The boy’s eyes went wide with both pain and shock as he came to realize his situation.

“Julian!” Augustus shouted, horrified at the action taking place before him.

“You son of a b***h!” Marshall furiously bellowed as he released his opponent then sprinted across the bar. He gripped Clyde by the throat and slammed him onto the table he had retrieved the mug from. In one hand, Marshall held the man’s throat, in the other, he held Clyde’s right hand, which was stained by Julian’s blood. The sight of his friend’s spilled blood only made Marshall’s grip tighten even further around the windpipe of the pinned man.

Julian stumbled around for a moment before ripping the mug out and tossing it to the floor.

“Julian, sit down!” Leon ordered, the concern in his voice more than obvious.

“I’ll be fine, Lee!” Julian grinned, leaning against the bar and clutching his gut. “But damn if that doesn’t hurt. Ohh…” He rocked on the balls of his heels, sighing in pain as he plucked glass shards from the open wound. The group united once more around Julian, save Marshall, who still detained Clyde.

“Let me take a look at it.” Augustus’ orders were simple and strict, but the boy was slow to listen.

“Just lemme walk it off. I’ll be fine!”

“Julian, it will get infected if we don’t act!” Augustus forcefully reminded the boy. Julian rolled his eyes, lifted another stray mug from the bar, then poured its contents over the bleeding shards in his stomach. Julian winced through a smile as he replaced the mug.

“Happy? All clean now, right?”

“No, Julian. I don’t think beer brewed in a still, which I presume to be made of two garbage cans and a funnel, will help.” As the two bickered, Leon’s keen eye was caught by two men at the far end of the bar reaching into their coats and withdrawing two time-worn pistols.

“Grab cover!” Leon shouted, slapping Augustus on the shoulder, then sliding over the bar. Marshall, quickest to respond, released his hostage, then gripped both the injured Julian and the startled Augustus by the back of their shirts and dove over the bar, bringing the three to the ground just as the volley started overhead.

“Oh, great. They’re shooting at us,” Augustus deadpanned, withdrawing the two rusty revolvers he kept on him at all times.
“I hate when it comes to this.” Leon sighed. “Count your bullets, boys,” Leon spoke in a surprisingly melancholy tone, drawing a handgun from the waistband of his pants and sliding the clip out.

Marshall retrieved a revolver of larger caliber than either of Augustus’ from his cowboy boot, then flicked the cylinder out.

“How many you guys got?” Julian questioned, almost sounding irritated with the task.

“Uh…four,” Leon replied, slamming his clip back in.

“Seven,” Augustus said.

“Five for me.” Marshall’s response triggered a confused glance from each member of the team.

“Five? How the hell’d you get five? You had two yesterday!” Julian questioned.

“I picked a few up the other day.” An offended gasp ran throughout the three.

“And you didn’t share?” Augustus played along with the melodrama of the others.

“Have you never heard of ‘all for one and one for all’?” Leon inquired, cocking his head at the guilty man.

“Can’t say that I have,” the tall man replied with a smirk, causing Julian, the most dramatic of the four, to scoff.

“Well, since you’re so fortunate, why don’t you take the first shot?” Julian suggested.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Marshall placed a hand on top of the bar, then popped his head up for a moment to take a potshot at the attacking duo, only to miss wide and destroy the other window. “Crap. Missed,” he said, ducking his head back down below the counter.

“My turn,” Leon stated with a smile, then popped up over the wooden bar. Before he could get a shot off, a pair of bullets splintered the counter in front of him and forced him back under. “Ah, no good. I’m not sure if we’re gonna be able to get a shot off here, boys.”

“Well, what do we do?” Julian questioned, holding his wound with one hand and his pistol with the other. The boy lifted his head up momentarily, only to have a bullet cut one of the hairs poking out from his cap. He dropped back down with a start.

“Whatever it is, we’d better do it fast. They’re getting closer, and Julian’s bleeding.” Augustus spoke, taking blind shots without rising above the counter to keep his attackers at bay.

Leon took a moment to think, analyzing any possible way out of the situation.
“I’ve got an idea. My dad taught me this one.” Leon reached for the shelf above him and grabbed a bottle of malt whiskey. As he did so, a bullet shattered the bottle adjacent from the one he held in his hand.

“Ah, a last drink. Always a good plan.” Marshall nodded, reaching for the whiskey.

“No, my gargantuan friend, something better. Give me your sock.” The giant, confused but complying, removed his boot and handed over the ratty strip of cloth.

“Good God, it’s disgusting.” Julian heaved at the odor of the sweaty sock.

“Gross, but perfect.” Leon smiled through the stench. He swiftly popped the sock into the bottle far enough for it to stick out slightly, but still dip into the liquor. From his back pocket, he withdrew a book of matches with a fetching design. The words ‘Protege tu Libertad’ stood out in red font as the sun set in a desert valley in the background. With a deft strike of the match, Leon lit the garment as a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, I see what you’re gettin’ at!” Julian exclaimed.
“Brilliant idea, Leon,” Augustus complimented his friend as his left revolver finally went dry with a loud ‘click.’

“Let’s bring the house down!” Marshall cheered as the bottle went soaring over the counter and into the center of the bar, instantly starting a small bonfire. The dry wood was very quick to catch fire, instantly engulfing the antique tables and chairs that it came in contact with. The attackers, being men of limited bravery in the first place, chose to flee the scene in fear of an early cremation. The bartender, who had previously chosen to wait the firefight out by hiding in the backroom, came rushing out with a bucket of dirty water, desperately trying to stop the growing inferno.

“Let’s bounce!” Julian shouted, jumping the counter once more and rushing out the front door, his wounds all too apparent. The three followed in a similar manner, with Leon apologizing the entire way out. The four jogged outside just in time to see their attackers cutting the corner and fleeing the scene. Julian stumbled forward to steady himself against a brick wall. His breaths came in ragged waves, his whole body was shaking from both adrenaline and pain.

“Julian, just hold up for a minute!” Augustus pleaded with the rambunctious young man as he stepped forward and lifted the boy’s black, long sleeve shirt. He grimaced, making a light clicking noise with his tongue and sucking his teeth.

“Ooh, that doesn’t look good. Not at all.” Julian’s gut had a ring-shaped wound that glittered with shattered glass and oozed with fresh blood. With his finger, Augustus prodded the stabbed flesh, poking at a particularly long shard that made Julian wince and whine like a wounded dog.

“Thankfully,” Augustus flicked a speck of blood off of the finger of his glove. “I think it’s just a flesh wound.”

“Praise the lord,” Leon said, clapping his hands together and pointing towards the sky.

“We’re not out of the woods yet. I’ve still got to apply first aid and stitch him up before he bleeds any further. Leon, get a shoulder.” The eldest of the group gently slipped Julian’s right arm around his shoulder to support the boy’s weight. Marshall followed suit with his left arm, but his gargantuan height forced him to bend down in quite the awkward position. “Besides, we should probably be out of here before the smoke clears, both literally and figuratively.” Augustus motioned toward the bar behind them that had smoke flowing from both its broken windows.

“Gotcha.” Leon nodded, then pressed onward with the injured boy.  

“Now, that’s how you raze the bar!” Marshall nodded toward the flaming building with a chuckle.

The four stepped from the backstreets and onto the main road, taking a sharp right as they followed the eroded road beneath them. Julian, being quite frankly lazy, more or less gave up on walking and simply let Marshall drag him forward. As he was escorted, the boy took a look around his home town. High above him, perhaps fifty feet, perhaps five hundred feet, loomed the wall. He could never honestly tell anybody how high the wall stood, but he knew for certain that he, nor any of his friends, had ever seen another escape it.

Marshall and company walked further down the road, coming even closer to the wall. The city, long before Julian had been born, had built the circular wall around Graycott, and from what Leon had told him, the moment it had been erected, things went awry. Leon shared with him secondhand stories of the time before, when the people lived together with no barriers, when they were all equal men and women. While Leon himself didn’t entirely know how, as his information came directly from his father, the people eventually began to get restless. Some began to believe themselves higher than others, better than the rest. And using the munitions found in the police stations, they formed a coup d'etat, abusing and robbing any and all who defied them. This is how Sector 1 found its first origins.

Marshall, standing no more than fifteen feet from the concrete behemoth, drug Julian down another right and continued his trek through another dilapidated road. After officially deeming themselves the rulers of Graycott, Sector 1 began systematically destroying anything that could pose a threat to their wants and needs. Books were burned, both heavy weaponry and resources were confiscated, electricity was made a privilege only those in Sector 1 had access to, and to fully separate themselves from the peasants of Graycott, a physical barrier was put between Sector 1 and those they deemed unworthy. A long, electrified chain-link fence stretched from the east to the west side of the wall, finally cutting the newly-founded sector off from the outside in both a literal and metaphorical sense. After that, Sectors 2 and 3 both came about through opposing means. Sector 3 was founded in hatred for Sector 1, and is where our heroes currently reside. Although broken and ugly, every inch of Sector 3 was oozing with honor. They held pride in the fact that they stood against those who oppressed them, and they vowed that they would one day rise up against them.

On the other hand, Sector 2 was considerably less noble. Feeling that they would die without a steady line of supplies from their masters, Sector 2 happily placed themselves under the boot of Sector 1, allowing themselves to be used at will for whatever meager rewards they would be gifted. So, when the dust was settled and the borders were formed, towering over the city in the north was Sector 1 with its police force dominating over every inch of the city. Directly in the center sat Sector 2 with its crowded streets and lively markets shaking hands and making deals with both sides of the city. And going even further south, crossing a river that was merely eight feet wide but deeper than one could imagine, standing bruised but not broken was Sector 3.

No matter what one would say about his home, Julian loved it. Though it may have been dingy, though it may have been violent, though it may have been small, Sector 3 had one thing that Julian could never live without: his friends. Those same friends finally approached the doorstep of the meager abode they shared. It was but one story, as most buildings in the third sector were, but it was perfect in Julian’s opinion. Augustus pushed open the old wooden door, stepping inside and clearing a spot on the floor for the injured boy.
“There should do nicely. Leon, get a towel, could you?” The eldest of the four nodded, giving Julian’s full weight to Marshall. He crossed the room to open a closet and withdraw a ratty, old white towel then laid it on the floor for Augustus’s operation.

Marshall, ready to be relieved of his burden, placed Julian on the towel and stepped away. Augustus, who had disappeared for a moment to collect his tools from their non-functioning bathroom, returned and kneeled beside Julian.

“You’re lucky, you know?” Augustus stated, laying the first aid kit on the ground, then removing each individual item and placing it beside him.

“I sure as hell don’t feel like it,” Julian cynically moaned, lifting his shirt and idly poking his injured stomach.

“Well, I would.” Augustus shook a small bottle that held a very miniscule amount of a clear liquid. “We’ve got just enough Peroxide to clean you up.”

“Small miracles!” Leon chimed in from the kitchen, where he had went about making himself a snack from whatever he could find in the cabinets.

“Indeed.” Augustus nodded, raising a pair of tweezers to Julian’s stomach. “So, you never finished telling us what this whole debacle was about in the first place,” the blond-haired man reminded the boy as he plucked the glass shards from his stomach.

“Oh…yeah.” Julian regretfully recalled the rumble.

“Yes, enlighten us, Julian!” Leon called from the kitchen, his mouth stuffed with a slice from a stale loaf of bread.

“Hey, save that! I’m cooking it with dinner later. Besides,” he turned his head from the snacking Spaniard to his patient, “we’re pretty low on rations, anyway,” Augustus reminded them with a perturbed look scratched across his features. Leon sighed and replaced the bread, disappointed to find that his appetite had only grown since he entered the door.

From his position on the ground, Julian could see that half an hour had passed on the grandfather clock that stood over him. Augustus had been successful in his removal of the interloping shards, and was now suturing Julian’s wound shut. Leon, after returning from his search for nourishment, sat down beside the two and kept Julian company while Augustus worked.

“You know, next time, you might not be so lucky,” Leon said, using that same infamous word Augustus had used earlier.
“I know, I know. I’ve gotta be more careful, it’s just that…” he trailed off.

“That you’re too damn full of pride?” Marshall, who now relaxed in an ancient recliner that sat only a few feet behind Augustus, finished his sentence for him. Julian, blushing slightly, agreed with the giant.

“Well, that’s to be expected.” Augustus, who hadn’t spoken for over fifteen minutes, finally rejoined the conversation. “Being raised in an environment like this is sure to have an effect on someone, especially somebody so…impressionable.”

“I’d lean more towards impulsive,” Leon said with a toothy grin.

“Or careless,” Marshall suggested.
“Uhh…how about brave?” Julian smirked, causing Leon to roll his eyes and chuckle.

“Oh, Julian. I’ve never met another person quite like you,” the tan man spoke in a warm tone.

“And you’re never gonna!” Julian assured him.

“Hopefully not,” Augustus jested, causing the injured boy to scoff.

“Are you done yet? It might just heal naturally if you take any longer.” Augustus stopped his work for a moment, lifted his gloved finger, then flicked Julian’s wound, causing him to recoil immediately.

“Doesn’t seem healed to me.” Augustus coyly smirked as he continued his stitching.

Later that night, after Augustus had finished sewing both Julian’s shirt and abdomen shut, the injured boy returned the blond’s kindness by helping him in the kitchen. Julian sat in the dusty recliner, happily eating a plate of assorted cooked vegetables with a small slice of stale bread on the side. While he and his companions laughed and dined, his gaze returned to the long discarded bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide.

“Lucky…yeah, that’s the right way to put it,” he murmured to himself as he devoured the remainder of his bread.