Writing Wednesday: Suicidal Kung Fu Genius

There was a man on the cliff. That wasn’t the strange thing. There were men on the cliff quite often. It was an easily accessible cliff and it had a great view, particularly when the sun was rising in the morning. No, the strange thing was that the man was blind drunk, riding a roughly tethered cart of open crates filled with razor blades, knives, nails and wood axes very fast towards the cliff edge and he looked particularly happy about it. He had a gourd of triple strength wine in one hand and in the other he frantically whipped the reins of the two horses that pulled his cart closer and closer to the edge. The cargo jingled and clanged like a million full coin purses as the cart tore across the rugged terrain, with no regard for grass or gopher hole.

“At last! This is it! At last!”

He screamed and laughed, whipping and whipping the reins as hard as he could, showing no signs of stopping.

Then, as the cart neared the edge and the horses realized what they were getting into, then physically expressed their doubt at their master’s sanity by rearing up and slowing down. The man smashed the plank of wood that held tether to the sensible beasts and their burden, so he careened onwards to his goal.

“Goodbye, you wonderful horses, you.”

The horses whinnied a thank you and slid to a halt. The cart thundered on and on, bouncing over stones, ever closer to the big drop.

Then it tumbled. The man screamed, with glee.

“I’m too frickin’ drunk,” he said.

He stood on the cart as long as he could, then he twisted beside and under it, round and round, as everything, but the horses, fell off the cliff edge.


The crates spilled their deadly contents in the free fall.

The man didn’t stop smiling, not until a swarm of blades that were falling around him came inches from his flesh. Then his expression changed to a steely glare.

He stretched his body long and straight, his head tilted right back, looking at the rapidly disappearing cliff top in that moment, and the first of the sharp objects passed harmlessly around him. Then he arched his body as if he were hugging a wheel. Around and around he span, seemingly through dense cloud of nails, blades and a pair of knives that went zooming past, some clattering against the hard rock of the high cliff side. He straightened out. There wasn’t a scratch on him, but now his face was red.

“Noooooo! Not again!”

A crate flew past his head and shattered against rock.

He twizzled, grabbed an axe and swung it, batting aside another deadly cloud. He kicked, screamed and punched, sending various blades flying in all directions but his own.

The ground was getting closer, some rocks, some sea.

He clapped his hands together with such force that the smaller blades around him were blasted away in the shockwave.

He stretched down and grabbed an axe and flipped. After a rotation he flung it. It smashed the carts body which his own falling mass raced toward, and it, in turn, toward the ground.

He flipped again, grabbed a flat half of the cart’s frame and leveled it beneath his feet.

Together, they grazed the cliff side. A touch at first, then a few bounces as the sheer wall angled into a slope of rock and stone.


He staggered, wavered more as the bounces evened out into a full slide and then another short drop – splash! – into the sea.

“No! Not again.”

He collapsed on what had now become his raft as it sailed away into the sea.

“Why can’t I just die?”


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