The Distinguished Mr. Rose Chapter 19: Chapter 19: A Brawl Is Surely Brewing!

Read chapter 19 of The Distinguished Mr. Rose by QuiteTheSlacker on NovelPedia.

Chapter 19: A Brawl Is Surely Brewing! Jack lunged in. His form was amateurish: wide, clumsy. He was the very picture of a man who had never fought in his life, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t the one in control. His arm, the vile growth of cartilage and gristle, twitched as if it had a mind of its own. It jerked here and there, wriggling, lurching, and swiped at Marco from angles that should not have been humanly possible. A stream of filth ran down its limb. The arm was thin and worn one moment yet tripled in size the next—growing and changing form without rhyme or reason. Yet through it all, Marco never took a hit. He brought his arms up into a boxing stance and deftly weaved through Jack’s assault. The old mobster moved with a speed surprising for his large frame. It was all in the footwork; he stepped and shuffled, kept a steady balance, and slipped through any openings in a calculative dance. His movements were rough compared to that of a professional fighter. It wasn’t flashy, or sleek, or had any sign of showmanship. But unlike those who fought in rings and exhibitions, Marco’s style was one of survival—of a rugged grit honed through experience in real, authentic clashes between life or death. Simplistic, yet deadly. Coarse, yet deceptively complex. Lucius found it very beautiful in its own way. His most impressive aspect, however, was his composure: calm and unyielding. His eyes centered on Jack, and he never let his gaze stray away no matter how chaotic the brawl became. Marco’s concentration was unbreakable. Compared to him, Jack was the complete opposite. He became more frustrated and panicked the longer the two fought. Even worse, the man’s aggression was one-sided. Marco hadn’t thrown a fist yet, but it wasn’t because he was holding back. No, he was waiting—setting up an opportunity to strike. Jack’s attacks slowed down. His breath ran ragged, body trembling from fatigue. He made one, sloppy movement, and finally exposed himself. Marco didn’t waste time. He dashed in and then pulverized Jack straight in the liver with an explosive left hook. Jack doubled over in an instant. The air rushed out of him; he sputtered, and heaved, and wriggled on the ground as drool dribbled onto his chin. A big, bloody mark was imprinted where Marco’s brass knuckles had struck. The old mobster could have finished him then, but he stayed his fists and backed away. “Sometimes, a man needs a good shock before he can start thinkin’ straight. I get it, people are stubborn, but you’re obsessin’ over the wrong guy,” he said. “We’ll figure out a way to get that gross crap off of ya. Make it outta here in one piece. But this’ll never end unless you get it together . Please, Jack. I don’t like doin’ this any more than you do.” Jack didn’t reply at first, or rather he couldn’t. The man struggled to even breathe much less respond. But Marco’s beating did seem to make him think. He was less frenzied now, more hesitant. For a moment he appeared to be reflecting on himself. Was it really not too late? Could they truly go back to that happy party of the past? He winced and shut his eyes; such a possibility was too sweet to ignore. But then, he looked at his arm, and despaired. “Do you even see me right now?” he croaked. “I’ve gone this far, allowed this thing to become a part of me, so if I give up… then what was it all for? Why did I go through all this pain and torture ?” Jack slowly staggered himself back up. The malformed arm pulsed with a new, erratic, energy. “If stopping here would mean all my suffering turned out to be for nothing, then I would rather become a monster.” Before Marco could react, the seams of Jack’s arm ripped open, and countless slimy tendrils sprouted out with a gush. The hideous growths cut through the air and dived toward Marco, slithering around like a tangle of ravenous snakes. “Sweet Mary and Joseph, I can’t stomach this crap any more.” Marco quickly retreated, punching the tendrils away, but they were too fast. Too vi