High guard? High ground? You must be high on something if you believe that.
07-13-2009, 07:19 PM
07-13-2009, 07:19 PM
Have you noticed that whenever Liam Neeson plays a sword swinging guru in a movie he ends
up with a serious case of the deads. Star Wars. Dead. Batman. Dead, or at least as dead as comic book characters get. Kingdom of Heaven. Dead. I think his speech in
Kingdom of Heaven about the efficacy of a high guard really drove it home for me as to why he keeps dying.
When attacking from on high you do not. I repeat,
do not. Go for the full Hassan. The full Hassan, as in 'Hassan Chop'
from the Bugs Bunny cartoon Ali Baba Bunny. The murder stroke. The helmet
splitter. There are excellent ways to attack from above, but they are done with tight, refined, precise
movements.
No one had instructed the angels in this bit of wisdom.
The omnipotent being putting together the training program did not see it coming. Arms fully extended, blade
away from the body, coming from trailing down the back.
As the sword came in, I did not meet it; I struck at what was holding it. My hands finding their places over the menuki of my favorite katana as it jumped into solid reality; appearing as if plucked from
the air. The blade thrust upwards, parallel to the ground, the razor edge aided by the downward rush of the incoming
stroke; shearing through the paired thin bones of the descending forearms. I stepped to the left, turning the blade and
letting the edge glide in a quarter circle around my opponent's neck, opening the windpipe, carotid artery and jugular vein. As I pivoted away, never turning my back on my opponent, I cut again, down the back from right shoulder to left hip. Severing one wing as I did so. The angel hit the ground a bare second after his sword and
severed hands. The wing took slightly longer, gliding down like a falling leaf; white feathers turning red as they
wicked up blood.
The other three looked at me.
This is the time where the action hero would make a deadpan comic quip. Something like, How many angels can dance on the head of pin? One less now. Give the man a hand - or two hooks. Or a jaunty, if more obscure, 'For Sodom and not standing by while wives and daughters are handed over to ruffians!'
I didn't.
I was trying very hard not to throw up. Not a
little get sick in the mouth. The full version. The driving the porcelain bus,
everything not original equipment is leaving type of throwing up. The Mister Creosote better-get-a-bucket
method.
I didn't.
I would later. I had already noted the location
of the nearest garbage container.
If I survived.
Despite what action films teach you - badly - three on one is very, very poor odds unless
the three in question are complete goobers.
There was a better than even chance that I was about to die; and I hadn't even
located the Mastermind yet.
Fuck.
up with a serious case of the deads. Star Wars. Dead. Batman. Dead, or at least as dead as comic book characters get. Kingdom of Heaven. Dead. I think his speech in
Kingdom of Heaven about the efficacy of a high guard really drove it home for me as to why he keeps dying.
When attacking from on high you do not. I repeat,
do not. Go for the full Hassan. The full Hassan, as in 'Hassan Chop'
from the Bugs Bunny cartoon Ali Baba Bunny. The murder stroke. The helmet
splitter. There are excellent ways to attack from above, but they are done with tight, refined, precise
movements.
No one had instructed the angels in this bit of wisdom.
The omnipotent being putting together the training program did not see it coming. Arms fully extended, blade
away from the body, coming from trailing down the back.
As the sword came in, I did not meet it; I struck at what was holding it. My hands finding their places over the menuki of my favorite katana as it jumped into solid reality; appearing as if plucked from
the air. The blade thrust upwards, parallel to the ground, the razor edge aided by the downward rush of the incoming
stroke; shearing through the paired thin bones of the descending forearms. I stepped to the left, turning the blade and
letting the edge glide in a quarter circle around my opponent's neck, opening the windpipe, carotid artery and jugular vein. As I pivoted away, never turning my back on my opponent, I cut again, down the back from right shoulder to left hip. Severing one wing as I did so. The angel hit the ground a bare second after his sword and
severed hands. The wing took slightly longer, gliding down like a falling leaf; white feathers turning red as they
wicked up blood.
The other three looked at me.
This is the time where the action hero would make a deadpan comic quip. Something like, How many angels can dance on the head of pin? One less now. Give the man a hand - or two hooks. Or a jaunty, if more obscure, 'For Sodom and not standing by while wives and daughters are handed over to ruffians!'
I didn't.
I was trying very hard not to throw up. Not a
little get sick in the mouth. The full version. The driving the porcelain bus,
everything not original equipment is leaving type of throwing up. The Mister Creosote better-get-a-bucket
method.
I didn't.
I would later. I had already noted the location
of the nearest garbage container.
If I survived.
Despite what action films teach you - badly - three on one is very, very poor odds unless
the three in question are complete goobers.
There was a better than even chance that I was about to die; and I hadn't even
located the Mastermind yet.
Fuck.