How to Be Bad by David Bowker

“How should I know? The guy’s a prick. He just opens his mouth and shit pours out.”
    â€œHe said he hadn’t had any interest this week. How could you have been paying interest? You haven’t got any money.”
    â€œI’ve given him a couple of hundred quid now and then,” she said, pressing her face against my shoulder. “Just to keep him off my back.”
    *   *   *
    T HAT NIGHT, I returned to my one-to-one unarmed combat class, realizing that I might need to be fit for whatever lay ahead. Again, Lenny insisted that I punch him in the stomach as hard as I could.
    â€œIsn’t this the way Houdini died?” I asked him.
    â€œHow the hell should I know?”
    That was the frightening thing about Lenny. He was a world-class exponent of karate, but he had no interest whatsoever in Japan or Zen or Shaolin monks. His areas of expertise were drinking, putting out fires, and causing grievous bodily harm.
    As a firefighter, he had cut people from wreckage and walked into burning buildings, yet the only anecdote he had to offer involved giving a fireman’s lift to a naked eighteen-year-old. “She had the biggest pair of knockers you’ve ever seen in your life.”
    Obeying orders, I drew back and hit him in the stomach as hard as I could. Lenny let out an angry yell.
    â€œSorry,” I said, surprised by my own strength.
    â€œI’m not shouting ’cause you hurt me. You daft prick. I was using … what’s it fucking called? Chi. Spirit. If you cry out when you’re hit, it limits the damage your opponent can do to you. It’s like I’m directing all my resistance here.” He patted his solar plexus. “Hit me again.”
    I whacked his belly a few more times. Each time, he roared defiance. Then it was my turn. “But you’re a black belt third dan,” I objected.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYou could cause me permanent damage.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll hold back a bit.”
    I braced myself, and as his fist flew forward I summoned all the chi at my disposal and yelled. A few seconds later, I was lying on my back on the floor of the gym.
    â€œFucking hell,” I said, rubbing my aching gut.
    â€œNo,” said Lenny. “That was good. You showed good spirit.”
    He made me stand up while he hit me again. After the third time, I started to feel a little pissed off. When it was my turn to hit Lenny again, I summoned all my strength, yelling as well as punching. This time, the blow contained all my accumulated pain and embarrassment, and when it connected, Lenny rocked slightly on his heels. At that point, he beamed. “I’ll tell you what, my son,” he said. “That was a fucking beauty. Keep punching like that and you’ll have no problems whatsoever.”
    Later, in the shower, Lenny made me an opportunistic offer. “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You know that little chat we had about your kicks? How I said there was room for improvement?”
    â€œIf I recall, you described me as ‘fucking useless.’”
    â€œDid I? Well, listen. I’ve got something that might help you. A set of leg stretchers.”
    â€œLeg stretchers?”
    â€œYeah. They’re yours for forty quid.”
    We went out to Lenny’s little white van, and he produced two long movable metal bars joined by a handle. The idea was that you held the device between your ankles and pressed down on the handle until the bars forced your legs apart.
    â€œDo they work?” I said.
    â€œYeah,” said Lenny. “How do you think I got to be so supple?”
    I didn’t really want the stupid contraption but thought that buying it might further my relationship with my karate tutor. “Okay, you’re on,” I said. “But could you give me a lift home? This thing’s a bit heavy.”
    â€œDeal,” said Lenny, and we shook