Bourque simply could not put a name to his anxiety. It would not go away. 'Strenuous exercise might help,' he thought.
Jonathon Bourque was an advanced practitioner of a considerable number of martial arts skills. Elements of Aikido, Karate, Kendo, and Jujutsu formed the eclectic bases for his daily regimen.
Bourque found these ancient disciplines to be engaging. Their origins in antiquity and their mystical elements intrigued him. As well, the sheer vigour of the workouts helped him to get through the tedium of his every day existence.
Bourque's skills were largely self-taught. His isolation from other people and his inwardly focused ego precluded his sitting under a sansei or master teacher for an extended period.
He had converted a small corner of his rundown flat into a homemade mini 'Dojo' which consisted of a lumpy mat and two well worn makiwaras.
Always the iconoclast, Bourque habitually worked out in jeans or shorts and a t-shirt rather than the traditional white 'gi' suit and coloured belt denoting the grade of the wearer.
Bourque's skills were perfected for himself alone. He was neither a showman, nor a bully. His ego didn't require that people applaud him or fear him. Whatever Jonathon Bourque did, he did for entirely private reasons.
Only once had he found it necessary to call upon his martial arts training.
The incident had occurred not long ago.
It was about 2:30 on a mild and sunny Friday afternoon. Bourque had completed his final lecture of the week; a less than inspiring effort for which Bourque blamed his students.
The theme of his discourse had been "Cultural cross-pollinization in the ancient world as evidenced by comparing the flood story of the Mesopotamian epic of Gilgamesh with the biblical account found in Genesis Ch. VII".
The overcrowded class of first year undergraduates had been particularly dull and unresponsive. As he surveyed his glassy-eyed, acne-faced students, he fantasized that the desiccated lecture theatre, straining under its human weight, would at last come crashing down and destroy every last one of his charges. His burden lifted, he, Jonathon Bourque, scholar extraordinaire,, gadfly and iconoclast would then turn his back, step over the broken bodies, and march out of the ruined building and into the sunlight.
Bourque cancelled a tutorial which was to have followed purely on the basis that he, personally, was not about to waste another moment of his valuable time on his puerile charges. He only hoped that Dean Tichborne wouldn't discover his truancy.
Returning quickly from the lecture theatre to his messy cubby hole of an office, he gathered together the reading material he intended to devour over the weekend and headed for home.
The habitual rout to his flat took him through a conservation area traversed by a winding cinder path which was bordered by giant, broad trunked cedar trees. Bourque began to sing, boisterously, an obscure and somewhat ribald Elizabethan love song entitled 'Sweet Cupid Ripen her Desire"
There was no one within ear shot. Not that it would have mattered to Jonathon Bourque. He sang out loud, recited prose or poetry in public whenever the spirit moved him. Others might consider his behaviour odd. He didn't care.
Bourque's spirits began to lift as he sang. The fresh air, the rustic solitude of the 'philosophers' walk' offered an oasis of relief from a world with too many people and too little space.
The Bourquean weekend would be spent practicing Gregorian chants, hammering away at his punching boards, and devouring the scholarly tomes which he was carrying.If he came across an easy fuck, that was OK, too, as long as she didn’t insist on hanging around after.
His reading materials consisted of 'The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles', and an early hand copied reproduction of William Langland's 14th Century classic 'The Vision of Piers Ploughman.' This latter work he had lifted from the rare book library. It would be returned in due course. Bourque had no intention of ever submitting himself to the wearisome rigamarole demanded by the University Authorities in order to take home a 'rare book.'
As he strolled along he'd gotten tired of singing so he opened 'The Vision of Piers Ploughman' and began to read passages aloud, at random. Jonathon Bourque would have no need of a glossary. He read archaic English fluently. He paused over a delicious passage from Chapter XX which piqued his ribald nature:
For the Lyme that she loved me fore
and leef was to feele
On nights, namely whan we naked weere
I ne myghte in no manner it at hir wille
So elde and heo hadden it for beten
Thus preoccupied, Bourque didn't notice the three skinheads who blocked his way until he practically bumped into them.
He looked up from his reading and made a quick assessment. The one thug stood about 5'10" and weighed a solid 210 pounds. The other two were taller and leaner, but they looked like they might be able to fight. Bourque tried to brush by them. They pushed him back. The larger one moved right into Bourque's face. His breath smelled of stale whisky and healthy bacteria which had dined well on years of accumulated food bits lodged between his teeth and under his gums.
Bourque took note of his adversary's right arm. It had tensed in a menacing contraction. Prominently displayed on his pumped up bicep was a tattoo which read "Eat shit and die."
Bourque scanned. He was looking for areas of vulnerability. Number one skinhead wore a narrow black leather vest with studs; skin tight jeans, and steel tipped cowboy boots. His chest was pierced. Two heavy looking iron swastikas hung down from the nipples, causing them to droop.
Bourque braced for an attack. He planted his legs wider apart for balance. He drew in a lung full of air, slowly. He defined the “ma-ai”, the precise striking distance between himself and the target. His self imposed mantra was to avoid confrontation whenever possible. All he said, in sotto voice, was, "Were I you, I wouldn’t do it.”
He was not prepared for what happened next. Swastika tits knocked the rare books out of Bourque’s arms. As these jewels of medieval English literature lay strewn over the rough cinder path, the two remaining skinheads thought it would be jolly good fun to do an Indian war dance on top of them.
Bourque was enraged. But he needed a little more time to get his body set. He drew in a lung full of air, slowly. The fresh oxygen helped him control his anger.
Swastika tits lunged at him. Bourque unleached a straight right arm smash. The close fisted kite travelled eight inches only. Boutique timed his forward thrust to impact with his opponent at the moment when the skinhead’s forward impetus was at its maximum. The collision was load and sharp. What was left of the skinhead’s nose took a right angle turn. Blood and snot poured from his ruined beak.
Bourque crouched down; he bent cleanly at the waist; back straight; legs spread. He ripped the iron talismans from the skinhead’s chest. His pulpy nipples were torn off.
The backup hooligans rushed him together. Bourque assumed the neko-ashi-zuki position. His weight shifted to the rear; his front foot poised lightly on the ball of his foot. His objective, to turn their own momentum against them. They were on him. Bourque rocked backwards. They overshot. Bourque delivered a sweeping mawaski-zuki, a rotating open-handed blow to the back of the heads. The first attacker hurtled forward crashing face first on the rough cinder path. At the same time, Bourque tripped the second man. Before he could gain his feet, Bourque kicked him hard in the balls.
The skinheads had no more fight in them. They careened through the trees and into the underbrush beyond, dragging their titless leader behind them.
Bourque rushed to retrieve his precious books. With extraordinary relief he confirmed that no serious damage had been done. He neither reported the attack to the local constabulary nor mentioned the incident to anyone. Why should he? His books had been saved. No harm had been done.