Times Square, 1984. 42nd street.
Rommel was precisely in the middle of a triple feature of the finest dubbed Shaw Brothers movies that movie peddlers and ancient masters had to offer. He enjoyed the fine grainy texture of the film, often out of focus. The symphony of the melodic pops and hisses combined with Australia's best voice acting was broken only by the clash of combat. It was high art, and Rommel knew the rules early on.

-Swords went ka-shhhhhhing.
-Axes went ssh-clank!
-A fist can puncture an organ without ever breaking the skin.
-If you are willing to invest time, there is a key to the defeat of any invincible style. Combine to conquer.
-One is not near death until he spits blood.
-Time is marked by the growth of beard or moustache--long white beards denote ultimate proficiency.
-By and large, the Manchus were ungodly assholes.

Rommel enjoyed his raspberry parfait and sat entranced by the monks on screen. There were monks in the crowd as well, their hearts unconsciously recalling the pasts of their ancestors. The grindhouse was littered with guests too tired from their journey to ever wish to leave the sanctity of the Kung-Fu Theatre.

An older, gruff-looking man shuffled his plastic, single-person grocery basket full of circuitry and movie novelizations. As in some sort of childish game, he grasped the well-worn seats on either side of Rommel's row, hopping, not letting his feet touch the ground.

He plopped down a seat away from our man. Busker noticed.

"Floor's not that dirty," said Busker.

"This floor is tainted with Jujubees, cola, and the blood of the unholy," whispered the strange man.

"I guess they're all bad. Who are you?"

"I am Father Ignatius Tesla, guardian of the beam, keeper of the wave, stower of the Junk." He held up a wad of circuit boards and wires.

"How did you get in here?," Rommel intoned.

Tesla smiled. "You first."

Rommel took a deep breath

**********

12 hours prior ...

It was a drizzly Friday.
Rommel had everything he needed for the venture to 42nd in a duffel, slung over his shoulder.
PF flyers for the sticky floors.
Fresh Fruit and some Cool Whip.
8'' Butterfly knife/billy club.
Antidote.

Dressed not to impress, but dressed impressively nonetheless, He sported a black Adidas windbreaker hoodie, a black and white Darth Vader Ringer tee, and black corduroys. Standing outside the theatre in line made him...not so much uneasy, but ready. He was third in line, and the first customer approached the faded square of velvet rope and polished posts. The square was placed in front of the marquee, the ticket booth long empty. The customer approached the front, and a disembodied voice shouted "ENTER THE SQUARE!" from the booth. The customer did as told. A grappling hook zinged out of thin air and stuck to the marquee. It appeared to originate from the Coca Cola stand, a trio of hooded men ran down the zipline and skidded atop the rainy marquee.

"Password." said Ninja The First.

Eager to display his knowledge, the customer stammered an "I...It's..." before Ninja The Second threw a small knife, severing the young man's pinky from his hand.

Rommel flinched in empathy. "Hey man, there's a clinic 'cross the street, get that looked at--" and at his remark, the third Ninja pulled the arrow from his quiver and drew it.

"Password."

Busker removed his hood and enjoyed the fresh drizzle, looking up.

"Let me clear my throat."

Busker cleared his throat.

The ninjas all proceeded to draw bows. Rommel spoke up, having a password but not needing it. "If it's on..."

They pulled their arrows tighter.

"When it's on..."

Tighter.

"...then, it's on."

Scoffing at his insolence, the third Ninja shot his bow. In a standing barrel roll, Busker seemed to have taken the arrow full on. He fell to his knees and the ninja descended upon him, laughing. Rommel coughed, holding back a deep red liquid.

One is not near death until he spits blood.

"What have you to say now, you--" The ninja noticed that the arrow had been split into twain, and Busker was holding the business end. He spat the liquid into the ninja's eyes, and said, "The treachery of poison-filled arrows. I thought this was a quality establishment."

Eyes full of burning venom, it became time for the ninja to fall to his knees. Rommel stabbed the arrow deep into his neck. Grabbing the ninja's corpse, he looked upwards to the top of the marquee.

"Hell of a ticket stub."

Back to the Future...which is still the past ...

-----

"So that's how I got in." Rommel took a swig of his antidote and passed it to the priest, who gently declined.

"That is quite an ordeal." Ignatius noticed his shirt. "A Vader man, eh? I have heard about you. I have for you a mission, for our mission."

"How did you get in?"

The priest stroked his long, white beard and smiled. "I took the back door."

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Next: Rommel Busker in: B-Boys, make some noise