The day was a blur, flying trough his eyes, only the little things fastening themselves to Deejay’s memory, like the balance of a tidy desk compared to the beauty of a messy one, the vein’s on the necks of the singers he was instructing, the unconscious tap of the foot.
These were the things Deejay noticed, the little unimportant things, the silly stupid things that made him what he was … the best rhythm mechanic there was on offer, and willing to lend his services to any genre in the music biz, including the foreign Hong Kong music industry in which he was working now.
The day had been satisfying, his students actually being able to gain a little understanding of the way to feel their way through their music.
They had started at midday, and finished at midnight, when Deejay was at last satisfied.

Deejay left the huge reflective building and stepped out onto the streets of the city. Hong Kong city was buzzing even on a Tuesday night, and it seemed like the middle of the day for business. A pale moon shone down through the lights of the city and Deejay looked up at it. This was great, this life. But he knew there was much more, and a deep longing once again pulled at him, stronger than especially usual after the events with the punk kid earlier that day.
Deejay glanced down a dark kind of alleyway, noting the outlines of people leaning against the walls, and the pinpoint glow of cigarettes. They glanced up at him and he came to a stop, staring back.
Decidedly he stepped towards them and they did likewise. They came to a stop a few meters away from each other, and Deejay recognized the bruised face of the punk he had beat up in the small crowd. A man beside the punk flicked his cigarette away and stared deeply into Deejay’s eyes.
“You be a dead man, my friend.” He said calmly, his eyes narrowing.
“I thought you’d be waiting out here,” he said to the kid, “and I guessed you would bring a few friends.” He glanced up at the older man.
“But damb! They’re all so short!”
The kid snarled, “You may think you’re so tough, but this is my uncle you’re talking about, a powerful man around here.” He smiled. “And he’s gonna make you dead.”
It was then Deejay realized that two men were behind him, blocking any immediate escape route.
The kid backed off and the men closed in, the kid’s uncle producing a butterfly knife from his leather jacket, obviously the leader of the group.
It was on.
A man from behind attacked with a roundhouse kick high up to Deejay’s head, and at the same time a man on the uncle’s right lunged forwards in a wild punch. Bending his right knee, deejay dropped low, throwing his leg backwards under the kick of the guy behind, his huge leg singing deep into the man’s groin rendering him unconscious. In the same backward movement, he grabbed the swinging hand, pulling the man in front of him down towards a huge uppercut, which lifted him up and away to land in a heap behind his friends.
Jumping in a huge backwards somersault, Deejay sent his heel crunching into the surprised face of the other man behind him.
He danced to the beat of the fight, blocking all punches and kicks coming his way, or else easily moving out of their path surprisingly fast, and riposting with his own sickeningly hard punches, knees to the face and unavoidable swings with his huge legs.
Jumping and launching himself from the dark wall of the alleyway with a push of his foot, he landed a tremendous spinning hook kick, witch just about took the receiver’s head off, leaving him more than unconscious. The last man standing between him and the leader was carrying a long and sharp knife that gleamed in the moonlight. The moonlight also revealed the fear in the Asian man’s face.
The dance almost at it’s end, the rhythm dropped a beat, then sped up. All of a sudden Deejay moved at an amazing speed in a half a second sprint towards his opponent. Slapping away a feeble swing of the machete, Deejay delivered two massive twisting kicks to either side of his opponent, and sending him flying.
“Double Rolling Sobat!” He cried, the sweat at last gleaming on his upper body after defeating seven opponents.
He turned only just in time to slip under a silent slash and twirl of two butterfly knives. The surprise attack continued as the triad leader increased his speed and tempo of his attack, expertly spinning his two butterfly knives.
This guy had a little rhythm, it seemed, but Deejay saw right through his attack, seeing in it desperation and fear. Narrowly he dodged a slash across his throat, then at last he was caught on the collar bone with a knick of one of the knives, only a knick, but enough to draw blood.
Now the Triad bosses arms were a wicked blur, intertwining with each other, and reaching out in what seemed like random movements to cut at Deejay’s face and neck, all narrowly missing.
Deejay made his move, catching the man’s wrist just as he predicted it to swipe out at him, and twisting it into a quick break. The man screamed in pain as he withdrew his broken wrist and dropped his knife, then slashed out again and again with his remaining knife.
Deejay stepped in and blocked a slash be grabbing the man’s forearm. He then began the move best suited for this kind of fast paced fight, what he called his machine gun uppercut. Crack, crack, crack, three fast fists connected with the triad bosses chin, bone upon bone, and sending him flying onto the ground in front of the teenage boy, the punk who had started all this.
Looking down at his unconscious uncle, and realizing too late that there was no escape route, he did all he could do. He stared up into the brown eyes of the Jamaican kick boxer, awaiting hid punishment.

Once again this kid had broken his rhythm. All the others he had just fought had at least moved in sequence with the music on his head, but this guy just stood there, staring into Deejay’s eyes, ruining the moment, completely unaware of the beat of the music.
“Well, count your self lucky punk,” Deejay smiled down at him. “No more rhythm, no more fighting.”
The kid smiled in some gratitude, then was instantly sent flying backwards, his head cracking into the wall due to a sidekick issued from Deejay’s right leg.
“That’s what I call a beating.”

With that he turned and walked back the way he had come, passed the groaning forms of triad punks, into the light of the busy street.