Punched by an Angel
by Henry Wyckoff

A crossover between Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, Millennium, and Touched by an Angel

Chapter 3

The nightclub was the speakeasy type: frowned upon by the authorities, but hidden well enough to keep the law from busting down the doors. Drugs, sex, and murder flowed as freely as the beer and vodka. These were the lowest of the low, so nobody would really miss those who died or fell between the cracks.

The music was hard, the lights were fast, and the mosh pit was chaotic. Just the way Fritz liked it. He liked everything chaotic. The women and men alike wore leather and spikes, all the colors of the rainbow on their eyes, faces, and fingernails. Some wore pointed teeth and some had the pointed teeth (a big difference between the two types, Fritz knew all too well.) Everyone was a danger to society and the innocent passerby. These weren't just punks. They were the disciples of Satan, worshippers of a free way of life.

Fritz was just one of many who spread the word. He didn't preach. He set an example, taking one of many hints from Jesus. You didn't blab; you showed. Fritz sure showed. He showed his followers how easy it was to bash a man into submission with his very fists. He showed how you could spread fear, make yourself happy, and have a good time. None of that self-denial and praying nonsense. Satan's way was the way of not having anything or anyone knock you down.

Just like every day and night, Fritz was the prime prophet of that way of life. He knew it was so, feeling the beat of the band, the chaotic lights shooting straight to his brain through his eyes, and the naughty touches from the even naughtier hookers. Hookers who paid him for the honor and privilege.

Something seemed to stop the show as one man appeared in his field of vision. It was the shadow Fritz saw first, then a man of average height, long hair flowing loosely. His arms hung tensely by his sides. The flashes of light showed the faint outline of a leather trenchcoat. Where there should have been eyes there were shadows. His fingers were spread and tense. His mouth formed a grimace that changed to a manic smile. A frightening smile.

Fritz was a messenger of Satan, but in all his endless years of being an Angel on the losing side, never once had he seen a mortal more fearsome than this. This had to be a mortal, because there were only three possibilities; deity, Angel, and mortal. Fritz would know if this monster was an Angel or deity. It had to be a mortal. Yet he didn't know for sure, and making an ID by elimination made Fritz uncomfortable.

"Fritz, my boy. I hear you're spreading the word of Satan. Maybe you have a good word for Latro?" The man's voice was soft, but it cut through the loud music.

Latro. Old Latin for the highwayman. "Latro . . . ?" The guy wasn't Italian by any stretch of the imagination, but he could be Catholic. He just had that look to him. The man's voice had the clarity of one who had learned the Holy Language.

The smile was vicious. "Just Latro."

"What can I do for you?"

"Enlighten me. Illuminate me, Angel of the Light Bearer."

"Why didn't you say so?" Fritz relaxed. "Have a few drinks. Try some ecstasy. Ride some of my girls 'til they scream."

"Is that your message, fallen Angel? Drink, eat, fuck, and shoot up until you're a pathetic zombie? Didn't you learn from the Romans?"

Fritz's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

Latro still stood, "I seek enlightenment, as I have already said. The Bible tells me to seek, and I shall find. I have long accepted my limitations, and I search for a higher power to help me find my path. It's very lonely being one such as myself, with only myself as a travelling companion."

Fritz stared at him. "You know, there are tales about you. They say you're doomed to walk forever."

"Not walk. Run."

The fallen Angel shrugged, "Whatever. So tell me this much. What's so bad about living the party life? You won't face the same fate as these mortals. Have some unreal, unprotected sex and shoot up on the nerve slammers, and you'll wake up the next week without a hangover, so you can do it all over again. Do you have any idea how many of my followers would kill their own lovers to have what you have?"

"They don't have what I have. In fact, they have a lot less, because they've learned to stop questioning."

"You're a philosopher, then." He took a drag on his loco weed. "A loss. All you have to do is learn to take it easy. I bet it's because you' haven't been laid in a long time."

Latro didn't quite scowl, but his eyes could have burned stone into lava. "You truly are a fallen Angel. You've never known love. You have no wisdom and you don't carry a message. At least God's Angels have a message, or at least a script. You're pathetic."

Fritz stood up. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Some of the revelers stopped as they saw this fight brewing. The music was still pounding, but more and more heads were staring at the two.

"You tell me. Fritz isn't a name in the Angelic language."

A scholarly monster. Fritz nodded, "I was known as Belial."


Most speakers of English might have described what happened next as chaotic. However, that word wasn't quite correct, because what happened had the very distinctive character of an orderly execution. It just wasn't very pretty.

An axe whipped out of Latro's coat and cut Fritz from his groin to his sternum, which cracked all along its length. Screaming filled the air, and was soon mixed with the screams and yells of the revelers around him as they realized what happened.

Fritz was nowhere close to being dead, and before Latro could finish it off, he was jumped by a few bodyguards. Before they could complete their collective tackle, they found themselves on the ground, their ribcages split open and blood shooting out of their hearts. Those few who managed to stand up fainted before they managed much else.

By this time, Fritz was ready for Latro, with a blade of Damascus steel made in the Akkadian style. The fatal wound was fusing together, accompanied by an electric sparking. Within seconds, it was healed. "You're going to wish you were dead meat!"

Latro's smile was chilling. "God never defended his Angels. You're going to be fun." The axe was solid enough to bust down a door, and made in the Viking style, which made its blurred speed even more surprising. The sword was knocked out of Fritz's hand along with a few fingers. "I wonder how many lives you have? How many times will you heal? Will Satan resurrect you? Or does Hell have a policy of limited withdrawals before collection time?" Each question was punctuated by a kick or slam to some exposed body part.

Before long, Fritz lay on the ground, waving bloody stumps in the air as his only defense.

Methodically, Latro dismembered Fritz while he still lived. Because his windpipe was the last to be cut, his screams were heard throughout. Just as death reached Fritz, the police arrived to an empty rave hall.

Latro was nowhere to be seen. He was invisible to the world when it counted.

Andrew was the only one who saw him, the only one who followed him out the back door.

He'd been around to hear the whole conversation, and could now see a little more deeply into this man's soul.

"God, please show me the way to heal this man. He desperately wants to hear your voice, but his senses are closed by his pain."

Andrew didn't feel comfortable with God's response.

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