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The wandering man, memory block 1

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-I've been doing a lot of thinking about where I want my writing (can't really call it a career) to end up, and for now I'm just going to do what interests me, maybe take some advice from other people who know more about writing.

-this story will mark the event of my first story from a third person point of view.

-the idea for this story came to me when I watched 'Ip man' on Netflix. It's a good movie, though it's not in english. But no more free advertising >_>

-by other people who know more about writing, I meant you people. And possibly the internet people. But no actually that's you too, so yeah, you guys. I'd say guys and girls, but there are no girls on the internet.

-now I'd like you all to meet my new narrator, James! He's a bit crazy, but hey, so am I.

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Hey everybody I'm James. Nice to meet you. I'm the guy that's going to be narrating this story, and hopefully all of its future installments.

There he is, a wandering man with no memory of his life. He can only remember what he's learned on his journey, which isn't much. So he walks, from one end of the earth to the other, to find someone who knows who he is. All he carries is a gold ring and the clothes on his back, foraging and resting as needed. Life is simple for this traveler, walk, eat, sleep, and ask questions. Most regard him with nothing more than a grunt, and dismiss him as a crazy person, others feel sorry for him and offer him food or shelter, but he declines. On some rare occasions, someone will try and take his ring. Those situations always end badly. Right about now should be a good example. He walks past a thin man, who's eyes dart back and forth quickly. The wanderer stops walking in an instant, the thin man passing by nervously. The wanderer feels for the ring dangling from a string around his neck, but finds nothing. Without hesitation, he spins, knocking the thin man to the ground. "Don't take things that aren't yours" he says, picking his ring out of the thin mans pocket. And without another word, another action, or even an acknowledgment, he's walking again. As he goes, he sings a tune, the first thing that pops into his head. "Your a pretty little flower, but I'm a busy little bee. Honey thats all you need to see"

I may not be the one who writes the story, I'm just the guy they hired to tell it, but I liked that intro. It had a certain feel to it.

This small town is no different from any of the others he's been through, just another random assortment of shops and homes. maybe this town will be different. Maybe someone will know me he thinks to himself, rubbing the gold ring hanging from his neck. He doesn't know why the ring means so much to him, but he knows it. Some suppressed unaccessible part of his mind tells him it's important, so he believes it. He likes to think that it used to be a wedding ring. It makes him smile to think that he had a wife, but it hurts too, knowing that his old life is lost and he might never know who he was. He asks a lot of people, more of the same reactions. Eventually he gives up, and starts walking again. The people act strangely, he notices, but it's reason is unknown. They all avoid a particular shop, taking great effort to give it a wide berth. Such things are beyond his notice, as he is not always very observant. People eye him strangely, more so than usual. They realize he is a stranger, and this town is always wary, always watching. They weren't always that way, but times change. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Asks a voice from somewhere behind him. He feels that spark of excitement, before he quenches it with a practiced reflex. The question, he's heard it before, but it's never addressed to him. It's one of many beacons of false hope. He once ended up burning a building down because of it once. It's a long story he'd rather not discuss. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he stops. Sudden movement makes people lash out, he's always thought it best to remain passive in confrontations. The man the hand belongs to comes around to face him. The strange man strikes our wanderer as a familiar face. Long black hair, standard features, a scar. "Didn't you hear me, I asked you a question" the stranger laughs. Our wanderer lowers his guard. This man isn't here for a fight, but he gets the feeling that this stranger could put him down if he had to. "I don't remember you, but the name Peterson comes to mind" says our wanderer, with a growing feeling of anticipation. Could this possibly be someone who knows him? He's waited a long time for this, but he tries not to get his hopes up too much. Disappointment lies around every corner. "Well, actually it's-" "yeah, Peterson. I'm sure of it" our wanderer smiles, knowing full well that isn't this mans name. Our wanderer and Peterson share a long laugh. It strikes our wanderer, that he hasn't laughed in a long time. Too long. Last time he laughed was when a man accidentally knocked down a series of marble columns, like in an old cartoon. "I'm almost certain I've seen you before. Let's grab a drink" Peterson smiles, it's a friendly smile, one that you'd only give to a close friend, or to your superior. He's curious to see which of those categories he would fall into.

And so our wanderer befriends a mysterious young man, one who may hold the key to unlocking his past. Many things are possible, but that also means many things can go wrong.

Our wanderer and Peterson sit across from eachother, sipping their drinks. They both laugh at some obscene joke, taking their sweet time in getting to business. When you've waited so many years, what's another hour or two. So they enjoy the conversation, something the wanderer has had so very little of over the years. They discuss politics, the state of affairs over seas. They discuss just about everything, from their drinks to the kind of trivia not even games how's find interesting. It takes some time, but eventually they arrive upon the subject at hand. "So. Who am I?" Asks our wanderer, silently pleading for some knowledge of himself, any inkling of an identity. "An old customer. I'd thought you were dead" Peterson says to him. Why he would think that is unknown, but is speaks about what kind of person he may have been. In that instant, Peterson collapses face first on the table. A yellow dart protrudes from his neck, most likely a tranquilizer. Our wanderer doesn't know why he knows that. Our wanderer makes no move, he doesn't intend to surprise whoever did this. He's had bad experiences surprising people with guns. Why once there was a bank robber with a flintlock pistol, the definite worst gun you could possibly use to rob a bank. So he shot once, and put our wanderer in a hospital for a month. Black powder, that's nasty stuff. "You were supposed to deliver that protection money twenty minutes ago, and here you are, chatting it up with some stranger. You're a disappointment." Approaches a stranger, his voice filled with contempt. The stranger is tall and dark skinned, he wears a fine suit the exact color to match his skin tone. Such a thing can't possibly be coincidental thinks our wanderer, completely forgetting about the situation at hand, if only momentarily. "And you" the stranger indicates our wanderer. "I don't know who you are, but you've interrupted official business, which means you have to be made an example of" the stranger grins wickedly, obviously taking pleasure in his work. It takes a special kind of psychopath to take pleasure in hurting others. Our wanderer's spine tingles, he know what that means. His muscles tense, preparing for anything. He is usually a very peaceful person, but there comes a time when even the most passive people have to raise their fists.

Our friendly wanderer's friendly friend has been incapacitated, and he has come to the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak. Our wanderer is in quite the pickle.

Our wanderer has been taken to the public square, and is now surrounded by men in similar suits as the stranger. The people of the town watch from afar, terrified of what's about to happen. "So. The entire gang comes out to put down some homeless man" our wanderer smiles. "We have to keep up appearances" says the man who's obviously in charge. Our wanderer comes to this conclusion because the man is wearing a white fedora, and fedoras are the definition of cool. "Nice hat" says our wanderer, in all seriousness, it disarms our fedora man, just for an instant. It's the small victories. One of the suits steps up and takes a swing at our wanderer. It splits his lip, and it hurts like hell, but he just spits blood and smiles up at the suit. Disarm thy enemy. That's in the bible, go look it up. Actually don't do that. He takes several minutes of this beating, never for an instant losing his defiant smile. "Hey boss, he's got a real nice ring around his neck. I think we should take it" says the suit. And before another word can be spoken, he's on the ground, bleeding. Our wanderer sits back down, making no other efforts to resist the suits. One of the other men steps up and examines his friend. "Paulie's arm is broken" exclaims the suit, giving our wanderer looks-that-kill. Fedora man throws his head back and laughs, a deep thundering laugh. "You amuse me kid." Says fedora man. "You'd have an excellent career in the mob" Fedora man puffs a cigar, an unhealthy habit that our wanderer has his own problem with. You can't put a price on feeling like a bigshot. "My reply" says our wanderer. His reply is not in words, but instead an action. He spits blood in fedora mans face, giving no small amount it. Fedora man scowls, wiping blood from his face. "He stained my hat" says fedora man. "Kill him"

So our wanderer is on the wrong side of the mob. I'm not sure why they let me tell this story, it's seriously not appropriate for this audience... What? Oh... My superiors have informed me that most of the people reading this are consenting adults. Ok then, BACK TO THE STORY!!!

"I'm not about to die" our wanderer maintains his smile, standing up. He feels the ring hanging from his neck, it gives him courage. He hates hurting people, but he has a method. The ring, he just imagines whoever he needs to hurt is trying to take his ring. He attacks, jumping far from his previous position. It's a calculated move, designed to get him out of the way of a gun. He puts three of them down before he takes the butt of a rifle to the leg. He crumples to his knees. But something remarkable happens. Someone steps forward. They smash one of the mobsters over the head with a chair. That chair, swung by that random pedestrian, is the spark that lit the match. Two more step forward, then eight, twenty, fifty! It's a full on uprising, every person in town has a weapon. From wood beams and rocks to bats and Peterson and some woman who's obviously his wife with swords. Our wanderer forces himself back to his feet. He pulls his ring off the string and puts it on his finger. "I don't like you" he punches fedora man in the face. With that, the entire crowd descends upon the rest of the mobsters. They scatter, but they're surrounded by people. In the end they get covered by a wave of pissed off civilians. Our wanderer picks up fedora man's hat and puts it on his head. "But I like your hat"

"I don't like you but I like your hat" I like that, that's good stuff. Hey writer, nice job on that one.

Our wanderer sits with Peterson and his wife in their home. After several minutes of avoiding the crowds and dodging reporters, and a stop at a local diner, they eventually reached the small home. "So then I kissed him, and it was the greatest day of our lives." Peterson and his wife smile. "Yup. You and Jenny are definitely a strange couple" laughs our wanderer. Peterson joins him for a solid minute of laughter, it takes them a while longer to stop snickering. "Both of you are morons" Jenny sighs. "And my name isn Jenny" "yeah whatever" chuckles out wanderer. "Soooooo... On the topic of who I am" "oh, right. Well first off, not even I remember your name. I'm sorry I can't help you with that. But a long time ago, you left something with me, something you were going to come back for." He says, heading over to a back room. While our wanderer is disappointed that Peterson doesn't have much information to give him, he is excited to know that, for once, somebody at least has something to tell him. Jenny sighs, leaning back in her chair. "So" says our wanderer, picking up a picture off the table. "You've got a son" he makes awkward conversation. Our wanderer has never been good at talking to women. There was one time where he ended up getting a tray of beers flipped on him. Peterson comes from the back room holding something wrapped in a cloak. It's long, and he cradles it like a precious artifact. It excites our wanderer to know this thing is his, whatever it is. Like getting a present on Christmas morning. Peterson sets it on the table, unwrapping it slowly. "It's a veritable masterpiece, my only regret is that it isn't mine" Peterson grins. When it's unwrapped, our wanderer stares in awe. It's something he'd never thought he would see again. He doesn't remember it, but he knows that much. It's a beautiful walking cane. Made of some sort of solid white wood. It's beautiful, carved all over with symbols that he knows are nonsense, but he knows still hold meaning to him. He holds it by the handle, and it feels perfectly at home there. Seeing and holding his cane again, it knocks loose a few memories. Just a few, but he knows he carved it himself. That it was supposed to be a gift. And he knows that the person it was going to died before he got the chance. It even knocks loose the memories of who these friends are. "You said you would be back for it some day, but you didn't say when." Says Peterson. "I got the overwhelming feeling that you knew you wouldn't be back" Jenny tells our wanderer.

That result surprised me. Given my history with this writer, I though for certain it would be a sword. But that cane seems very nice, I actually think I'll get one of those for myself.

Our wanderer struts around the living room, twirling his cane around with practiced ease, it feels natural. "Ok show off, that's enough" laughs Jenny. "Yeah, you're probably right. It's about time I got going anyways. I thank you for all your help. And for my cane" he smiles as he walks out the door, swaying with cane in hand, ring hanging from neck, and bloodstained fedora on head. "bye Becky, bye Patrick. Say hey to Markus for me."

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-oh yeah! Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you. Even with that series on indefinite hiatus, Patrick and friends are still making appearances. CROSSOVERS -excited flailing-

-you all expected a sword didn't you. Don't deny it, you've come to expect that from me. But I threw a monkey wrench in it. Besides, I like canes, canes are cool.

-this is only the first of many memories our wanderer will regain. What will others tell him about himself? What will he learn? And most importantly, when he does regain his memories, what will he think of the life he used to live?