535 - (FREE TO READ) Vunak Of Antares: A Novel By James LaFond & Jeth Randolph
Chapter 5 (Part 2): “Where’s Charlie?”
Copyright 2025 LaFond & Randolph
A Casting Darts Publishing Original
Written by LaFond & Randolph
James LaFond, author of the Paladin Press knife fighting classic, “The Logic Of Steel” writes: “Paul Vunak, as one of the most innovative martial arts instructors of the late 20th Century, which saw the rebirth of the Pankration in the form of MMA after a 1,500 year sleep, was also involved in training for weapon combat, like gladiators of old. How would one of Modernity’s empty hand/weapon gurus fare if transported to some alien gladiator planet as a trainer?”
Vunak leads “The Dirty Dozen you always wanted” against an opposing team lead by non other than Bruce Lee!
New chapters will be serialised for readers here at The One In One Journal every week!
Click to read Chapter one: “Like Water”
Click to read Chapter two: “Stardust Express”
Click to read Chapter three, part one: “The Galactic Fix is In”
Click to read Chapter three, part two: “Charon’s Song”
Click to read Chapter three, part three: “Best and the Blessed”
Click to read Chapter four: “The Dawning Of A New Sun”
Click to read Chapter five, Part one: “Upon the Scales of Right”
“Where’s Charlie?” / Vunak of Antares #5 (Part 2)
Dusk
The team enters the Sands Stout Hall – better known locally by it’s true name, “The Wrecking Bar”.
Everyone’s eyes were plunged into darkness as they walked in. The imposing group stood for a second blinking, some even putting hands out for fear of tripping in the low light. Vu saw a crack of light and pushed through a second swing door into a large room that was somewhere between an old west saloon and a Viking mead hall.
‘Is that actually sawdust on the floor?’
“Dat sawdust on the floor?” exclaimed Johnson as if voicing Vu’s thought before erupting into laughter, his gold tooth flashed red with the reflection of a bar light.
Ahead a figure loomed:
“Welcome gentlemen!” bellowed the Land Lady of The Wrecking Bar; a woman who could only be described as “sturdy”, sporting a huge white Mohawk, with a corset that would rival the greatest achievements of engineering in the matter of “support”. She was incredibly loud and laughed maniacally showing her tonsils as she did.
“I wonder why is this place called The Wrecking Bar”, asked Thompson quietly to a delighted looking but distracted LaFond.
“Cus we is all fuckin’ wrecked in here duuude!” exclaimed a slumped man at the bar, to a chorus of laughter from a himself and a cross-eyed woman to his left.
On a low stage at the far end of the room, a band started playing to honour the arrival of the fighters. Blackbeard was already in hog heaven, along with the still laughing Jack Johnson
“I haven’t seen a joint like this since opening night at Club Delux! Hahaha!”
Burton took the initiative to steer the trajectory of the evening, but with little avail.
“Good evening madam… perchance might we avail ourselves of the wine list?”
This was met with more maniacal laughter and a tankard was thrust into his hands by the bar maid.
“Well, yes, quite...” he added with a weak smile.
A long banquet table was set and awaited the group. A roasted calf took centre stage and the sole cutlery that seemed to be available were Bowie knives.
The band leader, the husband of the insane Mohawk Landlady, tapped the microphone to make a short speech:
“Mr Vunak, gentlemen… You honour us with your presence in our family’s tavern! Please think of this as your home and we, your humble servants. On this, the eve of tomorrow's spectacle, and no doubt in… err… anticipation of your… um...success. Yes, success! We cordially invite the Vunakers to join us in painting the town Blue!!!!”
There was cheering to this and the band started up again, playing a cabaret version of the theme from “The Warriors”, with the band leader performing the high synth parts in a falsetto shriek.
Vunak closed his eyes.
‘This is a disaster! These guys will all be half-cut in the arena tomorrow! How the fuck do I get them to take it easy?’
Shaka Zulu was dancing already, as was Liver Eatin’ Johnson, who had torn the leg off the calf and was pretending to beat Shaka Zulu with it, much to the merriment of the group.
Vu turned angrily to James and Jeth:
“Who in the living fuck was retarded enough to have booked this dive? These men need a light meal and an early night! Do you realise what is happening tomorrow..?”
Then turning to witness an already devolving situation at the bar, “For god’s sake Bronson get down from there!!”
“Don’t worry Mr Vunak, the roof’s safe with me hahaha!” Came the reply from the hefty Englishman as he climbed on top of the bar and pretended to prepare to swan dive towards a group of ladies decked out in matching fairy costumes, who squealed with excitement like some sort of crazed hen night.
Jeth and James exchange panicked looks.
Vunak had obviously wanted some kind of light evening repast to enable a higher performance the next day. Instead, the evening was fast turning into a binge drinkers’ convention on steroids.
James attempted an olive branch: “I’m sorry, I just thought that you’d love th...”
“You ‘just thought’..eh?”, snapped Vunak angrily.
Jeth added in, trying to smooth the storm that seemed to be fast overtaking the room, “Actually, this place is pretty cool mate, and...”
Vu shut him down; “Who the fuck asked you shithead? And we’re not “mates”! Go and get them organic salads and some mineral water!”
“Fair enough” said Jeth. He started towards the bar and muttered angrily to James, who looked at the floor;
“Nice one...mate!”
Burton leaned in towards Vu , “If I might suggest, the men could well do with some diversionary entertainment for the evening for morale and so forth.”
He handed Vu a tankard of thick stout. Vunak paused, looked down into the murky ale, as if down a long dark tunnel of futile struggle and felt the need for a change of heart.
‘He’s right’.
He turned to the group and yelled above the noise of the room;
“Vunakers!”
He raised the hefty drinking vessel high overhead, “To the victory of the most badass team to ever hit Antares! Let’s kick some scorpion ass!!”
The team was ecstatic.
Vu sniffed the drink, wincing...
He reassured himself, ‘I guess just one can’t hurt’.
Dawn came, and the first of the two suns started it’s hateful invasion across the room via a window.
His eyes screwed up in his first battle of the day; to try and cling to sleep.
Outside somewhere, a large insect was screeching.
‘‘Is that a rooster? I’m on a farm?’
A very, very sick Vunak opened one eye and was instantly filled with remorse. He could smell nothing but, fuck…the taste in his mouth! He wanted to wretch.
‘I think I’m still drunk…oh god! That means this will only feel worse later!!’
Snatched images intruded into his mind from the previous night:
A highly inebriated Dioxiphos and Dessalines taking it in turns to score points by throwing food into the Grand Canyon-esque cleavage of the Landlady, to her deafening delight.
‘That hag’s laugh – it was like a seal being machine gunned!’
‘I remember falling on something… the table? And what the hell was Wetzel doing with that door, it was completely detached!’
His stomach lurched as he tried to sit up.
‘I’m on some kind of bed, ok, ahh! What’s this?’
He winced at a slowly building signal of pain. He reached down and pulled what looked like an ashtray from under his right side. A dead, half smoked cigar, that had just a few hours ago seemed like the best idea in the world, was still stuck to it by some unknown substance.
“Jeeeezzz...”
His eyes slowly adjusted to the light of what he reasoned must be a barracks of some kind.
About him were scattered the members of the Blue Team, “The Vunakers”, his “Dirty Dozen on Steroids”.
The combined snoring from the strewn men, some in beds, some not having made it that far, was like a dirt-bike race.
He stifled an urge to gag as he hiccuped and tried to count:
‘OK, roll call. Focus man you can do this Vu!’
‘Let’s see…Burton, Shaka, Teach, that Baltimore fucker… this is all his fault, and his asshole Limey buddy too! I’ll have them fucking whipped later.”
He continued struggling to match a pointed finger to the direction of his eyesight;
‘Johnson and Johnson – ha! That was a joke from last night – “The baby powder twins” haha!. Wait, ok , Thompson, Diox, De Soto… that moody fucker . Dessalines, Wetzel., me… wait… hang on…’
He sat bolt upright now, a second sensation twisted at his stomach that competed even with the ravages of the alcohol.
‘Oh no, no. no!’
Vunak scrambled from the bed and yelled “Where the fuck is Bronson?!”
Several hours previously.
Bronson had slipped from The Wrecking Bar and made his way to the wall that surrounded Red Team.
The window he sought was a short run past the Red Gate guard who had left his post to check the noise that came from a thrown rock. Bronson climbed quickly and slipped down into the room on the other side.
“Easy, easy, yeah?” said Bronson standing by the open window.
His palms forward, he motioned and lifted his t shirt to display a bare waist.
“Look mate, nothing going on, I come in peace. Understand? Peace yeah?”
Miamoto Musashi knelt motionless, staring at the man by the window. His hand was on the short sword where it had been the second he sensed the presence and turned.
“I’m an artist too, yeah?”, continued the standing man. He made painting motions as if holding a brush, touched his chest, and then pointed at the unfinished painting that Musashi had turned from moments before.
Seconds passed, and neither man moved.
“I’m sorry mate, I didn’t mean to put the frighteners on ya! I just wanted to get to meet ya – I read a book by ya once, bloody brilliant!”
His muscled arm moved to give a thumbs up sign.
The swordsman softened his posture just slightly and the atmosphere in the room lost some of it’s heavy weight. He knew that this man had been a prisoner and had heard from Charon as to who he was. It had taken remarkable skill to enter this camp and he had risked much to come here, seemingly just to see artwork.
He nodded once and shifted to one side, gestured to the water colour drawing on the paper in front of him and then watched the large man, who had removed his blue protective sunglasses to show his smiling eyes as he approached respectfully.
“Thanks mate, I knew you’d understand. Much appreciated...Oh, nice work son!”
Musashi looked at the unfinished drawing of a white crane and then back at Bronson.
He nodded again.
“’ow on earth do you show that much with just a few strokes of that brush? I always use pens mostly… or whatever they let me ‘ave”.
The Japanese man slowly turned and pushed a piece of thick, textured white paper towards Bronson’s side of the table. Slowly he returned his hand to the cup, removed the brush and gestured that the large man should take it.
“Really? Ya mean it? Thanks mate!” The large hand, moved quickly with the brush and started to sketch a portrait of two figures standing in a cell, both holding brushes. Musashi watched as at the bottom he slowly wrote “Two escape artists”.
“Haha mate, look! That’s me ‘n you that!”
Before he could finish signing “Charles Salva..”, both men turned at the noise from the door as the guards burst through. The room was filled with din as they rushed the larger of the two painters and drove him against the wall. There was an strong ozone smell and a crackle as he slumped to the floor, inanimate.
Bronson awoke in a cell.
Just as the same first sun that was simultaneously torturing Vunak and the others in another part of the camp, entered the skylight some twenty feet above his head.
‘What is this place? Did I ever leave solitary?’ he wondered.
‘Time can play tricks on your mind.’
Remembering the stolen victory of the brush that he had held, if just for a moment, he moved to the floor to begin push ups and wondered what his disappearance from his previous cell in another place and time had triggered.
‘I bet they just flushed that small pile of ashes down the bog. Cunts.’ (1)
Continued next week!
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Notes:
1) Excerpt from the December 16th 2025 edition of the UK’s The Guardian Of Truth newspaper referring to the “Where’s Charlie?” movement.
Headline: “UK Government collapses after serious social unrest due to Salvador escape.”
The Prime Minister gave a speech of resignation earlier today live from Downing Street and has been to see the King (They/Them) to inform them of the decision.
His situation had become untenable following on from losing a vote of no confidence last week over his handling of the serious unrest that has swept the UK in recent months following the alledged escape of prisoner Charles Salvador (formerly Charles Bronson, original name Michael Peterson) from the newly opened Blackrock maximum security prison that had been the flagship of this government’s major law and order drive.
Labelled Britain’s most dangerous man, Salvador had somehow disappeared from his purpose made solitary confinement cell. These cells are escape proof and designed for a range of high risk category “A” prisoners as well as those found guilty of offences under the new Social Credit Score System.
A commissar for the Department for Truth and Public Safety said earlier that Salvador’s escape had initially started a craze among British youth of posting “Where’s Charlie?” messages on social media with reported sightings spreading across the UK and leading to Salvador being viewed as what used to be known as, a “folk hero” nationally for evading authorities.
When it was leaked that ashes were found in Salvador’s cell, the mood in larger cities had darkened due to online conspiracy theories believing that Salvador had been cremated as part of the new climate measures to protect the environment from harm by euthanising the elderly, members of the patriarchy, and those engaging in dangerous thought.
The so far, unexplained disappearance of Salvador has lead to the currently ongoing serious disorder, triggering the current lock-downs in cities such as Birmingham, Leeds, Glasgow, and Bristol as well as across London.
Members of the public are reminded to stay in doors and not speak to family or friends until Salvador has been located and the “Red for Danger” alert has been withdrawn.