Death Cultivator by eden Hudson (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📗

out of gym clothes, so I’m going to wash some stuff. Got anything you want me to throw in?”

The linoleum in the kitchen crackled, and something slammed down on the table. Gramps started cussing under his breath.

I hurried up the hall and back into the kitchen. The old man had almost tripped over that piece of flooring that was curling up at the corner. Thank God he’d caught onto the table.

“Piece of crap,” I muttered. I went to the junk drawer and rummaged around until I found a utility knife.

“Don’t worry about it, Grady,” Gramps insisted. “I’ll get it later.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal.” Except it could’ve been a huge deal. I should’ve cut that crap up yesterday when I saw how bad it was getting. Gramps could’ve killed himself while I was at school, which made me feel like a jerk for leaving it. I sliced off the curled-up piece of linoleum and threw it in the trash.

“What do you think I am, decrepit?” He grinned his toothless old-man grin and gave me a weak shove. I managed not to wince at the flare-up of pain in my side. “I’d still kick your ass in a footrace any day. So don’t go getting no ideas.”

“You want to settle this right now, old man?” I hooked a thumb at the door. “I’ll race you to the mailboxes and back, then we’ll see what’s what.”

“Ah.” He stopped to hock up something and spit it in the trash. “Your comeuppance can wait ’til after Gunsmoke, I suppose.”

“After supper,” I said. “I need some clean clothes so I look good when I beat you.”

He let out a froggy, phlegmy laugh. “Keep flapping them gums, Grady. See if you don’t get a mouthful of knuckle sandwich.”

Gramps is the only person who calls me Grady. Ever since elementary school, everybody else called me Hake. When they weren’t calling me names, anyway. I’d insisted on it, since my dad’s first name was Grady, too, and I didn’t want people to associate me with some loser wasting away in jail.

After I got the laundry going, I started some freezer burritos in the microwave. They weren’t on the list of approved foods Gramps’s nutritionist had magneted to the fridge, but they were his favorite. Anyway, she only came around once a month, so she wouldn’t know. Then we ate and watched Westerns while I did my homework. Between shows, I got Gramps riled up by suggesting that Gene Autry might be a pansy.

Basically, the exact same evening we’d been having since I moved in with him. Sometimes the routine got boring, but that night it was great. Right after getting your butt handed to you by somebody bigger, better looking, and richer than you, having that familiar stuff to fall back on is a relief. Like you should be thankful for it.

Paladine ended at nine thirty. Just like always, Gramps slammed down the footrest and, with a groan, shoved himself to the front of his recliner. But he must’ve been feeling kind of pensive, because he didn’t head straight for bed like usual.

“How the lessons coming?” He squinted at my calculus book. His sight was getting worse all the time. I wondered whether he could see the outlines of stuff or if everything was just a blur to him.

“Almost done,” I said.

“Good deal.”

He clapped his hands a couple times in a rhythm I didn’t recognize. He always did when he was thinking.

After a second, he asked, “Need any help on it?”

“No, I got it.”

“Damn smart punk.” He slapped me on the knee. “I never did have a head for books when I was your age. Your dad, neither. Must’ve got it from your mom, God bless her.”

“I think you’re smart.” Gramps was faster with a comeback than anybody I knew, and he could tell a joke like nobody’s business.

“Nah, I’m just an old stump who never should’ve come outta the hills,” he said. “You’re on the fast train, Grady. Gonna do something with that brain of yours.”

To Gramps, “doing something” translated as “become a doctor or lawyer.” He didn’t say it, but I knew he wanted me to make something respectable out of the family name my dad ruined, so doing something awesome like martial artist was out. I wasn’t sure what I’d go to college for—that was still a couple years off—but whatever it was, I wasn’t going to be majoring in drug dealing with possibility of parole in eight years.

“Well.” Gramps groaned again as he stood up, then gave me a weak noogie, aggravating a spot I hadn’t realized was bruised. I smacked his hand off, but not real hard. That was part of the business. He laughed. “Don’t stay up all night watching them kung fu wushu shows, buddy boy.”

“I won’t.” I ran my hand through my hair, smoothing it back down.

“All right.” He shuffled off down the hall to the back bedroom.

I threw the clothes in the dryer, then hurried back to the living room to finish my Calc homework. As soon as that was done, I turned on Ong Bak: Muay Thai Warrior.

Ong Bak is my favorite movie. Everyone in it gives Tony Jaa crap about being poor hillbilly trash, but he shuts them up by beating everybody and taking back his village’s holy statue. I was watching it for the millionth time because it had a form at the beginning I was trying to learn.

Ever since I was a little kid, I’d always wanted to take a martial arts class, but Gramps and I have never been swimming in dough. I couldn’t ask him to waste some of his fixed income on it when he already fed and housed me on the little he had, and if I had started a class over the summer while I was working, I would’ve just had to quit over the school year when I didn’t have any money coming in.

So, I went through the elephant form with Tony piece by piece, trying not to stomp—sound