Wherein I reach the gathering, learn about the Emperor, and have my first tournament bout.
The gathering was held in an uninhabited part of West Texas. As we rode in on the train, the summer heat was unbearable. The boxcar door remained open, and I spent most of my time sitting on the edge so that the wind cooled me. I felt like a happy dog with my face in the wind, but the truth was I wasn’t exactly happy. Besides the heat making me miserable, I was nervous about the tournament. They were only taking the top fighters, so it’d only be a max of four fights. Even still, that’s more than I was used to in one night.
I watched the scenery go by for hours before Kirby tapped me in the shoulder. The spot was coming up. Since this gathering would be huge, we needed it away from any main cities. No non-hobos could ever know about this gathering. It would scare them. So to get there, we were leaping off the train at a preappointed spot. By this point, we were in the dryer West Texas where rock formations dotted the scorched earth. The jumping point was when you saw the rock that looked like it was giving the middle finger. When I heard it, I thought that would be hard to notice. But when I saw it, I’m not sure how anyone could miss it. West Texas was giving you a big old Fuck You as you rode the train by.
We leapt and rolled onto the parched earth. It was still oppressively hot, but the sun was going down. We’d arrive just in time. The gathering would start at sundown. But we had a walk ahead of us before we’d be able to relax.
It was night when we reached the site. It was in a basin created by rock and a small creek. It was out of view of anyone other than those looking for it, and the water would provide something for the gathering. As I came over the rise, it was a sight unlike any other. The basin was dotted with tents and roaring fires. This was way bigger than any gathering I had ever seen. There were hundreds of hobos there, and more seemed to be trickling in. It was a sea of men in old tattered clothes, like a gathering of ghosts. I could see why they kept this hidden; this would freak people out. People would be paranoid if they realized that hundreds of hobos met a few times a year in secret.
We walked down into the basin and dropped our stuff near one of the tents. Jim and Kirby spent a while shaking hands and greeting old friends, while I followed after them, smiling when appropriate, but generally staying distant. I got showed off more than introduced – I was Tennessee Tex Tornado the bare knuckle boxer more than Tennessee Tex Tornado the person. At best I was asked how it felt to be back in my home state, a question which I shrugged off. Throughout, I sized up each person. I wasn’t sure who was going to be my opponent.
In the center of the site was an open area, assumedly for the fights and any announcements. Off that was the biggest tent, obviously the Emperor’s. It had a strange flag on top of the tent, which appeared to be some sort of coat of arms. It displayed a red griffon, and in front of it there was a top hat and the traditional hobo “bag on a stick” crossed. I’m not sure exactly what it meant, but it was classier than I expected for a hobo.
As we all sat down for dinner around our respective campfires, I learned more about the Emperor. Being the Emperor is not an elected position. Instead, it’s a position of succession, though not hereditary. The previous Emperor picks the new one on his death bed. It’s a long lineage descending all the way back to His Imperial Majesty Emperor Joshua Norton the First, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico. While the sphere of influence has shrunk (Mexico’s homeless have their own system, so the “Protector of Mexico” has been dropped from American emperors), the title has been carried down across the generations. No one really knows how each emperor picks his successor. Some claim it comes to each dying emperor in a vision, while others claim that the emperors pick the one who most corresponds to their unique viewpoint on the world. All I know is that each emperor is thought to be strange and a little crazy – keep in mind that this opinion is coming from the hobo community themselves and you understand the weight that carries.
After dinner, there was, for lack of a better term, the opening ceremonies. Fires were lit around the empty area. A dozen men started stepping out of the Emperor’s tent. Each man had two hats on, much like Swearing Jim’s. Unlike Jim’s, they had a top hat on top of another top hat. Fancy. They lined up around the empty area and were obviously men of great respect.
“Who are they?” I whispered to Kirby.
“The Warlords,” he said with admiration.
“Cool,” I said. “So they become a Warlord and somebody gives them a fancy hat?”
“No,” said Kirby with a shake of his head, still watching the Warlords. “You find one of those hates, then you become a Warlord.”
“Find a hat?” I said incredulously. “Kirby, I could just make one of those hats! So if I found a hat like that, I’d become a Warlord?”
He nodded. “But it’s really hard. It’s a really rare random drop. I’ve been waiting my whole life and one hasn’t dropped.”
“Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Shh!” he said. I turned in time to see the Emperor leave his tent. He was a shabby man with bushy muttonchops, a mustache, but no beard. But that wasn’t the first thing you saw when you looked at him. No, instead you noticed his hat. This was the hat of all hats. Two top hats directly on top of each other, then a third off-kilter on top of that. That’s the type of headgear you start a religion with. Looking around, I suddenly wondered if he already had.
There was silence while the Emperor said a few words. They were nothing of note, just a simple greeting, a thank you for coming, a hope that no one had trouble getting there, and a joke about the entertainment to come. After all that, he said that the fights would begin.
Everyone went back to their tents, and the audience prepared. I stripped off to my bare chest; of late I had ruined far too many shirts with blood– both mine and theirs. There night was cooler than the day, but this was still Texas. The ground would radiate heat for another hour more, then the temperature would drop. I hoped I would not still be fighting at that time.
I was up first. My opponent was named Mack the Knife. Not the Mack the Knife. I’m sure the inspiration for that play and song was long dead. That was my second concern. My first concern was whether he actually had a knife. I was assured “No” by three people standing around me, until a fourth said “Well, Maybe.” There was a long pause, then everyone shook their head and repeated “No.” Confidence was not inspired.
Mack was strange looking. I guessed he was an army vet. He had blonde hair which stood up from grime. He wore dog tags and a green tank top. He had very dirty camo pants. He was decently muscled, but had seen better days. There were dark circles under his eyes and he had a pronounced beer gut. If I had faced him in his prime, I would be scared. For now, I was just cautious.
Since it was a tournament, there was at least someone to yell “Fight!” Typically most matches began when one of us decided to run at each other. I took up a boxing stance and waited for Mack to make a move. We locked eyes for a long moment. Oblivious to the cheering and shouts of the men who crowded around the edges of the area, we sized each other up. He was the one who made the first move.
He was surprisingly quick as he threw a left jab, then spun around with a backhand. The first missed, and the second narrowly missed as I leaned back. All the fights had given me a better sense of when someone was going to punch me. It’s not a bad skill to have, especially when you know you can be quite a prick if you’re not watching yourself. I feinted left, then came around with my patented right hook. It thudded off his forearms, which he had pulled up in front of his face. Most people dodged, but this dude was all about blocking.
His next move took me surprise. With lightning quick speed he flipped backwards into the air, his feet kicking out at me. He was wearing heavy combat boots, so they hurt like fucking hell. The force was so great it tore me from the ground and sent me tumbling a few feet back. I was kicked into the feet of the hobos at the edge of the area. They helpfully picked me up, patted me on the shoulder, then forcefully pushed me back into the ring. I rubbed my jaw. Had the boot been any more on target, my jaw would probably be broken.
Mack came at me again, with two quick jabs, then he tried that flip kick thing again. This time I was not taken surprised, and managed a quick step back. Even still, his boots whizzed through the air an inch from my face. When he landed, I saw the flaw in his little maneuver . When he was a younger, more in shape man, it was probably a flawless technique. But now as an older, overweight man, it took his toll. When he landed he stumbled for a moment, then he stood shakily, his arms hanging down as he struggled to catch his breath. His gut was never more pronounced than at this time. I knew this would be the time.
I charged him and punched, but he had recovered enough that he raised his forearms to block again. It was a little more half-assed than usual, but it was enough to block my punches and I backed off. Now I had to wait for him to do that flip again, making sure I didn’t get hit by it. I’m not sure if I could keep fighting if it hit me again. I moved in and fired off two light jabs, but I was tentative the whole time, ready to jump back if he kicked. He noticed this, and instead just blocked. I realized I needed to do a true assault, and just hope I could dodge in time.
Letting out a shout, I lunged at him. My right jab glanced off his forearms, my left hook crunched against his arm, then my final right uppercut flew in an inch in front of his face. To dodge that last one, he had dropped his arms and stepped back, which was my cue to jump back – that had to have been the start of his flipkick. I leapt back and once again barely missed his boots. He landed shakily again, then I attacked. A successful punch to his head had him shaken, but he brought his forearms up. I switch to gut punches, which were surprisingly effective. I switched to punching his face again, as he had gone completely on the defensive. He could not defend everywhere, I just had to keep switching.
With a final crack, my right hook to his jaw sent him tumbling to the ground. I kept my fists up, wondering if he would rise again, but he was out. His crumpled form lay unmoving. Someone grabbed my hand and lifted it up. My focus broken, the roaring of the crowd came rushing to mind. They were all shouting my name, or at least my hobo name. “Tex! Tex! Tex!” It was a chant, and one I enjoyed.
I had won my first tournament match.
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