Wherein I fight a monster and meet the Emperor.
The next match isn’t even worth recounting. He was dressed in a karate uniform that might have been red at one point but had faded to pink. He had his long hair in a pony tail, and no beard, which was always surprising for a hobo. But he was not a good fighter. I’m not sure why anyone would put him in a fight except as joke.
That led me to my third fight. This was the last match of the finals. Whoever won this match would get to meet the Emperor and face the reigning “champeen”. I was amped up and ready for this fight, but much of my excitement died just before the fight. I turned around to Kirby and others in my corner and said, “What the hell is this?”
What awaited me was some sort of abomination. My opponent was heavily muscled with discolored skin. He stayed perpetually in a deep crouch, where he used his long arms to help him walk. He had a mane of tangled hair and tufts of hair all over his body. He was clad only in a loin cloth and his nails had grown into long twisted claws. His teeth had been filed down to points. I had heard that Rocko the Beast had been an ex-circus performer, but this was something else.
I received no real answer to my question. “I’m not doing it. He’s not a man, he’s a monster! Why is he even allowed to compete? I’m not fighting him.”
Kirby and his friends looked at me, then looked at each other. Seconds later, a dozen grubby arms were pushing me forcefully into the ring. I stumbled forward and someone yelled, “Fight!”
Once in the fight I reluctantly sank into a combat stance. Rocko and I stared at each other. He had red eyes. I’m not sure if those were contacts or the firelight reflecting off his eyes, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t look red. We circled each other, Rocko staying crouched and using his arms to walk as much as his legs. Seeing him move like a four-legged animal did nothing to make me feel like this was an appropriate fight. I should have a net and a trident or something.
Rocko made the first move. He galloped forward on all fours like a dog then pounced at me. I was taken aback, because this wasn’t the simple leap or charge of a man, this was the pounce of an animal. I dodged at the last second, but I realized that was always his intent, as Rocko clawed at me as he went by. He landed on all fours, then trotted around to where he could see me again.
His claws tore my upper left arm. I had four deep gouges, his thumb thankfully missing me. Blood was already beginning to seep out. It hurt like hell, but for some reason my mind concentrated on the infectious risks instead. I wondered if I needed to get shots or something. Who knows what diseases might be on his those claw-like fingernails? He seemed to run on them, so they picked up whatever filth was on the ground. Maybe I’d have tetanus.
Rocko came at me again, getting a galloping start before lunging. This time I had a little more sense. I ducked under his leap and then did a quick uppercut into his body. My fist slammed into his stomach. Unlike Mack the Knife, Rocko had a muscled stomach and his skin was tough. However, I felt my punch do some damage. Unfortunately, with his long arms, he managed to rake his claws down my back before trotting away. I hissed in pain. I could feel the blood on my back. It was a mostly superficial wound, but it still stung like hell. I was just glad he didn’t tear any muscles. Can’t throw a good punch if your back is fucked up.
I turned back to my opponent. He was currently crouched in one spot staring at me. Instead of circling, he was fixed in one spot with an intense look of focus. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead down to his snaggle-toothed lip. He was far enough away I really couldn’t take advantage of his concentration, but close enough I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I felt a weird tingling in the air, like static electricity before a thunderstorm. I noticed some strange glow from Rocko’s eyes.
It really was the eyes that tipped me off. Eyes and my instinct. Before I really knew what was happening, my instincts had me diving to the ground to my right. It was this dive that won me the match. With barely a flex of muscles, my opponent leapt – no, flew across the ring at me. It was a weird cannonball that flew in a straight line over fifteen feet. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he did it. He was dead on where I was standing. Due to my dive his spinning attack had him instead strike the wall of hobos behind me with a huge crack. Half a dozen men went down. I couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive.
My opponent bounced off the men and landed in a two leg standing position. But he was dazed. This was not the target he had intended. Six hobos were probably a greater impact than one man. He rocked back and forth on his legs.
I knew he would recover. I also had learned that he was far more dangerous than I had thought. This needed to end. I overcame my shock and rose to my feet. As I approached Rocko, I realized he still hadn’t recovered. This would be anticlimactic, but it would end the match.
I thwacked him on the back of the neck, and as he reeled, I swept the leg. No mercy. He tumbled to the ground. I prepared another kick for his prone form, but after a few seconds I realized he was unconscious. I had won, but it felt bittersweet. Maybe it was just the fear and shock of his attack. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off.
The crowd roared as Kirby and his new assistants came and congratulated me. Someone raised my arm up high. While I was enjoying the victory, I looked around but didn’t see Swearing Jim. I wanted to ask, but I was so tired and I realized I was parched. Kirby handed me water, then went about wiping the blood off me. I was still covered in sweat after all that, and the night was very cold if you weren’t fighting, so a blanket was wrapped on me. This was all in a daze; I didn’t realize just how tired I was until the fight was over.
After a few minutes, Kirby and I were ushered into the big tent, the Emperor’s tent. Inside the tent was actually somewhat furnished. There were old moth-eaten rugs for everyone to sit on, as well as bottle of alcohol, ash trays, and cigars. Oil lamps provided the flickering illumination. The Emperor sat on five stacked rugs, his hat towering above everything. Around in a semicircle, each of the Warlords sat on rugs, wearing their own storied hats. All the enormous hats had me feeling very short.
There was first some remaining business as the Emperor discussed with each Warlord about their holdings. Every Warlord was responsible for one section of the country and all the hobo-related activities going on there. It was amazing how much of a network and what coordinate it seemed hobos had. I wondered how they communicated this all. Was it just word of mouth, or did they just lie about their happenings? Did they just lie to the Emperor to make him happy? I stared at the Emperor, who was now sipping a beer, which got as much alcohol in his mustache as in his mouth.
After that business, the Emperor turned to me. He said he was very impressed with my fighting, and I would have the honor of facing the reigning champeen. He nodded to someone standing on the edge of the tent, who brought me a hat. It was just a single bowler hat, nothing like the prodigious stacked hats of the room, but it was something. It was some semblance of rank. I was still so tired, so I put it on my head, but it slipped to a strange tilt I had no energy to fix. Considering I was wearing no shirt and still wrapped in a blanket, I must have been a strange sight. Then, looking around the room, I realized there were stranger sights around here, so I fit right in.
The Emperor talked a bit more about things that were beyond my ability to comprehend, somewhat from tiredness, somewhat from the sheer bizarreness. I know that after many statements there was a great amount of harrumphing from all the assembled Warlords. I began to almost be able to tell the difference between an agreement harrumph and a disagreement harrumph. I realized that this all was the essence of politics and I was ultimately ill-suited for it.
While they talked, in a whisper I asked Kirby where Swearing Jim was. I figured he would be here, since he was the closest thing I had to a manager and sponsor. Moreover, with Jim’s recently acquired hat upgrades, he would seem to fit well in this gathering of hats. Kirby gave me a strange look and then just shook his head. Then he looked away and would not respond to any of my whispers. At the time, I figured that he just didn’t think it was respectful to talk while the Emperor was talking.
After an hour of the Emperor’s tent, it was time for the final match. I had nearly fallen asleep in the chorus of endless harrumphs, so Kirby practically had to shake me to get my attention. I stood up and shrugged off as much drowsiness as I could. The rug had been more comfortable than I expected, but I also wasn’t used to three fights in a night. Now it looks like I was about to have number four.
I walked outside to the ring, where the crowd was roaring. I raised my arms in triumph, letting the blanket slide off my shoulders onto the floor. For once I appreciate the crowd. I roared, and they roared back. I roared again, but this time I was met with silence. At once they had all stopped cheering and stood in silence.
The reigning champeen had showed up.
I’m not sure what I can say of the strange mix of emotions of that moment. It’s like enjoying a good stew but at the same time trying to unravel all the layers of interacting flavors to know that it had 2 teaspoons of thyme, a tablespoon of garlic, and oh, what’s that? Yes, the secret ingredient was a quarter teaspoon of rosemary. As I turned my head, it was this sort of mélange of emotions that struck me. I felt betrayed and manipulated. I wasn’t sure who to trust anymore. Why hadn’t anyone told me? Was I the only one who didn’t know? And of course, the feeling of “Yes, I guess I should have known this.”
But it was right in front of me. He was also bare-chested, his skin a scarred map of former battle wounds. There was claw marks and knife marks, all healed into ugly scars. Underneath the scars were wiry muscles that I hadn’t notice before, due to the layers of clothes he always wore. But here in the flickering light, they were obvious. He now moved like a predatory cat. I couldn’t read his expression, but knew that expression was going to get much worse once we started fighting.
My opponent was Swearing Jim.
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