Smith blinked, and suddenly realized that he was awash in red light. He paced faster to elude it, but the cone tracked his movements. He should have felt like a penned lamb ready for the abattoir. But he was too naïve, and his initial fear had already been siphoned off in his mind and shuttled back to the hinterlands of his consciousness.
After a ceremonial removal of cape, boots, and the insertion of a mouthpiece, Eduardo entered the ring by bounding over the tallest rope and landing heavily on the canvass. His head was shaved, and a pantheon of Mesoamerican gods was inked across his chest and arms. Most of the portrayed deities were theophanies—partially man, partially animal. They wielded swords and axes in stiff arms as depicted in ancestral codices, skulls amassed by their scaled and feathered tread. Dominating his back was a screeching eagle, the phrase “Order De La Águila” captioned beneath in elegant cursive.
“He’s the head of their premiere special forces unit,” said Hommler, drawing a cup of black blood to his lips with both hands like coffee. “He’s likely the most deadly of the warriors in this tournament. The Aztecs who set up the brackets must really want to destroy your lover.”
“Oh, my.” Swan gasped. “Look at all his muscles and tattoos. He looks sinister! Why, oh why did Scottie have to sign up for this . . . this . . . barbarism!” The president’s eyes twitched frenetically, overwhelmed by the images on the House of Color’s megascreen theater. Seated around them in tiered hideousness were cheering congressmen and senators. They swept miniature American flags above their heads, and threw punches at the air when the Aztec champion was targeted by the camera.
The announcer, an operatically gifted Hispanic man in a suit, raised his left hand toward Smith.
“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to experience the second heavyweight tournament bout, which is sanctioned by the Aztlan Athletic Commission. The winner of this match will proceed to face Hans Stewart, in the tourney’s finale, later this evening. In this corner, standing at six feet, three inches tall, and weighing in at three-hundred and twenty-five pounds is a man familiar to us all. He hails from Washington, D.C., and is making his professional mixed martial arts debut tonight—we welcome the vice president of the United States of America, Scott Smith!”
One hundred thousand fans expressed their collective scorn with boos and hisses. An egg narrowly missed the vice president’s head, and cracked against a turnbuckle.
“Oh, poor, Scottie!” exclaimed Swan, his fingernails between his teeth.
“Look how they hate us,” whispered Hommler in the president’s ear. “Aztlan is a culture of hate that seeks to destroy America. See them jeering—see them hurling their derision and blasphemies at, after yourself, the finest man in the world?”
“Yes . . .” Swan breathed, his hand sinking to his chest.
“And in this corner is an athlete that needs no introduction,” continued the announcer. “He stands six feet, nine inches tall, and weighs in at two-hundred and eighty-five pounds. He’s the two-time world free-style wrestling champion, the three time “Fist of Bangkok” Muay-Thai champion, the seven time Brazilian Open Jiu-Jitsu champion, and the reigning “King of Aztlan” tournament champion. Ladies and Gentlemen, he is the pride of Aztlan, Eduardo “la águila” Tlaxtatl!”
The audience exploded into feverish cheers and waving arms. What sounded like a thousand drums pounded in concert, hot comets arced over the ring, and projectors shot images along the perimeter of the auditorium depicting three-dimensional lush jungles, magnificent, precipitously-staired temples, and a blazing sun that levitated above the audience.
“Looks as if the Aztecs aren’t just satisfied with calendars and architecture any longer,” said Hommler under his breath, eyes tracking the spectacle of technology.
The two combatants met briefly in the center of the ring as a referee, diminutive beside the colossi, briefly summarized the rules. Scott held up his fists to touch gloves, but Eduardo declined with a smirk. The audience delighted in the snub, and waved their Aztlan flags more fiercely. As the fighters returned to their corners, and the fight bell gonged, Tlaxtatl assumed a loose stance and claimed the center of the ring.
Smith protected his jaw with his right fist, and readied his jab hand as demonstrated in the boxing instructional videos he had used for his fight preparation. To the veteran Aztec, he looked like a rigid sculpture. Scott advanced mechanically toward the Aztlander, his right fist drawn back. Eduardo plumbed the inky leagues of his opponent’s eyes as he neared, and bobbed his shoulders as if he were ready to exchange fists.
Then suddenly, far before he was within boxing range, Scott heard the shrill whistle of air and a resounding smack that intoxicated the audience. Only seconds later did the vice president realize that his upper leg had been whipped by Eduardo’s shin. Scott didn’t understand—his opponent’s eyes had never left his own. How could he have thrown a kick without eyeing his target? Flustered, Scott lumbered forward again, and a second kick registered on the same leg, the same location. The crowd bellowed approval at each echoing impact. Smith’s left quad and thigh were now red slabs of meat, still engorged from the prior day’s workout of squats and leg press.
Eduardo postured with his fists, then welted Scott’s leg again. With each collision of shin bone and thigh, the vice president’s mobility diminished. One minute into the round, and much to the entertainment of the audience, Scott was limping after his opponent and dragging the leg that seemed to bear an invisible homing beacon. To many, the bout began to resemble a bull fight. The captain of the Eagle Knights backpedaled cavalierly, blowing a kiss to his wife at ringside as he threw his bodyweight into a spinning back kick directly into Scott’s chest. The impact lifted Scott off the ground and entangled him in the ropes. Gasping, he freed himself just as Eduardo’s flying knee grazed his chin. Finally at close range, Scott uncorked a barrage of strikes, his beefy arms flailing at air in arcing slaps rather than linear punches. The crowd reacted to the counterattack with heavy laughter. Another low kick peppered the contused vice presidential thigh. And another. Then another.
“Stop it! Stop that!” cried Swan, flinching as each low kick strummed the sciatic nerve on Scott’s leg. “That Aztec isn’t fighting fair! Why doesn’t he stand in one place and fight like a . . . like an American!”
Meanwhile, the inauspicious opening round of the fight was having repercussions in the House’s theater. A bicameral war had broken out pitting senator against congressmen in bloody melee. Numerics proved an insurmountable detriment to the senators, and guttural rasps, scuffling feet, and screams of the injured led Hommler to crank the theater’s volume to arresting levels.
“He’s kicking him like that to humiliate him,” yelled Hommler over the din. “He’s making a fool of him. He’s making a fool of us. He’s making a fool of you.”
Swan’s eyes were watery. He laced his fingers together in prayer and brought his conjoined hands to cover his mouth.
By now the Los Angeles audience was chanting, “Az-tlan!, Az-tlan!” The rhythm was incantatory, and it boomed through on the House’s mega speakers. The American legislators ceased their combat to watch, in horror, this rarefied form of nationalism. Scott was in the eye of a bronze hurricane that swirled and churned—the passion—the homogeneity—the unity—caused many of the gray onlookers to turn away as if blinded by a flash.
The end of round one was imminent, and Scott now led with his right leg rather than his throttled left. This reconfiguration protected his damaged leg from collapse, but it also necessitated an unfamiliar southpaw stance. Eduardo no longer bothered covering his jaw while delivering the low kicks. Instead, his hands were busy taunting the welted bodybuilder, whose reprisals were fumbling and comic. The clapper sounded, indicating ten seconds remained in the round. Tlaxtatl wound up for one last stinging leg kick. But this time, Scott stepped forward, his left fist heaving inelegantly through the air like a derailed freight train.
Each blow landed flush. The kick sliced into sciatic nerve. The knu
ckles ploughed into Tlaxtatl’s unguarded lantern jaw. Scott staggered, wavered, and rebounded off the ropes. But Eduardo’s head snapped back, and his body went slack. Ankle twisted unnaturally beneath him, eyes staring dumbly askance, his body lay unmoving on the canvas—another hero knifed by hubris. The arena was silent.
Chapter 29
Hans reclined in an uncomfortable chair, his legs elevated high above him. Were it not for the ice pack applied, his left eye would be swollen shut, rendering him cyclopean and unfit for the last bout. His left shoulder and stomach were reddened from kicks, the pink imprints of toe-marks still distinguishable along his ribs. George was pacing nearby while Jack crossed the youth’s swollen right hand with wraps.
“I think it happened when you knocked him out. It was an awesome KO but it’s too bad it had to happen like that,” Jack commented, engrossed in the mesmeric weave.
“No.” The youth sighed. “It happened just before. It glanced off his head. Will it even fit in the fucking glove?” Hans was groggy.
“It should.” George frowned. “You sure you won’t let us withdraw you from the tournament? I’m sure that alternate would love to fill your shoes.”
“Fuck no.”
“Why?”
“Because,” insisted the youth, suddenly animated, “like I said, I can submit him.”
“But how are you going to set up a submission without throwing strikes? It’s not as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing out there. He knows submissions better than you do. The only way you’re gonna catch that guy in a submission is to daze his ass first.”
“I’ll find a way. Shit, I’ll kick him in the head or something—if I can reach it.”
“Fine, but I don’t want you blaming Jack and me when we throw in the towel if you start losing. ‘Cause that ref’s gonna give the audience what they want—their guy beating the living shit out of our guy. So don’t expect a referee stoppage.”
“I’ve never expected a referee stoppage against me. And I never will. Why should I? I’m unde-fuckin’-feated.” Hans laughed easily, then wiped fresh blood from his smashed lips.
George raised a hand to silence the youth as footfalls were heard outside the dressing room door. There was a knock, more of a pound.
As Jack turned the handle to open the door it was thrown back, and in hobbled Eduardo followed by a dour entourage. The Aztec champion collapsed in a chair and glared at Hans. He breathed heavily through his nose, mouth shut.
“What the hell happened?” asked Hans, adjusting the ice pack.
Eduardo’s aspirations grew heavier, and it appeared as if he wished to answer but feared opening his mouth. Finally, he tried to speak. But his voice wavered, and his eyes were wet.
“I . . . I,” he stammered, tears angling wildly down his cheeks, “I lost!” He bellowed, and his face convulsed.
The three members of the FCP eyed each other in disbelief.
“You’re bull-shitting us,” Jack scoffed. “’Cause your face’s clean as a whistle. You’ve only got a limp. And there’s no way he knee-barred or ankle-picked you. So, what, did you like trip and fall or something?”
Lip protruded, the bronze warrior gestured as if punching himself in the jaw, then shook his head in disgust. “Threw a low kick, he countered with a straight, and . . .” His face locked in emotion.
“Dude, it happens to everyone,” consoled Hans.
“Yeah . . .” The eagle knight captain exhaled, and wiped his eyes with a brawny forearm. “But I had a whole nation pulling for me. All those fans . . . I let them down. And that bastard, of all people, was the one who beat me.”
“I hate those grays, too,” pledged the youth. “I’m gonna do my best to take him out. But my fuckin’ hand’s broke.” He proffered his right fist, the three ounce glove stretching to encompass it.
“Don’t worry about it. Just double leg take down and submit him—be done with it. I came to wish you luck.” The champion sulked. “I sure as hell hope you can do what I couldn’t. I got too cocky. The fact is the guy’s strong as a bull but he’s got no skills. Don’t get overconfident when you fight him. I’d just . . . I’d just . . . fuckin’ want to kill myself if one of those bastards took my belt out of Aztlan back to that House of Color.”
“It won’t happen. And, if it means something to you, you can keep the belt here until you and I can fight fair and square. It should have been down between you and me tonight. This is just fluke.”
“Is it?” mused the Aztec. “So far it seems consistent with how fucked up everything is. Everything’s upside down. But no, that belt’s yours.” The tears had sunk into his light brown cheeks and disappeared as if into soil.
Suddenly, the door swung open again. President Guerrero strode into the room, surrounded by a retinue. He wore an expensive suit that accentuated his shoulder width, and his mustache was trimmed.
“Sir, I’m so, so sorry,” apologized Tlaxtatl, rising from his chair shakily.
“Don’t worry about it. You made a mistake—we all do. But never, I mean never again underestimate an opponent. Haven’t you ever read Napoleon’s maxims? What do you teach your eagle knight pupils? Have you been hitting the octli too heavily?” Guerrero snapped, his eyes already fixed on the fighter from Pennsylvania. “You!” He pointed. “You’re going to turn this situation around. What’s your moniker?”
“My what?” asked Hans.
“Your nickname,” said George. “He doesn’t have one yet, President Guerrero.”
“This guy’s president?” inquired the youth.
“Yes, I am. A pleasure to meet you. That throwdown you just had with Choi will go down in legend. The crowd loved you.” Guerrero glowed. “Eduardo, you’re going to be in Hans’s corner. You two are good, long-time buddies, remember that. Come to think of it, you helped train him when he was just a young teenager—took him under your wing. In fact, it’s kind of convenient that you lost just now because it would be a damn shame for two buddies to have to scrap. That’s the story you’re going to spin to the reporters afterward, got it?”
The eagle knight leader nodded slowly as the plan sunk in.
“And kid,” the president smiled at Hans, “in Aztlan, at least, you’ve got a moniker. Wear this when you make your entrance. And spill that son-of-a-bitch’s blood all over the God-damned ring.” He wadded a t-shirt and threw it at the youth.
“And what do I get if I do?”
“What do you want?” asked Guerrero, surprised. “Aren’t the purse and belt enough?”
“I want that man right there to have an hour of your time in private.” Hans pointed at George. “I want a fuckin’ arms deal.”
The heavy metal entrance song was raw, grinding, and powerful. A baritone vocalist sang of physical strength and prowess in battle to the melody of an electric guitar and crashing drums. It was the same one Hans had selected earlier in the evening for his spotlighted perambulation. But this time, he entered the stadium from the temple portal. Eduardo followed slightly behind, his arm resting on the youth’s shoulder for physical support as much as for the projection of brotherhood. The fighter from Pennsylvania liked the red, white, and blue cape thrown over his shoulders moments before passing under the threshold’s lichen. He wore a matching shirt, tri-colored, which read “Saxon Anglo” in bold font. Cameras zoomed on the t-shirt wording and beamed their evidence to the array of media screens levitating throughout the arena. Children jumped up and down excitedly, pulling on their parents’ shirt sleeves and pointing fingers in vindication. Now the fighter’s identity was explicitly heralded—it was more than a resemblance—Hans Stewart was really Captain Aztlan’s new ally, Saxon Anglo.
The youth high-fived the bristling, outstretched hands as he passed, but was ginger with his right. His head and shoulders bobbed to the entrance theme. In the ring, Smith was coolly reclining against the ropes, chin cocked up, a gray wretch massaging his shoulders. As he neared, Hans glared at the vice president predaciously, an eager grin hung between his unsha
ven cheeks. His eyes were wide and bright, like an estate’s night-lit swimming pools before a party. His blond spike was wild and sharp. He wanted nothing more than to destroy the American poster boy, pound his face to bloody ruin, and bask in the roar of thousands. But he didn’t want to exacerbate his already broken hand. He’d have to be creative.
Hans zoned into a trance as the announcer proclaimed anthropometrics to the crowd. Saxon Anglo—six feet, four inches tall, two hundred and sixty-four pounds. The announcer had discarded his name in favor of the moniker, and as the youth raised his arms, cataracts of applause and cheers bore down from the tiered stadium.
When the bell rang, Smith’s blackened quadriceps and thighs were goaded to a shaky locomotion. Confidence lifted by his prior victory, the vice president rushed Hans, hands swinging.
Several options were at the youth’s disposal. He could sidestep the charge and counterattack. He could shoot in beneath his opponent’s punches and secure a double leg takedown. Or, he could bank on the fantastic.
In the flutter of a tiger’s eye Hans bounded toward his foe and leapt into the air, his knee jutting forward. The two men collided hard, and the crowd’s cheers drowned the damp crack of Hans’s knee driving into cheekbone. Smith’s weight and velocity were substantial, however, and carried him forward despite the impact. Hans was bowled over and his back hit the canvass. Scott fell atop him, and as he collected himself, the crowd spotted his gashed cheek. Already it looked as if a surgeon had implanted an egg beneath the dermis, and the audience’s reaction was joyous.
The youth entwined his legs around Scott’s back in classic jiu-jitsu “guard” to prevent his opponent from sitting astride his chest. Scott tried to stand, but was restrained by the youth’s legs. So he threw his gray fists down like industrial hammers, pounding Hans’s chest and stomach with such force that the youth’s viscera quivered. Instinctively, Hans snatched Smith’s left wrist when it lingered too long after a hammer blow. He then released his guard and threw his legs high over the vice president’s shoulders. The crook of his left leg, behind the knee, closed around the right side of Smith’s neck. The same portion of Hans’s right leg closed over his own left ankle, penning Smith’s neck in a triangle of constricting leg muscles. Hans retained control of his opponent’s wrist, then pulled it to extend the arm. Smith prided himself on his ability to curl hundred pound dumbbells for reps. Perhaps this strength bought his elbow a few more seconds of resistance—but it bought him nothing more.
The Gods of Color Page 31