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. Some asked about the last Tex, but that question was squashed by Jim or Kirby. Throughout the introductions, I sized up each person. I didn't know yet 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 non-hereditary position of succession. 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[7], 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 who are already strange and a little crazy, and you understand the weight that opinion carries.
“Who are they?” I whispered to Kirby, pointing to a number of serious faced men in impressive headwear.
“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 hats, then you become a Warlord.”
“Find a hat?” I said incredulously. “Kirby, I could just make one of those hats! So if I had a hat like that, I’d become a Warlord?”
He nodded. “But it’s really hard. It’s a really rare to find one. I’ve been waiting my whole life and I haven't found one.”
“Huh? I could make one for you, aren't you listening?"
“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. He said 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. Soon the fights would commence.
Everyone went back to their tents, and the audience prepared. I stripped down to my bare chest; of late I had ruined far too many shirts with blood – both mine and theirs. The night was cooler than the day, but this was still Texas in the summer. 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 fought 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 squeezed himself into some very dirty camo pants. 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.
Hobo boxing really didn't have referees. Typically non-tournament matches began when one of us decided to run at each other. But since this was a tournament, they went one step farther: we had someone who yelled, “Fight!” After the match started 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 me as I leaned back. All of my fights had given me a better sense of when someone was going to actually punch me and when they're just feinting or threatening. It’s not a bad skill to have, especially when you know you can be quite a prick. 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 by 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 to 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 hanging out. That was the moment.
I charged him and used that momentum in my punch, 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 me 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 kept on the defensive. I realized I needed to do a true assault, and just hoped I could dodge in time.
I screamed and lunged at him. My right jab glanced off his forearms, my left hook crunched against his arm, then my final right uppercut whiffed through the air 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 flip kick. I leapt back successfully and once again his boots barely missed me. He landed shakily again, but I was already charging forward. A successful punch to his head had him dazed, but he managed to bring his forearms up in front of his face. His head no longer available, I switched to gut punches, which were surprisingly effective. He moved to block those, so I switched back to his face. He could not defend everywhere, I just had to keep switching.
With a final crack, my right hook sent him tumbling to the ground. I kept my fists up, wondering if he would rise again, but I soon realized I did not need to worry. His crumpled form lay unmoving. Someone grabbed my hand and lifted it up. My focus broken, the roaring of the crowd came rushing at me. They were all sho
uting my name, or at least my hobo name. “Tex! Tex! Tex!"
I had won my first tournament match.
The Beast and the Emperor
July, 1994 - West Texas
I'd like to say that my second match had the same grit and drama as the first, but it didn't. If anything, it was a disappointment. It's not worth recounting. My opponent 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 match ended as soon as it began. The only thing good about it was hearing the crowd chanting my name again.
Soon after was my third fight, the last match of the finals. Whoever won this match would get to meet the Emperor and face the reigning “champeen”. I was still high on success and the energy I received from the crowd. Well, I was until I saw my opponent, then all that excitement died. I turned to everyone in my corner, looking for an explanation.
"What the hell is this?"
Kirby and his assistants had no real answer for me. A few things were stammered, but nothing past "your opponent", which was no sort of answer.
What awaited me on the other side of the fighting ring was some sort of abomination. More man than monster, Rocko the Beast crouched on the other side of ring. I had been told he was a former circus performer, but I realized he must have been one of the sideshow attractions. A mass of muscle, he had a lion's mane of red and tufts of tangled red hair bursting out all over his body. His nails had grown into claws and his teeth were filed down to points. His face was full of a feral bloodlust that didn't fit a man. His only concessions to humanity was the loin cloth he wore. I was glad for that; the last thing I wanted was to see giant monster junk flopping around.
"I'm not doing it," I said. "I signed up to fight men and with fists. He's barely human. If he even is human. Why is he even allowed to compete? I'm not doing it."
Kirby and his assistants looked at me, then looked at each other. Seconds later, a dozen grubby arms were pushing me into the ring, despite my protests. I stumbled forward and someone yelled, "Fight!"
I reluctantly sank into a combat stance. Rocko and I stared at each other. Staring is an integral part of the experience, as you try to psych out your opponent. But that works more with men than monsters. Rocko's eyes were blood red. Not a camera fault, not heavy pot smoking, not tired. Red irises. That was doing more to psych me out than I could ever do.
We circled each other. Rocko never left his crouch. He walked on all fours like an animal, which did nothing to allay my concerns that this was not an appropriate fight. I began to wonder if I should have a net and trident.
Rocko made the first move. He sprinted forward like a dog then leapt at me, catching me off guard. 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 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 had torn my upper shoulder. 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 a shot; had he had his shots? Who knows what diseases might be on his those fingernails? He seemed to run on them, so they picked up whatever filth was on the ground. I worried I’d get tetanus.
Rocko came at me again, getting a galloping start before lunging. This time I was ready. I ducked under his leap and then threw a quick uppercut into his body. My fist slammed into his stomach. Unfortunately, with his long arms, he managed to lightly 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. This all seemed pretty unfair for a bare knuckle boxing tournament.
Getting my head back into the game, I saw Rocko crouched in one spot staring at me. I moved right, but he did not move. He stayed in one spot, his eyes following me with an intense look of focus. A bead of sweat trickled down from his forehead 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 ambient electricity before a thunderstorm. There was a strange glow in Rocko’s eyes.
It was the eyes that tipped me off. Eyes and my instincts. Before I really knew what was happening, some deep impulse within me 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. His body shot across the ring in a cannonball. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he did it. Even more impossible was his accuracy; had I not moved he would have struck me dead center. 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.
A surprised roar came from the crowd. For my own reaction, I spat out "Holy shit!"
Rocko still hadn't gone down. He had somehow stood up and stumbled back into the ring. But he was dazed. He had missed, and six hobos were a greater impact than one scrawny kid. I watched for a sign of a trick, but there was none. His eyes tried to fix themselves on me, but he swayed back and forth, barely keeping his balance.
I knew that he would recover, but I couldn't let him. He had been my most dangerous opponent to date, and this needed to end while it could. I rose to my feet and quickly walked over to Rocko. I was on my guard for any defense, any recovery, any sign of attack.
I shouldn't have worried. His eyes didn't even follow me as I walked over to him. I shrugged. I thwacked him on the back of the neck and as his balance shifted, I swept the leg. No mercy. He fell forward onto the ground. I had a kick prepared if that didn't finish him, but I realized he was already unconscious.
It was an anticlimactic end. I had won, but it was bittersweet. The crowd knew it too. Oh, they still roared and chanted my name, but it felt like the same energy wasn't there. Maybe it was. Maybe I was just feeling the fear-adrenaline wearing off, maybe it was just blood loss.
Kirby and his group came and congratulated me as the crowd continued to roar. Someone raised my arm up high. While everyone rejoiced in my victory, I looked around and did not see Swearing Jim. I wanted to ask, but suddenly felt amazingly tired and thirsty. Kirby handed me water and wiped the blood off me. I was still covered in sweat and the night was suddenly cold. A blanket was wrapped around me. I was in a daze. I did not realize how much the fighting had taken out of me until it was over.
That win had entitled me to meet the Emperor. Unfortunately, there was no delay to let me rest. After just a few minutes, Kirby and I were ushered into the big tent. I was surprised to find the inside of the tent rather well furnished. There were old moth-eaten rugs for everyone to sit on, as well as bottles of alcohol, ash trays, and unused cigars. Oil lamps provided flickering illumination. The Emperor sat on five stacked rugs, he and his hat towering above everything. Around him in a semicircle, each of the Warlords sat wearing their own tall 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 coordination 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? Did the Emperor truly know what was going on? I stared at the Emperor, who was now sipping a beer. He got more beer in his mustache than in his mouth.
After the Warlord reports, the Emperor turned to me. He said he was very impressed with my fighting and because of that I would have the honor of facing the reigning champeen. He nodded to someone standing o
n 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 for my bare head. I acknowledged it as some semblance of rank. I was still extremely 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 again, as I looked around the room, I realized there were stranger sights around here, so I fit right in.
Next, the Emperor turned from me and talked for a while about things that were beyond my ability to comprehend. While I can blame this somewhat on tiredness, some of the Emperor's musing were just bizarre. But somehow everyone else understood. 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 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 me. 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 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 looked like I was about to have number four.
Damned Lies! Page 10