by J D Jacobs
My head jumps up when Cody’s name isn’t said, but the sight of the man Ricardo now renamed Piloto Malvado sends chills down my spine. As the remaining gate to the Arena opens, Stewart charges wildly into the Arena with chains strapped around his ankles. The chains are attached to large-sized iron balls that hinder him from tackling Tankian from the start. However, there’s something more peculiar than the chains attached to him: a cyan-colored band appears to be jammed around Stewart’s right wrist, and blood trickles down from the bright blue band and to his fingertips.
I’m surprised at Stewart’s intensity. He was almost sixty; how can a man that old be this powerful? Stewart punches the air and falls to the ground, dragging his lugged legs behind him as the large iron balls pull him back. Stewart screams into the crowded Arena; the sound waves bellowing louder than the cheers. I hear what Stewart screams before it appears on TV, but my throat clogs when I hear the word “revenge” being shouted a second time.
How did they do this to him? Did Stewart and Ricardo mince words after Cody and I left the research lab last night? Did Ricardo do this to Stewart in the room of the research lab he was waiting to show him and Jenkins? Did Jenkins come to the same fate?
All I know is that Stewart is dead and Ricardo is responsible for it. Not just responsible, but he’s bragging about it. He is hyping up his killing spree. What a sick bastard.
The camera now shows Ricardo standing next to a giant red wheel that is as tall as him. The wheel is full of triangles, either green or red. “As always, we will let la rueda roja decide the perk or disadvantage for Tankian. Rueda roja, speak to us!”
Ricardo then spins the large wheel, a wave of red and green rapidly spinning as the crowd chants “rueda” in unison. As the wheel begins to slow down, I can read what the categories of the wheel say as the triangles slowly pass by the needle that chooses which to pick. I read triangles that are labeled “Armored Slayer,” “Ties that Bind,” “Straitjacket Assault,” “Coat of Blades.” The triangles tick against the wheel’s needle until the needle rests on a red triangle that reads “Three Strikes.” The crowd loses their minds.
“Three Strikes! You’ve had this perk before, so you know what this means!” Ricardo calls down to the man. The camera shifts to Tankian, who is being handed a baseball bat with a large, curved blade sticking through the barrel of it. “You have three swings to do as much damage as you can! When your three swings are used, regardless of impact, you must fight without using the bat. Good luck, and may the Thirty-Ninth Atonement begin!”
The crowd is cheering loudly as the man who handed Tankian the bat quickly exits the Arena. Tankian then makes his way to the center of the Arena with a devious smile etched across his face. The balls and chains that are attached to Stewart unhinge from his wrists, and he immediately springs forward to meet Tankian, unaware of the disadvantage he’s been put into. With nothing but his enraged fists to fight with, Stewart doesn’t stand a chance.
I have to remind myself that this isn’t Stewart anymore. Stewart’s already been killed. This is Piloto Malvado, an egotoned lunatic that would attack me without hesitation if given the chance. I have to convince myself not to pull for Stewart’s egotoned body, but I can’t help it. Like the girl next door said, if the egotoned wins, both competitor’s die. That’s the outcome I’m looking for. Stewart’s body doesn’t deserve to be violently humiliated like this.
Stewart furiously stumbles to the center where Tankian is waiting for his crazed victim. Tankian takes a step toward Stewart and kicks him square in the chest, knocking him on the ground. As Stewart stands up, Tankian hammers his bat down toward Stewart. With one swift swing, Stewart’s right arm is severed cleanly off, causing Stewart to fall back to the ground as his detached arm lies in a puddle of spewing blood.
“There’s one!” Ricardo’s voice overcomes the ecstatic yells from the crowd. “Two more left!”
Stewart recuperates without much hesitation. I guess the egotoned can’t feel pain. I think back to what Xander told me when we were on top of Stevenson’s back in Westwood. He said that when he egotoned, his conscious mind was still active, but he had no control over his body’s actions. Stewart is still in his body, processing and experiencing everything that’s happening, he just can’t physically do anything. Did he feel his arm getting chopped off right then?
Tankian picks up Stewart’s severed arm and smacks Stewart with it. The crowd erupts with laughter, but the egotoned Stewart doesn’t flinch. Stewart swipes Tankian with his remaining arm, scratching Tankian’s neck and drawing blood immediately.
Tankian responds by swinging his bat a second time, this time slashing across Stewart’s abdomen. Stewart’s shirt is ripped and blood pours out. I even think I can see Stewart holding his guts from falling out. Stewart’s egotoned body is falling apart, but his face still remains determined to kill Tankian. Not an ounce of pain or fear is expressed.
The crowd again explodes. Ricardo reminds everyone that that was swing number two, but the roar of the crowd swallows his voice altogether. Stewart has been physically slowed down, and Tankian knows it, as he gives a victorious smile that stretches so far across his face that it makes him look like a sanguinary madman. No human should ever smile that big while covered in someone else’s blood and guts.
Tankian holds the bat above his head, propelling the bat in a circle like a helicopter blade in order to build momentum. As Stewart makes his way closer to Tankian, the bat slices down toward Stewart, the sharp blade making direct contact with his neck.
The crowd goes completely berserk before the action is shown on-air, so I hide my eyes from the TV to avoid seeing Stewart’s head fly off. This is a disgusting, vile game that they play for the whole city to enjoy. Every single person in this city is sick and twisted. They don’t know that Stewart was a pilot from another surviving city, looking to find peace and hope for the future. What they know are the lies that Ricardo told them. And that sickens me. Ricardo controls the people in this city like a puppeteer controls his marionettes. It’s sad that humanity has fallen completely silent and nonexistent in this city. It makes me miss Tryton, even makes me miss Westwood. It makes me miss Cody, Grant, my dad, my pet rats, Xander and every other Grim, the people in Tryton who admired me, even Jenkins.
Although I still hear the crowd going crazy, I glimpse at the TV, hoping the scene is over. Tankian stands above Stewart’s dismantled body, Stewart’s head held up proudly to signify Tankian’s dominance as a fighter.
I turn the TV off and slam the lamp against it, shattering clay pieces across the carpeted floor. I then rush to the bathroom and vomit in the toilet. How long until that’s Cody’s head being held over his body? How long until that’s mine? No, that won’t be me. I can’t egotone if I’m immune to the virus. But then again, Stewart was healthy last night. Lucas and Reggie may have a way to make people egotone without even having the Cozmin in their system. If they wanted to, they’ll find a way to make me egotone. Or worse. Maybe they’ll make me fight an egotoned Cody.
The thought does nothing to stop my puking. That breakfast was good while it lasted.
I remain sitting in the bathroom floor, trying to rid of every horrible possibility before it crosses my mind. Don’t think of Cody. Don’t think of severed body parts. I sit on the cold floor for quite a while until I hear the neighboring bedroom door slam against my wall.
I stand up and leave the bathroom, listening in on what’s happening next door.
“What are you doing?” I hear Ribbon Number 12 ask, frightened. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“I don’t give a damn!” I hear a man say in an assertive voice that makes me slightly cower. “I won and you’re my Ribbon, so shut your trap!”
“No!” the lady cries out. I can hear her ineffectively trying to break free from the man. “Get off of me! You’re not allowed in here!”
“Bitch!” the man yells, followed by a loud smack that results in the lady yelping in pain. “Shut your mo
uth, you stupid whore! I can do whatever I want to!”
I hear the lady weeping, can sense the fear and anguish from her cries. This man is going to do terrible things to this lady and there’s nothing she can do about it. She’s helpless. At the same time, I feel helpless, too. I need to do something.
“Hey!” I yell at the wall as I pound against it. “Leave her alone! Don’t lay another hand on her!”
Oh boy. Ohhhhhh boy. Well, at least I did something.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” the man shouts at me through the wall, his voice punching me in the stomach. Oh God, who do I think I am? This guy will rip me a new one if I keep it up.
But it doesn’t matter about me. This girl next door has been through enough from this guy already. “I’m not some scum who hits girls, I know that much.”
The man mumbles under his voice as his heavy feet stomp out of the room and make their way to my door. My door is flung open and an angry mountain of a man looks down at me.
It’s Tankian, and he looks a lot bigger than he does on TV. I can see the deep scratch Stewart left on Tankian’s neck. Tankian doesn’t give me much time to look him over. He instantly pounces on me, drives his knees into my chest, and pushes my head into the carpet.
“Nobody talks to Tankian like that! You hear me, punk!?” Tankian shouts in my ear, making sure he is, in fact, heard.
“The only thing I hear is a Great Value-looking Hulk who beats women for fun spitting in my face. I’m going–” Tankian forces my face deeper into the floor before I can finish my insult. I try to wiggle away from his grasp, but no use. “I’m going to guess you have one brain cell for each grade you passed. What’s that amount to, four? Maybe five?”
I feel his closed fist land hard on my face. That one hurt a lot, but it was well-earned. I try to continue my insults through a bleeding, throbbing lip, but I feel another punch, this one numbing my face entirely. I spit out blood, trying to clear my mouth of blood and carpet so I can at least breathe. Before another punch comes flying down at me, I hear a voice calling out from the outside hallway. Through my bloated eyes, I see Ricardo jogging up to my room.
“What are we doing here, Tankian?” Ricardo asks, his hands shrugging for answers.
“This little punk thought he could disrespect Tankian, so I’m showing him who’s boss,” Tankian defends himself. For some reason, I sense a hint of urgency in Tankian’s voice.
“Excuse me, I’m not sure if my ears heard correctly. So you think you’re the boss now?” Ricardo asks, his voice piercing at Tankian. I can barely see his eyes as they glare in a squint at Tankian. “When exactly did I die and make you the boss?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ricardo. I was just celebrating my twelfth win and I got a little carried away, that’s all.” Tankian’s voice has fallen frail, which is relatively pathetic for a man of his size.
“So you celebrate by beating our guest?” Ricardo shakes his head in disbelief at Tankian’s stupidity. He walks up to Tankian and jabs his finger through Tankian’s beard. “You better get out of this room, or you’ll be the one with your head cut off by a baseball bat.”
The brutal severity in Ricardo’s voice is enough to paralyze Tankian for a brief moment. Tankian then quickly walks out of the room. Ricardo remains standing there, staring at the pile of clay shards from the lamp I shattered. For a second, I think his built up rage is going to be unleashed on me for smashing it.
“Tankian!” Ricardo shouts out. Tankian warily makes his way back to the door, then returns to his original spot when Ricardo curls his finger for him to. “What exactly were you doing to have El Zorro Feo ‘disrespect’ you? Did you pick him as your Ribbon?”
The blood in Tankian’s face is flushed completely out. “N-no, sir.”
“Okay, then please tell me why you were this close to him!” Ricardo’s temper soars through the roof. “You weren’t in Ribbon #12’s room, were you!?”
Tankian doesn’t respond. He looks at the floor, too scared to even look me in the face.
“What did I tell you about Ribbon Twelve!? Huh!?” Ricardo pulls down on Tankian’s beard and throws him against the wall. “She is off-limits to you. I don’t give a shit if you’ve chosen every single Ribbon on this floor as your sex doll, Number Twelve is off-limits to everyone except for me! Do you think you’re better than me now? Is that what it is!?”
“No sir, Mr. Ricardo!” Tankian is panicking, his voice immersed in desperation.
“Now you’re lying to me! I don’t appreciate liars, and I really don’t appreciate men who think they’re better than me!”
Ricardo reaches in his back pocket and flicks open a large pocket knife. He then jams it in Tankian’s stomach, pulls it out, and repeats. “I don’t appreciate people who think they’re the boss!” Stab. “I don’t appreciate those who think they can indulge on things that don’t belong to them!” Stab, this one deeper. “I don’t appreciate those who think that they’re my equal just because they kill a few people! You are nothing and will forever be nothing when compared to me! DO YOU HEAR ME!?” The stabs become quicker, deeper, more hate-filled. Once Ricardo finally stops, Tankian coughs up blood and stands motionless. His knees give out from under him and he slumps over on Ricardo, who then tosses his body on the ground in front of me.
I stare at the empty eyes of Tankian. Oh my God. I can’t believe what just happened. I mean, I’m glad he’s dead, but I’m terrified. Tankian was a mountain of a man three times the size of Ricardo, yet Ricardo killed him like it was nothing to him. Tankian could’ve swatted Ricardo away like a fly, yet he didn’t because he was so terrified of Ricardo. How many of his own men has Ricardo killed like that?
Ricardo bends down to wipe the blood on his knife off on Tankian’s pants. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Zorro Feo,” he sincerely apologizes to me. “Sometimes people get a big head and do things that they shouldn’t be doing. Tankian had a history of thinking he was the hotshot, so perhaps he learned his lesson this time. Carlos! Quita esta desgracia de mi presencia.”
A man rushes into the room and grabs on to Tankian’s arms, then drags him out of the room. Ricardo inspects his knife as he begins to follow the blood trail being left by Tankian’s fateful wounds. “I’ll have somebody come clean your carpet. I don’t want your room to reek of Tankian.”
“What did you tell that Carlos guy?” I ask. Perhaps the most irrelevant question I could have asked, but it bothers me when Ricardo speaks Spanish. I feel uncomfortable enough when I actually do understand him.
“I told him to get that disgrace Tankian out of my sight,” Ricardo answers me with a smirk. “You need to brush up on your Spanish! I’ll have your carpet cleaner bring you a Spanish-to-English dictionary for you to study.” Ricardo then walks out of the room and slams the door behind him.
22.
I’ve been lying on the floor for over two hours, too disturbed and damaged to move. I’ve been digesting the entire scene, where Ricardo seemingly saved my life by killing my attacker because he tried to rape Ribbon Twelve. It didn’t take me long to realize why, though, because I heard Ricardo enter the next room and apologize to Ribbon Twelve immediately after he left my room. He told her that he handled Tankian for good, and she told Ricardo that she heard it all. I heard the soft sound of Ricardo kissing her, but she shunned him off, said she was still traumatized. Ricardo understood and left shortly after that.
That has thrown another monkey wrench into my pitiful pondering in pain: Ribbon Twelve is Ricardo’s girlfriend. Or wife. Or at least his favorite Ribbon. Maybe Ricardo is just a protective pimp. Maybe she has Stockholm Syndrome. Whatever the case, I feel that my conversation with her earlier could come back and bite me. Talking to Ribbon Twelve should probably be cut-off, just for my sake.
So that leaves me with only my bloodied, half-burnt face in the reflection to talk to. I haven’t seen Xander since the ride to Avvil, so I feel like he stayed in the helicopter.
Ricardo did send a man to clean my
carpet. The man came about thirty minutes ago, cleaned the blood up rather nicely. Swept the clay shards of the lamp up. Even made my bed and left a Spanish-to-English dictionary on my pillow. But as I have stayed in my fixed position for quite some time, he wasn’t able to clean up the blood that has dribbled from every possible orifice on my face. I’m sure at this point I can’t get any uglier. I thought a hot flame to the cheek was enough to send the ladies in the opposite direction, just wait until they get a glimpse of Jaden Foxx: the man with an unlimited supply of facial blood.
I’m tired of lying on the floor, so I grab the dictionary and make my way out to the balcony. I plop myself down on the lone seat and study the book as the restored silence from the Arena soothes my aching head.
Alright, where to start? I suppose I can start with whatever El Zorro Feo means, since that is apparently my new name. Let’s see, el means “the.” Zorro means… “fox.” And feo means... “ugly.” “The ugly fox” is what Ricardo calls me. Okay, my last name is Foxx, and like I said, I’m not as cute as I once was. I’ve been called worse. I actually kind of like it.
Why do I like the nickname, though? Do I like it because maybe, just possibly, Ricardo actually is protecting me like he said he was? Maybe he’s not this maniacal killer who wants me dead. Well, maybe he just doesn’t want me dead.
Wait, what am I thinking? He just killed Stewart and threw him into an arena to get slaughtered in front of thousands. Ricardo is not on my side.
I then decide to decipher the name that Ricardo gave Stewart. I think he called him Piloto Malvado... “Pilot” is the first word… and the second is “evil.” The “evil pilot.” That’s a downright lie. But the people of Avvil will never know that Stewart was a nice guy; all they’ll know is the false narrative that Ricardo fed them.