“A space man,” I say.
“Yes,” says Captain Ortega, “for lack of a better term, he's a man from space. Where in space? We don't have the slightest clue. We know the being possesses advanced technology. In addition to the ship, it has created an invisible barrier around the circumference of the crater. It has control over who or what enters, and any machine that passes through is rendered inoperable so it's impossible to sneak a weapon though, whether its plastic, metal, or anything else. The being also possesses weapons of significant destruction. He has demonstrated their use on cities all over the world, destroying portions of London, Rome, Tokyo, St Petersburg, Buenos Aries, South Africa, Ghana, Beijing, and Los Angeles.”
“Just one space man and you didn't retaliate? What's stopping you from blasting him into carbon molecules?”
“That was one of the first things we tried. The barrier he's constructed is impenetrable.”
“To nukes?” I ask.
“That's our last option. We calculate that the earth might not survive the energy required to destroy the shield.”
“So the man from space has got the world by the balls. What's he asking for?”
“It has been able to transmit a message. In every language. Every dialect. In no uncertain terms . . .”
“I'm dying of anticipation, here.” I tell her.
“He wants to fight.”
“To fight?” I ask.
“Correct. We've had a number of linguists confirm the message. The being has issued a challenge to what it calls Earth's greatest warriors. If it can't be beaten within thirteen days of its arrival, he will destroy the planet.”
“Makes sense to me,” I shrug.
“It does?”
“Sure. Guy wants a challenge. If he can't find one on this planet, then what good is it?” I blow a raspberry. “See ya later, suckers. I got respect for a guy like that.”
“Somehow I'm not surprised,” says Captain Ortega.
“So what kind of fight are we talking about here? Fight to the death?”
She nods solemnly. “It can be.”
“What does that mean? What about Earth's greatest warriors?”
“I mean, the being has killed some of them. Others, after giving up, have been allowed to be carried off the battlefield.”
“Really? How many?”
“There have been ten challengers so far,” she says. “The first was Butcher Stevens, the cage fighter.”
Captain Ortega hands me a tablet with a video cued up. On the screen I see a crowd of people, the population of a state, but not one of the good ones. Millions all gathered in a red rock desert surrounding a crater. Helicopters hover overhead, cameramen stake out positions along the rim. Every now and then someone from the crowd fires a gun into the crater to no visible affect. The camera zooms in and I can see the craft the being arrived in. It's oblong, balanced on one narrow end, defying gravity. Suddenly the crowd erupts into cheers as a man with hardly any space left free of tattoos on his body and arms enters the crater. He has a long pink beard tied up so it hangs off his chin, and a matching mohawk. He plays up his entrance, stopping to flex every now and then to incite the crowd. He's barefoot, I notice, which may be the dumbest thing about him. And then I get my first glimpse of the space man.
The first thing that goes through my head is “crocodile.” He looks like a crocodile man. You'd think it would be weird seeing a completely alien, intelligent, and dangerous life form for the first time, but really, it's no different than seeing a movie, or a guy in a costume. Well, a really good costume, I have to admit, but still, I'm underwhelmed.
The spaceman is covered in a leathery hide, brownish green and scaly. He's bipedal, upright like a man. He's a little over six feet with a long torso and short powerful legs that give him a low center of gravity so it'd be hard to take him down to the ground. He's got long arms that give him a fantastic reach. His hands are tipped with sharp claws, and his blunt little oblong head is centered on a neck that's short thick like his legs, but pillowy and bulging.. A long segmented tail, somehow different than the rest of his hide whips the ground in anticipation. He watches Stevens approach with little black eyes and bares a mouth full of needle teeth. This Butcher fella is a pro, though, and just stares the croc-man down. He raises his arms above his head and pumps his fists like he's already won and the crowd goes off like dynamite. He gets into a fighting stance, bare feet settle into red dust and he sizes his opponent up.
I have to look away a few seconds later when the space crocodile is waving Butcher's own limbs at the crowd. Apparently this isn't one of the opponents who get carted off injured. The spaceman wanted to send a message and he succeeded: “No Mercy.”
I look from the screen to Ortega. “Any of the next nine fair any better?”
“You can see for yourself,” she says. “Next challenger was the heavyweight boxing champ Murdock “Murder” Jackson. Six feet-eight inches tall, two-hundred fifty pounds. He fared much better, inflicting substantial damage on the being, so we know he can be injured. Murdock even managed to make it out alive. He's in a coma, but the doctors are positive that if he ever wakes up, he'll retain a high percentage of brain function. If the world isn't destroyed of course,” she adds.
“Of course,” I say.
After that,” she continues, “there was Tony Lee, the movie star martial artist.”
“How'd he make out doing his own stunts?”
“Not well,” Ortega shakes her head. “Apparently the Chinese government gave him a sort of modified pistol. He drew it on the being, that's how we found out he has technology that disables anything mechanical. After that . . .”
“Bad, huh?”
“The being split his skull opened and consumed his brain.”
“A showman,” I ponder this. “So who handled the spaceman the best,” I ask.
“Undoubtedly, Somrak Kadesadayurat, a muay thai kick boxer. Five foot eight, one hundred fifty-seven pounds.”
Ortega ques up another video on the tablet before handing it back to me. The kick boxer handles himself impressively. It's a tangled, ugly fight, but Kadesadayurat lands consistent blows, swift kicks to the being's midsection and legs, power punches upstairs. It's going phenomenally until the space man's tail comes into play. I see immediately he's been holding back with it. When he strikes out with it, it's one limb too many for the kick boxer, and it ties his legs up. After that no more kicks, no angle from his punches. It's all over for the Thai, but he's shown the world the space man isn't invulnerable. He's hurt at the end of it all, and badly. Although the kick boxer doesn't leave under his own power, he's still conscious, and that at least gives the crowd something to cheer about.
“So he can be beat. Came damn close. He took some heavy damage. The thing must have tremendous recovery to be able to fight again so soon.”
“Actually,” Ortega gives me a look, “he may not. This match taught us some things about the being; that it bleeds, and where some of its vital organs are located. But further than that, we were able to aim a long range, focused x-ray beam at it, and got a pretty good glimpse of his internal make-up.” She hands me some black-and-white X-ray photos.
You were able to take these through the barrier?” I ask.
“It allows light particles to pass through, obviously, or we wouldn't be able to see. X-rays operate on the same principal.”
I look at the pictures and can't make anything out of them. “Tell me what I'm looking at.”
“Well, there isn't anything that resembles terrestrial anatomy, we discover areas of the body that seem be more vital. For instance, this structure here,” and she points out a light circle under the spaceman's left armpit, “that probably has a nerve cluster similar to our livers. And here,” she points to another oblong space of light in the center of the chest, “this is sort of a swim bladder, like what some fish may inflate for buoyancy. We're really not sure of the purpose, it doesn't seem to function as a lung, but this thing deflates significant
ly if you land a blow high on the chest region and seems to be a source of intense pain.”
“But you said he doesn't have an unusually quick recovery rate?”
“From what we can tell, he doesn't. He's wounded, and in a great deal of pain. The thing is, to put it bluntly, he's a tough son of a bitch.”
“I see that.” I look over the X-rays again. “I'm interested in his tail.”
“Yes,” Ortega agrees. “It is unusual. It doesn't seem to match the rest of his composure. Our best guess is it's like a keratin structure, like fingernails, or a rhinoceros' horn. What's also interesting here, is, if you look, we can't figure how it connects to his spine.”
“Yeah, that's weird . . . or not, I mean, he's an alien.”
“It only seems to use its tail when it's losing, or in danger of losing.”
“I noticed that in the fight with the kick boxer. He's shy about it.”
“It may be dishonorable to his species; like low blows or hitting an opponent when he's on the ground.”
“I guess you got to have a code of honor, even if you're about to destroy an entire planet.”
“Well we're counting on you to make sure that doesn't happen.”
'What,” I ask coyly, “does any any of this have to do with me?”
“You must be joking. Are we at the county fair? Did you see a sign outside that said free helicopter rides?”
“I'm not convinced,” I say.
“Really? Am I talking to the right person? Would you like to hear your CV?”
“If you think it'll help,” I shrug.
“Your name is Dwayne Samson,” she begins. “They say you're the most violent man in America. You haven't made it a full year away from a reformatory of some sort since you were fourteen. You've spent more of your life in prison than you have free. You've been convicted of countless assaults, batteries, and similar charges, starting when you were ten and you stuck a pocket knife in your schoolteacher's thigh. You were expelled from seven schools in the next three years, until you were sent to a school for troubled children, which you burned down. You were sent to a juvenile detention center where you incited a full-scale riot resulting in the injury and permanent disfigurement of multiple guards and inmates. Your next several years were spent in solitary until you were released on your eighteenth birthday, which you celebrated by stealing a city bus and leading police on a six hour chase where you caused millions of dollars in damages. You accrued over fifty assault charges over your next four years in prison. You were granted parole because the extra security required to keep you from being murdered was bankrupting the prison. You got out and during a liquor store robbery you beat one of the responding officers so badly he is still in a vegetative state, the other you maimed to the point that he was no longer fit for active duty. You assaulted him once more when he testified against you, in the ensuing melee you broke the jaw of a circuit judge, and blinded the bailiff before escaping. You were apprehended attempting to hijack an airplane. You've been in prison ever since where you've assaulted over seventy more inmates until you were remanded to solitary confinement, where you still managed to somehow wound another five guards. So, with all due respect, Mister Sampson, it doesn't seem like you need much convincing to fight anyone.”
“Yeah, I don't,” I smile. “I just wanted to hear some of my greatest hits. But the situation seems to be that you need me, so just tell me what's on the table. And don't jerk me off. You know what I want.”
“You want to be free,” Says Ortega.
“That's right.”
“It won't happen. You're too dangerous. We are prepared to offer you your own private island.”
“How's that?”
“The Unites States government has acquired an island in the South Pacific. You will have a home built to your specifications with any amenity you could imagine, cable television, internet access, weekly food deliveries, and whatever else you could possibly desire.”
“How about a boat?”
“Nice try,” Ortega says sarcastically.
“So, you're telling me, if I can mange to save the entire planet, you'll put me in a nicer cell?”
“I'm offering you a private resort for the rest of your life when you should be in solitary confinement wishing you had the intellect to conjure an imaginary friend.”
I'm not having any of his, and I tell her. 'What's the difference? I'm a social butterfly. You might not know it to look at me, but I need human interaction to flourish. I'll die, or turn into a weirdo like those babies that didn't get hugged in those old experiments. Whether I'm having a day at the beach or locked in a cell, it's not any different than being dead to me, so why should I care if the world goes or not?”
“It's your world too, Sampson. I'm sure if you think hard enough you can find something worth fighting for. And after all, it's not like you aren't in a position to negotiate. You'll find we're very receptive to your suggestions.”
“You mean like you'll get me a beach umbrella if I ask for one?”
“No,” says Ortega, “I mean, after all this settles, we may find a country that's willing to accept you.”
“You think you can do that?” I ask.
Ortega shrug. “We might. Look at Japan. They let Osagawa walk around free and he ate a person. It probably wouldn't be too hard for someone to accept the savior of the planet.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I kind of like that. 'Savior of the Planet'. You've given me a lot to think over.” I turn away and watch the world glide by beneath me. This bitch thinks she can tempt me with a sand trap and cable TV. I hate the beach, and I haven't been interested in TV since they took Three's Company off Nick at Night. I pretend to mull this all over, but really, I'm reflecting on something I noticed when I was watching the videos. Something nobody else has brought up, and I'm not sure they figured out yet. I look back at the Captain, and finally say, “Okay, you got a deal. But just so you know, I'm not doing it for a permanent vacation, or for renown, or glory. I'm doing it because I want to see what happens when I put my fist in this ugly motherfucker's face. I'm doing this because a man came down from the void and wanted a beating', and I'm the only one that can give it to him. I'm doing it because I want to feel alien bones break. I'm doing this because I've been fighting this planet since I was born, and now I'm ready for something new. So tell your government boys who are listening in on this right now, if they can get a message to the space man, tell him I'm coming.”
Captain Ortega nods her head and I swear to God, there's a tear in her eye. “That was a rousing speech, Sampson. With all sincerity, I wish you luck. You're the Earth's last hope.”
“Fuck your hope.” I tell her. “Fuck your sincerity. And fuck the earth. Just give me what I asked for earlier.”
She looks back at me puzzled.
“Christ,” I say, “You did remember to bring it didn't you? What I asked you people to get before you took me up in this goddamned thing?”
“Yes,” she says, “of course.” She looks down by her feet for a second and finds a brown paper bag and hands it to me.
I look inside and smile. “Yeah, that's the stuff.”
“Sort of a curious request, if you don't mind me saying so.” Ortega tells me.
“There's nothing curious about it,” I say, reaching into the bag. I pull out a tin can and a mason jar. “A can of Wolf brand chili and a jar of fresh bacon grease.” I gesture to my handcuffs. “Be a pal, Ortega. How's about letting Earth's last chance eat with a little dignity.” Ortega thinks it over for a minute, and comes up with a handcuff key, but not before unholstering a pistol and setting it down beside her. I shrug. Fair's fair.
Ortega hands me a can opener and plastic spoon, and in a few seconds the lid is off and the inside of the helicopter smells like heaven. “God,” I say between mouthfuls, “It's amazing what you miss in the joint.”
Don't you have canned chili in your commissary?” Ortega asks.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah.” I swallow. “Just tha
t Hormel shit, though. Not the good stuff.” I make quick work of the chili and belch. Best meal of my life. After that we sit in silence for a bit. It feels good to be out of the cuffs, and I have to remind myself not to stare at the Captain's legs. Sometime later a voice announces that we're a few minutes away from touchdown. I figure now's a good time to start preparing and I pull my stiff prison-issued shirt over my head. The pants come next and I catch Ortega sneaking a peek, but I let her have it. I take the lid off the mason jar and dig a few fingers down into the creamy, savory-scented unction. I wink at Ortega and she looks like she'd going to barf as I smear it all over my chest. I cover myself in grease, and by the time I'm done I've polished myself to a high shine and I smell like a grease trap. I sit down and work my prison shin-busters back on my feet and lace them tight.
“What do you think?” I ask Ortega.
“God, your pores,” is all she can mutter.
The helicopter begins its descent, and below I can see a dense crowd surrounding the crater, so enormous that it stretch to the horizon. There is a deafening roar as the helicopter touches down.
“Is this it?” I ask, looking over the crater. This is mankind's most important battlefield? It could use some flair.”
“Sampson, I just want to tell you we're all counting on you. Your brain is hard wired toward the anti-social, but right now, it's the only thing that can save us.”
“I guess that's what you call irony,” I say, and step off the chopper without another look back. The red dust is whirling at my feet and a sort of awkward pause comes over the crowd as they take me in. I don't blame them. They're a few days away from destruction and their savior emerges covered in bacon grease, nude, except for his prison issued boots. I wave a oil-smeared hand and they go nuts again. The volume is deafening. I approach the edge of the crater and stick out my hand to test the barrier, but strangely, my hand passes through. I look for the space-man, but all I can see is his strange ship, which is semi-circular, smaller than a diesel truck and floating a few feet off the ground. I pass into the crater with no interference. Must be expecting me.
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