Soul Mates

by Thomas Melo

  DeStefano began to stir on the mat with every ounce of energy he had banked during his horizontal siesta. Finally, he got to his knees. More exhausted than ever, he huffed and puffed, looking at the roof of the Super Chasm; looking for a ray of hope that was not there and would not come. The only rays were that of the hot lamps which lit the arena. Krag had decided how he would proceed. DeStefano still had not surrendered, perhaps knowing how the finale of the previous fight had gone. Surrender, at this point, would have been useless anyway. He could smell it on his savage opponent.

  For a large and brawny man, Krag moved quickly. He transferred all of his weight and power into his hips and delivered a brutal roundhouse kick that connected with the center of DeStefano’s forehead. His head snapped backwards until it was flush with his back, making DeStefano momentarily look back up at the roof of the Super Chasm like a Pez-dispenser doling out candy. DeStefano’s neck snapped with a whip-crack and the sound of DeStefano’s neck fracturing could be reportedly heard by spectators within the first six rows of the decagon. However, many spectators seated farther back would also boast in excited horror via social media, texts, and phone calls that they also heard the last sound that Gunnar “The Widow-Maker” DeStefano’s body would ever make.

  An eerie silence and calm, comparable to when an awkward scene is made in a crowded restaurant and the patrons wait with bated breath to hear the drama unfold, swept over the entire Chasm audience, including the board of directors and their guests. DeStefano gave two myoclonic twitches before his body was still and would remain that way. The referee and medics ran over to DeStefano and after the medic gave the clichéd shake of his head towards DeStefano’s corner and yanked off his stethoscope, the crowd erupted in a fury of animalistic cheers. The silence in the Imperial Suite was broken by Lilith, who gave a warrior-princess yell and a single hand clap, which left her hands red for hours. “We have our first true winner!” she said as she turned away from the window and towards her constituents. The wave of energy and sound that penetrated the glass of the Imperial Suite was proof that the spectators agreed with that assessment.

  Chapter 18

  “Well kids, our time draws close to a close! You can say that, right? ‘Close to a close?’ Fuck it, it’s said; and it has a certain understated simplicity that I like. I imagine it sounds better to the ear than it looks on paper, but I digress. Now, I could go on and on in unnecessarily long detail and draw this thing out like Stephen-fucking-King, but I have things to tend to, as you may have guessed. Whoops, watch out for the blood over there!”

  Chapter 19

  Jim awoke at 6:16am on the nose every single morning. He had an internal alarm clock that one could describe as eerily accurate. His store-bought alarm clock–the one he used when he was still working as a school teacher–was not a necessity, but rather a rarely needed fail-safe for his internal alarm clock.

  Jim stood at the counter as he brewed the Black Satin coffee his friend picked up for him while in Sumatra. He thought about how the aroma of the gourmet coffee would rouse his house guest, his brother Nelson, who came to stop over for a visit for a couple of days as he had made his way through New England. There were more unpleasant ways to wake up, and as far as letting his brother sleep in, Nelson informed Jim the night before that he would want to be on the Mass Pike before eight so he could avoid a heavy portion of the morning rush-hour traffic.

  Light swooshing footsteps invaded the foyer which connected to the kitchen.

  “Hey Nelly, you’re up earlier than I thought you’d be. You know, the real bitch part of rush-hour is earlier than eight because most people have jobs that start before nine.”

  Silence. The swooshing footfalls stopped and were replaced by the hypnotic breathing rhythm of someone who was clearly asleep. “Nelly?” Jim turned away from his kitchen counter and saw his brother standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Nelson?” Still, his brother did not answer him, but only stood in the doorway with his eyes glazed and at half-mast with a string of drool hanging from his lip that threatened to break free like an overburdened bungee-chord. “Nelson, you alright?” Jim asked, his voice not completely free of uneasiness. Nelson only stared, seemingly at his brother, as he swayed slightly, keeping his balance so far. “Nelson, quit fucking around. I’m–” Jim began to walk towards Nelson just as he spoke…in a sense.

  “Bada-natzia, Jim.” Nelson started, still swaying slightly on his feet, but never teetering too close to the angle of repose.

  “What? What are you talking about?” Jim asked his brother.

  “Lubuz soobie grencho natzia, Jim.” Jim reached the obvious conclusion that his brother was sleepwalking. Somewhat relieved, he let out a quick snort of laughter and approached his brother. Jim began carefully guiding him back to the bedroom in which Nelson was staying, remaining mindful of the myths he grew up with about not waking a sleepwalker, lest you don’t care about being held responsible for that person going insane. Nelson spoke again, and Jim dismissed almost all of it as sleep-talk gibberish. Almost all of it.

  “Treslock grencho natzia, apoyo-jee.” Jim couldn’t tell what had hit his ear a certain way, but there was something there. He mulled it over in his head as he lead his brother back into his bed, Nelson still mumbling, although now incoherently. “Apoyo-jee.” Jim questioned to himself.

  “Apology?” Jim reasoned as he walked back to the kitchen to fetch a cup of coffee. He poured himself a cup and sipped at the Black Satin as he looked out his window and admired the view of his lakefront backyard; especially the Apollo moon tree.

  …

  “Apoyo-jee?” Jim asked an empty kitchen. “Not ‘apology’, you moron…Apollo tree!”

  Chapter 20

  The year of the grand opening of the Super Chasm, 2029, the state of Nevada laid to rest 167 combatants who took their shots at becoming instant millionaires and fell catastrophically short. Not every fight ended in a fatality, but most did. The Chutma, who had a strong presence in the Chasm, saw to it. They had such a reasonable way of explaining things. They even came up with the idea of constructing a garden on east side of the venue which held in its center a monument that spectators and fans of the Chasm inappropriately dubbed the Wailing Wall. The monument was an ongoing project which held the names of the fallen warriors who came to do battle in the Super Chasm and had paid the ultimate price that attached itself to a loss in the decagon.

  It was here that Tyler would come to walk at night when the venue was closed to contemplate and to reassess. To constantly reassess. To reassess what? Everything, of course

  Tyler, now in the public eye, was now a beneficiary of the perks which came with that status. Unfortunately, he was also the recipient of the negative attention the public eye attracted, and in this controversial business of his, there was plenty. Tyler was truly the Yin and the Yang. He craved symmetry. Call it a quirk, idiosyncrasy, OCD, whatever you prefer, but Tyler needed it. So when it came to reading his fan mail, of which there was an abundance, he also read his hate mail, of which there was also no shortage. Tyler had heard the praise and had also heard the vilest venom the human mind could concoct. The receipt of death threats shifted from sporadic to frequently, and one of the things Tyler laughed foolhardily and dejected at was how he had received so many death threats that he no longer feared them. It merely became the cost of doing business…of doing lucrative business. Tyler and Lilith stopped checking the prices of things before they purchased them at the end of the first year of business for the Super Chasm.

  A routine that seemed to bring Tyler some comfort was finding the vilest and most venomous piece of hate mail he could and taking out with him on his walk through the garden to incinerate it in one of the metallic ash trays that were built into the garbage cans that sporadically lined the garden pathway. But the routine had not provided the veil of comfort on one particular day. Three years and eight months after the Chasm doors welcomed its first combatants, 403 of them were now deceased and immortalized on the garden m
onument.

  The sanctity that the “Memorial Garden”–I refuse to blaspheme the actual wailing wall–provided Tyler was shaken this particular night. Despite the black blood that coursed through the veins of the ever so prevalent Chutma, they did hold regular benefits to assist military veterans, the under privileged, and so forth. If I was prone to wagering, which I am not, I would say that these benefits were held for the purpose of quenching the fires that burned in the citizens who opposed the Super Chasm before their emotions bubbled over. I imagine that tax benefits claimed a significant portion of their reasoning as well.

  On this particular night, the Super Chasm raised over $350,000 for the Fallen Soldier Foundation. Initially, Tyler was to give a speech at the gathering, but he had consumed three too many whiskey and sodas. Tyler, despite having notoriety and more money than he could ever know what to do with, entered his own pit of despair in his mind. Lilith said a few words in his stead to a captivated audience who hung on every syllable. Charming, poignant, and insightful was child’s play for Lilith. The bigger the audience, the better. The Chasm on that night was filled to the typical 15,000 person sold-out capacity.

  After the checks were written, cash was exchanged, and the cleanup crew was out in full force, Tyler and Lilith took a late-night stroll through the Memorial Garden while Jayson took care of the event wrap-up and public relations.

  “Hitting the hooch a little hard lately, huh?” Lilith accused. But Tyler said nothing. He just continued his stroll with her at a lazy pace, continuing to take mindless sips of a fresh cocktail as he stared straight ahead with lifeless eyes and his tie loosened sloppily. “You know, we probably raised a few hundred thousand dollars tonight. A few hundred thousand dollars will pay for a lot of treatment for these brave men and women. Least we could do for their sacrifice, don’t you think?”

  “Lilith, you’re talking to me now, no audience to seduce. Look around you,” Tyler flailed and chuckled mildly as he spilled some of his fresh drink in his intoxicated gesticulation.

  “What do you mean?” Lilith asked, the trace of a smile previously displayed on her countenance was now nowhere to be found.

  “Ah, fuck it,” Tyler chuckled and took another sip of his drink.

  “I asked you a question. What did you mean by that?” Lilith stepped closer.

  Not being able to hold it in any longer, Tyler barked fire at his wife. “What do you think I mean!? You lied to me! You fucking lied to me!”

  As cool as a commercial pilot she answered, “What did I lie to you about?”

  “This! All of this!” Tyler half spun, arms extended, presenting the property they were currently surrounded by and spilling more of his drink on the walkway. He collected himself. “This was supposed to be a fighting arena, a sport! Not ancient fucking Rome! Don’t even try and tell me different. That’s what this is. I know the angles you’re going to try and play to convince me otherwise too,” he pointed at her accusingly with the hand that secured his beverage. “You’ll say, ‘but Ty, the contenders can give up any time they want to, they don’t have to fight to the death.’ Or, ‘but Ty, people have died while engaged in other contact sports. Save it!” Tyler stuck his finger in Lilith’s face.

  “Are you done?” Lilith asked.

  For the first time, Tyler looked as if he really wanted to hit her. He was done, but since she had asked him if he was done, he could not possibly be done.

  “You and Jayson have made it so that these matches will almost always result in someone being killed. You recruit sub-human savages and fighters desperate for money to fight in our arena, knowing that they will go to the end. How could you do that? We pay our bills with blood money, and I’m going to start having a say in who gets a shot to contend in the Chasm.”

  Lilith, previously only a few feet away from her husband exploded forward so fast that he thought she simply materialized before him. Alcohol slows motor function, and one’s eyes are no exception, so Tyler chalked it up to that. He was too stunned to think about it anyway. In one fluid motion, as she dashed forward towards her husband, she slapped the crystal rock glass out of Tyler’s hand with amazing precision, shattering it against the memorial wall behind him and stood less than an inch from him; what would have been nose to nose if Lilith matched Tyler’s height a little better.

  “Next time you stick your finger in my face, I’m going to remove it from your hand. You will not be assisting Jayson with recruiting. You’ll be doing what you have been doing: running the day-to-day operations with me and smiling for the goddamn camera. I-we-have worked very fucking hard to make this work and now that it is, you think I’m going to let you fuck with our system? No way, Ty-my-guy, uh-uh, no fucking way.”

  No sooner than Tyler began to utter a syllable, he was shut up again.

  “The death threats, right? The death threats will come no matter what. There are a lot of maniacs out there. Authors, actors, athletes, your average joe, musicians, fucking doctors, they all receive death threats!” But it was not about the death threats themselves, per se. For Tyler, it was more about the fact that he had done something to stir up so much rage in someone that they would threaten him and his family at all. After all, this was the entertainment business, not the police work he had left behind. Lilith collected herself.

  “Look, your opinion matters to me, it does, but we have established a brand and a precedent. We can’t change what we’re doing now. We’ve worked too hard, took huge risks to get here. We left promising careers, and that can’t be for nothing. I won’t allow it.”

  Tyler looked down with a sigh and shook his head. He lost this battle and he knew it. He was stuck. What could he do?

  “Hey,” Lilith started and lifted his chin so his eyes met her stony blue gaze. “Let’s kiss and make up.”

  Poof! And just like that, everything would was fixed. Her kiss always provided temporary relief, like a well-placed cortisone shot. I’ve explained this to you before. Like any reliable form of transportation, Tyler just needed a tune-up every so often.

  Chapter 21

  Jim ran quickly, not only for his age, but by any high school football coach’s standards...with a bum knee to boot! It was a picturesque and flawless day in Copake, New York, so Jim had decided to take a jog to the liquor store rather than drive. He liked to keep in shape. “All of us old queens try, but few are successful like you (Jim),” the liquor store owner, Kyle Beecher once told him. Since he had become a permanent resident of Copake, Jim lacked fulfillment of one of the physical needs in his life. Kyle would not only do, he’d do just fine. Jim found himself making weekly treks to the liquor store not only to restock his liquor cabinet, which was plenty stocked to begin with, but to run into Kyle. Jim knew that he had to make his move soon, because if Kyle was even paying semi-moderate attention to the frequency of Jim’s visits to his store, he would think that Jim had an alcohol problem that would have Mickey Rourke’s character in Barfly lending Jim some life advice.

  He thought that he could do better than showing up to the store all sweaty from the jog trying to score a date, but he had stalled long enough, and he also got the impression that Kyle would be into this in some way since he liked to comment on Jim’s fit appearance. Not to mention the fact that the liquor store was only a couple of miles away, so he would not be in too bad of shape when he had finally arrived.

  So, Jim ran. Jim ran and saturated himself with the scenic exquisiteness which drew him back to the old childhood sanctuary where he spent countless summers hiking, swimming, and building fires in the stone fire pit his father had put in after getting special permission from the actual homeowner. That fire pit had been reason enough for the owner to give Jim’s father a considerable break on rent when they visited. Jim waved to the familiar faces that were once unacquainted with him as they drove by on route 7A. Twenty-something minutes later Jim arrived at Spirits of Copake and took a minute to catch his breath before going into the store to speak with Kyle.

  As he began to walk
up the wooden staircase that was built over a small hill in front of the property, he thought he heard someone whisper his name. Jim stopped, halfway up the staircase, and looked around to engage whomever called out to him, however subtle. Jim saw no one and climbed the remaining stairs and entered the store.

  “Hey you! How’s it going? Out for a jog huh? Why not though; it’s a beautiful day for it,” Kyle greeted him.

  Jim answered, but it came out in what sounded like Mandarin Chinese, or perhaps Cantonese. Kyle didn’t seem to mind the casual shift in language one bit. Jim thought that Kyle didn’t even notice, let alone mind.

  “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Jim asked hypothetically.

  “Sure are, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still have some fun! You can also learn a lot from your dreams, am I wrong?” Kyle said with a wink. Before Jim’s eyes, Kyle materialized right next to him and put his hand on his shoulder. It was not a gentle or kind grip, but the grip of a corrections officer leading a prisoner back to his cell after starting trouble in the cafeteria.

  “You’re hurting me,” Jim whined.

  “Well, you keep ignoring his signs. What do you need? You need him to jump up and slap you right in the forehead?”

  “Who?” Jim asked Kyle, who was now coming across as someone who not only was disinterested romantically, but someone who didn’t even like Jim platonically; a complete 180 degree turn.

  Kyle slapped at his own face in frustration, not unlike the way Curly Howard used to entertain millions. “The Swanson kid, you oblivious fag! Jeez!” Kyle boomed, his voice knocking bottles from the wall with seething sonic magnitude. Kyle looked at a bottle at his feet, snapped the cap off of the whiskey bottle, took a long swallow, recapped the bottle and tossed it over his shoulder where it rolled across the floor and came to a stop against the wall.