by Alan Lee
“This is grotesque. Right?” I asked the giant. “Does this not strike your moral compass as absurd? Surreal? Like an elaborate hoax?”
The sumo wrestler issued a soft growl.
The Italian opposite me said, “I know this man. A famous fighter from Japan. He does not like Americans.”
“How odd. We’re likable and benevolent and many of us have plastic surgery to look better.”
“You think this is like, what did you say…an elaborate hoax?”
“I think this is absurd.”
“Think about history, American. Violence is part of life,” he said. “Down through the ages, humans have hunted human. Killed for sport. Tournaments like this are not uncommon.”
“Yeah but now we have Netflix.”
He smiled, which was a good look for him, and rolled his eyes. “You are too…what is the word? Peaceful?”
“Gentrified. Docile. Striking.”
“You believe any part of society outside your experience is inferior.”
“I believe human trafficking and profit from the death of others should not be a part of any reality.”
Photographs of the entrants were being displayed on an enormous screen above. All of mine were taken from social media.
Betting lines were displayed on a separate screen and men circulated the audience, accepting money and returning receipts.
“What are my odds?” I said. Out of curiosity. Not stubborn chauvinistic macho pride.
“Not good,” answered the Italian gentleman.
“Eight-to-one?”
The man tilted his face upwards to inspect the screen. “More like fifty-to-one.”
“Fifty,” I repeated. Maybe I’d heard him wrong—my head was pounding.
He nodded. “Fifty.”
I said, “I am outraged. You Italians, always backing the wrong horse. What are your odds?”
“Four-to-one.”
“I hate everything. You’re the favorite?”
“Of course.”
The next phase of the ceremony began.
The Colombian, a wiry man with sinewy forearms, was taken by guards to talk with the master of ceremony, Niccolo Ferrari, on stools under a convergence of spotlights. He and Ferrari communicated through an interpreter. The section from Colombia cheered, a small sound in the big space.
During the interview, the Colombian’s numbers dropped; the betters didn’t like what they heard. Too meek, perhaps.
He was then led to what looked like a massage chair. He removed his kimono and sat. A woman drew a design on his back with marker and prepared her equipment.
I realized, “She’s going to tattoo the word Colombia on his back.”
The man across smirked darkly.
I hated people who smirked.
He said, “Indeed.”
“Ferrari will be mad when I decline, I bet.”
He laughed and sipped his wine until it was his turn to be interviewed. He stood and flourished his kimono like a cape. Bowed to the audience, ignoring his guardian escort. The crowd reacted as if he was Lebron James or Chris Pratt or someone else equally amazing.
He sat with Ferrari and chatted. I didn’t understand the Italian, but clearly the man was a favorite.
The Russian one seat down called, “American. O Principe, he is not friend.”
I said, “O Principe?”
The Russian, a solidly built man with dead brown eyes, jerked his thumb towards the handsome Italian talking with Ferrari. “The Prince. He will cheat. He will slit your throat.”
“You know O Principe?”
“O Principe was champion. Three years past. Do not think him friend.”
“That Italian guy is nicknamed the Prince and he’s already won this tournament before?” I said, shouting to be heard. And also shouting because that was lunacy.
The Russian nodded and said no more.
The sumo wrestler took some greasy salami from my plate.
I didn’t care.
The universe had gone mad.
Suddenly the spotlights swiveled my way and the world went ablaze. The guards came. Grabbed my arms and hauled me up.
I passed the Prince en route. He had removed his kimono and bypassed the tattoo chair. I checked—he already had Italy scrawled between his shoulder blades. Underneath that was the word Principe.
The amount of things that made no sense was accumulating.
The guards shoved me onto a stool.
Ferrari read off a note card and spoke into the wireless, using English.
“Ladies and gentleman of the tournament, I present to you the American. The King’s champion, a Yankee named Mackenzie.”
My section cheered behind me.
His words repeated over the speaker in Italian. From a corner of the arena came the sound of booing.
He wasn’t preening for the crowd, but instead acting like an auctioneer rattling through information. “A late entry into the Gabbia Cremisi. A soldier for the Kings, from the States. A police officer. A former MMA fighter. Now he works independently. Yes?” He looked up from the note card and held out the microphone.
The Italian translation issued from the overhead speakers.
I leaned forward until my lips touched the mic.
My voice erupted everywhere. “Put me where I can feel the pillars that support the temple,” I said. “And let me die with the Philistines.”
Ferrari looked stumped.
The Italian translation drifted from the speakers and some of the audience chuckled.
The lights were bright and blinded out most of the onlookers, but those I could see wore headphones, probably getting a real-time transliteration in their language.
Ferrari said, “Are you quoting something?”
“Yes. But botching it.”
“Very well.” Ferrari cleared his throat and availed himself of another note card. “The stories are told, American, that you have been killing off the Kings one by one in the States. What brings you success in the fights? And what method will you use to kill your opponent in the cage?”
Into the mic, I said, “I won’t kill any of these men. Except the sumo wrestler if he eats my dessert. The rest seem wholesome. Salt of the earth.”
“You refuse to fight?”
“This is not what I do. I’m a detective. I solve mysteries. Find lost children. Report romantic indiscretions. Serve court papers. Pretend to be an English teacher. Work with lawyers to undermine the justice system. You know, real Superman stuff.”
“Some of the English phrases I do not understand. I insist you take this seriously, Signore Mackenzie, as a fortune will be won or lost during the fights.”
“The amount of money spent on this macabre slaughter is breath-taking. Are mafia lords really this well heeled and bored? I can recommend some great non-profits,” I said.
“In the audience today are former champions of this great tournament. Returned home as deities. This is a great honor for your master. You continue the tradition dating almost a century,” he said. “Surely you want to represent your country with dignity.”
“My country is home of the Whopper and Jersey Shore. Not so much dignity.”
Ferrari did not think me funny. Poor breeding, I bet.
“Are you still medicated, American?”
“Probably.”
“You are new to the Gabbia Cremisi so some confusion can be forgiven,” he said. “I attended a boxing match in Las Vegas. Floyd Mayweather. You remember? Before the match, the fighters perform…promotions, I think. You have already missed some of the promotion, Mackenzie. You’d be wise to catch up quickly. For your survival and for the honor of the Kings. Let us continue. Fighting styles and experience are extremely important to our event. Many fighters train for months. Some of our patrons hire professional fighters to evaluate competition, but little is known about you. What is your preferred fighting style?”
“Rope a dope.”
“Tell us about your experience in the MMA.”
/> “I hurt people. They hurt me back. I did well.”
He sucked lightly at his lower lip, dissatisfied. “Is there video?”
“Doubtful.”
“You wear handcuffs. What crime did you commit?”
I said, “I fell in love with the wrong woman.”
There came a gasp from the audience. Great gallons of air being sucked in.
Ferrari nodded understanding. His earring glinted. So did his smile.
“The commandments. You broke one. Never involve yourself with the wife of a fellow Camorrista. Or King, I mean to say.”
I said, “Ah but for the right woman a man will break them all.”
Another gasp. A feminine sound.
“For her, your beloved, you must fight and win, yes? A combattente with something to live for, that is a dangerous man.”
“Well, Mr. Sports Car, there’s a contract on my head. The jackass who brought me here doesn’t know whether I get to live, even if I win. Be easier for him if I don’t.”
“You misunderstand, American. The winner goes free. And keeps a portion of his winnings. A hero for all time.”
I said, “You misunderstand, Ferrari. I’ve upset many grouchy and ugly Americans. They brought me here to die. Even if I win.”
“Not possible. That goes against the commandments.”
“Not possible? I was abducted, shipped to Italy, and forced to fight other guys to the death at the Entitlement Olympics. Maybe you aren’t the people to act outraged at broken rules,” I said. “Also, that photograph on screen? That’s my Facebook profile from three years ago. I’ve put on at least four pounds of muscle since then. Bet accordingly.”
More of the audience laughed.
The man who laughed the loudest was the Camorra Prince, the handsome Italian champion.
Ferrari said, “I think the betters will be confused, Signore Mackenzie. I cannot remember an interview quite like this. The men who arrive in cuffs, they die quickest. But you? I am not so sure. Thank you, American.”
I leaned forward to the mic.
“When I break free, you should run. Also I’m not getting a tattoo,” I said.
Ferrari looked thunderstruck, his mouth ajar.
I stood, ducked the guards, and made my way back to the table.
The audience reacted like they loved the drama. Laughter and cheers and boos. The men with assault rifles didn’t know whether to wrestle me to the tattoo chair or fetch the next contestant to interview.
I sat down.
The big sumo wrestler had taken my cannoli. He was finishing his, about to start on mine.
I slid my plate back and glared.
More laughter from the audience. They were watching, apparently.
Mackenzie August, compelling theater.
I said, “Take all the meat and cheese you desire, enormous man. I want the dessert.”
He glowered. I think. Most of his features were hidden in fat rolls.
The Italian Prince watched and smugly ate bread.
The sumo wrestler reached again for my dessert. I picked up my fork and slammed the tines into his hand, hard enough to puncture. Blood squirted from the bulging arteries.
“Leggo,” I said.
He roared like a bull and threw me from my chair. I slid face first across the sheepskin, which didn’t feel great.
The audience erupted. Ferrari shouted into his microphone. “Gentlemen! Gentiluomini! Champions, please!”
Guards swarmed.
I sat up.
The enraged sumo wrestler hauled me up into a bear hug, getting his blood on my silk kimono.
“I realize it’s just dessert,” I wheezed, my feet kicking helplessly, suspended in the air. “But it’s my dessert. And I’ve had a rotten couple days. The cannoli is symbolic, you know?”
He probably didn’t hear my last few words. He was squeezing me to death and I ran out of oxygen. My ribs verged on fracturing. He had four inches and a hundred pounds on me.
I bet Duane wasn’t enjoying himself either.
The guards shouted orders and haplessly whacked the giant’s shoulders with the butts of their rifles.
Feckless nincompoops.
So much blood pooled in my face I thought it might burst.
If only my wrists weren’t still bound by handcuffs I wouldn’t be defenseless and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man wouldn’t be suffocating me.
But they were.
However, I still held the fork.
Ah hah!
“Sorry about this,” I gasped.
I jammed the fork over my shoulder, driving it like a knife. The tines went straight into his right eyeball, burying deeply into iris tissue.
His howl deafened me. He released and I fell to the floor with a thud.
My wrist band beeped and the light turned green.
“Dammit Meg,” I coughed. “I haven’t eaten my cannoli yet.”
The sumo wrestler’s wrist band beeped too.
We’d both been zapped with medication. A powerful dose. It hit me like a tidal wave.
“Hope this improves my betting odds…” I slurred.
Beside me, the giant collapsed into a medicinal coma, both hands clutching the silver fork protruding outwards from his face.
8
“A disgrace,” said Duane. “A disgrace and a fucking nightmare.”
He paced back and forth across the red carpet of my bedroom.
I couldn’t see him but I imagined his hands were on his hips. I lay face first on the floor, trying not to move. The knot of pain in my head had increased tenfold.
“Right?” I said. “He tried to take my dessert.”
“Shut up, August. Shut the fuck up. I’m this close to putting one in the back of your head and being done with this charade. Hear me? This close.”
“Are you making a gesture where your thumb and pointer finger are only an inch apart?” I asked.
“An inch apart. Yeah I am. You wish, an inch. Lucky for you the Yakuza brought a second fighter. Otherwise…I don’t know. I’d let the Japs take the reparations out your ass, August. Even still, the Kings’s first ever contestant and we’re already under sanctions. You screw up again and we’re out.”
“Be a real shame.”
“You’d be executed.”
“Oh.”
His anger and animation had increased the rasp of his voice to a full scrape. “I googled that thing you said. About the pillars of the temple and dying with the Philistines. You’re quoting the Old Testament. I read the chapter. Samson, he was brought to the temple in chains and then he killed everyone. The balls on you, August. That’s the second time you threatened to kill Niccolo Ferrari, the spokesperson for Rossi.”
“Not just Ferrari. Everyone else too.”
He kept pacing. “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.”
“Includes you, Duane Moneybags. Unless you release me of your own volition, you’re going to die.”
“If this costs me, I won’t be happy. I put money on you to clear round one. The odds of you winning the whole damn thing are fifty-to-one, but you were four-to-one to survive tomorrow. If the others get you at a better price? If I start getting less payout because of your bullshit, August…”
He didn’t finish the thought.
I said, “A fool and his money.”
“Shut up. Stop being smart and maybe you get your bed back.”
“I hope so,” I said, speaking into the carpet. The chain connected to my handcuffs had been reduced to four links, effectively pinning me to the floor. The room looked huge without the queen-sized bed. “That mattress was elite.”
“Serves you right, being a pain in my ass. Win tomorrow and I’ll return it.”
Meg sat crisscross on the floor near my hands, still wearing the blue cocktail dress. Smelled like expensive perfume. She attached a new metal wrist band to my other hand and removed the old band. The new one beeped as it paired to her devices. Then she rubbed antiseptic on my wrist where the patches had pricke
d.
“I can’t believe how fast you drained the sedatives in the bracelet,” she said through a yawn. “I bet you have quite the headache.”
“Yes I do.”
“Hold still, please. I’d like to dab Neosporin on your forehead and stronger anti-bacterial cream on your back.”
“Since you insist, I’ll remain in genuflection.”
“You won’t try to escape?”
“Not till tomorrow.”
She smeared cream on my face, where the thin-skinned guard had popped me with his rifle. Still loopy from medicine, I barely noticed. She said, “Would you like to see your back? I can take a photo.”
“That’d be super.”
She rose to her knees and scooted beside me. I heard the sound of an artificial shutter click. Then she held her phone screen in front of my face.
I squinted at the close up of my shoulders.
Tattooed in big letters across my back was the word KING.
I sighed. “A humiliating way to get my first tattoo. No one will ever believe the origin narrative.”
Duane grunted. “Origin narrative.”
Meg said, “Invent a story about being an egomaniac in college and getting drunk on spring break. That’s more plausible than being forced into a blood sport.”
Emile strode into the room and paused.
“Where is his bed?”
Duane said, “I had it removed. Teach him some manners.”
“Duane, do not be an ass. Mackenzie was almost killed by a Japanese monster. He needs a bed.”
“Don’t be an ass? He jammed a fork into that guy’s face. Meg says he’s blind for the rest of his life in that eye, no doubt about it.”
Emile said, “That man was too fat. No woman wanted to be with him. And besides, my love, the monster would most likely be killed tomorrow anyway.”
I didn’t want to move my head, so I could only see Emile’s dress and heels.
Duane said, “Not the point. We got rules. What’d you find out?”
“Betting is complete for the night. The odds have shifted,” she said.
“I knew it. What’d he drop to? Five-to-one? If it’s six, I’ll kill myself.”
Her voice held a tight smile. “The crowd loves him, as they ought. He is three-to-five.”
Duane released a wheeze and clapped his hands.
