The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “Pankratiasts—fighters who practiced Pankration—punched, kicked, kneed, elbowed, grappled, choked, and applied joint manipulation or “submission” techniques to win their bouts in the ancient world. We’re aware they practiced these techniques from a wide variety of sources including art, poetry, and literature. The famous poet, Pindar, writing in the fifth century B.C., references the demise of one of the greatest Pankratiasts of his day in one of his poems. The man was named Arrichion, and he died, like many Pankratiasts, during a fight.

  “Pindar tells us that he caught his opponent in an ankle lock, but in securing this hold he carelessly exposed his own neck. Arrichion’s opponent secured a choke, and suddenly there was a race to see which submission attempt would end the fight first. Well, legend has it that Arrichion died from the choke, but that he posthumously won the match.”

  The men looked at each other skeptically. Rick stroked his cheek and drew in his brows.

  “Crazy, huh? You see, if a referee isn’t attentive, it’s sometimes hard to determine if a man being choked is conscious or unconscious. In this particular match, Arrichion snapped his foe’s ankle, then apparently went unconscious and died. His adversary eventually tapped out due to the pain of his broken ankle—and a dead man received a final notch in his win column.”

  “Woo—yeah! Nothin’ like goin’ out in a fuckin’ blaze of glory,” barked Hans.

  “Thanks for the commentary.” George smiled. “I see that some of you look a bit apprehensive, and I can guess why. Arrichion died from a choke, but I can assure you this will not happen to any of you so long as you tap out if you feel yourself going unconscious. Even if you do go unconscious, remember that the man choking you is really your ally and will let you go if he feels you wilt. Even if you’re unconscious for a few seconds, you’ll be fine.

  “In Arrichion’s case, his adversary must have maintained the pressure after he passed out for quite a while. The brain was deprived of oxygen, and he died. But this story, while entertaining, is unrepresentative of modern Pankration. I have never heard, in all my experience, of a man dying in modern Pankration or any of its derivatives. And unlike ancient Pankration, we’ll employ lots of rules to prevent anyone from getting seriously injured. So don’t worry—the last thing we want you to do is die or become paralyzed wrestling around on some gym mat.”

  “What we do want you to do,” interjected the titan, “is to train hard at the gym then go knock-up some smokin’ hot white women.” He grinned wolfishly, and some of the men hooted and roared.

  “Yes, preferably your wives or serious girlfriends.” George played along, chuckling. “I want to tell you now a bit about why I’m going to teach you Pankration, and its limitations.

  “Some people don’t like to hear this, but when real fighting—street fighting—is concerned, there is a glaring inequality among martial-arts disciplines. Pankration is the oldest martial art we know of that employs submission techniques—Pankratiasts were employing arm bars and knee bars hundreds of years before Japanese Judokas.

  “But by no means is Pankration the only effective martial art, and if you wish to branch out later on, I can introduce you to experts in the other effective disciplines. The irony is that most of the effective martial arts overlap, because the combinations and movements human bodies can employ to inflict injury are, of course, limited.

  “Every unarmed fight that you will engage in will consist of two dimensions—striking and grappling. Notice I don’t say punching and grappling, because the effective fighter also uses knees, elbows, and kicks—all of which are encompassed by ‘striking.’ If you wish to explore other martial arts later on, the effective striking arts include most strains of kick boxing, especially Muay-Thai, Western boxing, and a few strains of combat Karate. The effective grappling arts include Jiu-Jitsu, Sambo, Judo, freestyle wrestling, and Greco-Roman wrestling.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Hans, “and stay away from any martial art that uses willowy, sissy-looking movements like bent wrists and open handed chops. Those martial arts may be good for health and well-being, but it’s a surefire way to get your ass kicked if you try to use it in a street fight. I had some kung-fu punk come after me one time and he started to make all these cat whines and shit.”

  George and the other men were laughing.

  “And his fighting stance, I’m serious guys,” the youth gestured as he spoke, “his fighting stance was all squared-up, feet wide apart, wrists bent. And then he kind of jumped at me with some kind of fuckin’ chop. Maybe it landed—if it did I sure as hell didn’t feel it. Then he started to try to grab me and I just clocked the fucker and put him down. Man, he just went right the fuck down.” The youth slapped his hands together. “Some little ninety-pound dude. Stupid ass believed all that shit in the Asian movies was real.”

  “Thank you, Hans, for unwittingly transitioning us to our next topic,” George said. “I don’t care how strong you are at Pankration, Muay-Thai, Jiu-Jitsu, whatever,” the Athenian waved his hand as if throwing away a wad of paper, “a lead bullet, or a hot little packet of plasma will send you to the next life as readily as anyone else it hits. So I really want to emphasize that this training is not supposed to replace formal military weapons training. You won’t be dodging bullets like ninjas in the old movies—you sure as hell won’t be catching them in your teeth.”

  “So why are we doing all this, then, George? To edify ourselves?” the youth asked, looking at the audience, and laughed. His tone was theatric and exaggerated.

  “We’re teaching you this for many reasons, but first and foremost, we’re doing it to help masculinize you—mentally. All your lives you’ve been told to strive to be weak and deferential, ashamed and timid. We want to reprogram you. We want strength instead of weakness, conviction instead of apathy, confidence instead of doubt.

  “Really, I could care less if one of you proves to be the best Pankratiast in the world. I don’t care if you win or lose the matches you’ll wage against each other. I just want to make sure that you acquire the mindset of a winner, of a man that can use his fists if he needs to. If a man knows he’s a tough opponent in a fight, he operates with a whole extra reservoir of self confidence in life. It’s the way nature intended.

  “All of you bear the potential to be future leaders of America. The skills you acquire from Pankration will help you ascend to whatever summit you choose. Are there any questions?”

  “Yeah, I have a question.” The youth eagerly raised and fluttered his hand.

  “Yes, Hans?”

  “Why are we learning Pankration instead of Tai-chi?”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Okay, everyone, some of you roll out the mats. The rest of you come and help me bring out the headgear, gloves, and shin pads. Today, I’m teaching grappling and Hans is coaching striking.”

  Two hours later, Rick and his training partner, a Spaniard by the name of Pedro Madrid, were locked in combat on a mat in the gym’s center. Most of the rest of the athletes had finished their bouts and had gathered round to watch. Both combatants had discarded their padding, and had agreed to restrict their match to grappling. George and Hans stood nearby, yelling advice over the cheers.

  But Rick heard none of it. Since the fight began his thoughts had condensed from the width of a flashlight to the slenderness of a laser. All that mattered, at that instant, was the choke he was trying to secure. He existed to choke, and his opponent to extricate.

  The simplicity cooled him more efficiently than the sweat pouring from his hair. Pedro’s chin riveted to his clavicle to thwart Rick’s forearm from sliding underneath. The Spaniard tried to roll, but Rick rolled too, his legs secured in body triangle fashion around Pedro’s stomach.

  Careless from exhaustion, Pedro withdrew his chin from the safety of his shoulder and tried to break free. The instant his chin revolved Rick wove his arm beneath it, and in moments he felt his victim tap hurriedly on his shoulder.

  Rick let go immediately, and patted Pedro on the back.
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br />   “That was a great job defending,” the victor breathed heavily, mopping his brow.

  “Thanks, man. Good match.” Pedro nodded his head and accepted a handshake, his free hand massaging his carotid. Rick got to his knees, shoulders rounded, breaths coming quickly.

  “Yes,” agreed George, “that was a good match. And I was happy to see you guys utilize a little of what we learned today. Granted, there were no arm bars or leg attacks yet, but the body triangle was a nice addition to your choke, Rick. And that was some skillful defense keeping the choke away for as long as you did, Pedro. I’m just going to keep you all for a few more minutes to wrap things up for today.”

  The Athenian walked to the front of the room. The students sat on the grappling mats, faces tired, eyes lively.

  “I’m very proud of you all,” began George. “Now that you’ve learned a bit about submissions, you can begin to understand my sincerity when I liken submission grappling to a game of chess. To tell you the truth, when I first heard that analogy, I laughed. It seems like people try to glorify every sport by slapping it with a chess analogy. But I’m telling you,” he pointed with a finger, “there is no other sport I know of that has a more legitimate claim to ‘physical chess’ than submission grappling.

  “In chess, there are numerous checkmate patterns. Each pattern has its own initial moves before it can be launched against the enemy king. Skilled players observe these subtle moves, and recognize the checkmating pattern. When the check mate attempt is underway, the defending player does his best to avoid mate by moving his own pieces in patterns that have proven, over the centuries, to defend well.

  “If the attacker is skilled, and his initial mate attempt fails, he’ll transition immediately into another checkmating pattern. If that one is stopped, too, he’ll go for another one. Sometimes each player pursues checkmate simultaneously, and in their zeal for the attack, one of them surrenders positioning and is checkmated. Sound like Arrichion, anyone?

  “The same is true in submission grappling. Each submission attempt, as you’re beginning to learn, has its own tip-off movements. So, Hans, if I had you in side control and was trying to manipulate your arm, what would you watch out for?”

  “I’d have to watch out for a fuckin’ key lock. Those hurt.” The titan grinned.

  “Exactly, and say you defend it successfully the way I taught you. So I jump up, grab your arm and begin to revolve with it back toward the ground. What then?”

  “Well, it’s probably too late to avoid it at that point, but it’s obvious you transitioned into an arm bar attempt.” Hans’s eyes lit and he pointed to his head. “See how smart I am?”

  “Yeah, Hans, you’re a real genius.” George rolled his eyes at the crowd, and smiled. “Speaking of smarts, don’t expect to find any good Pankratiasts, or mixed martial artists, as we’re also known, that are dumb-asses. Unlike in boxing, you have to have a moderately sharp IQ to be a proficient grappler. The reason, of course, is that in elite grappling both men are trying to secure submissions. If you’re fighting someone competent, your first several submission attempts will be defended, so you try again and again and again with attempts in quick and fluid succession while also defending against your opponent’s submissions.” He snapped his fingers repeatedly.

  “This is not an easy intellectual load to balance, and many men crumble. It’s tough to keep track of all the movements, in proper order, needed to defend submissions. Oftentimes, the quicker-witted fighter prevails over the physically stronger fighter. The rapidity at which submission attempts and counter-submission attempts fly can be staggering, so when you watch elite grapplers clash, keep your eyes peeled.”

  Suddenly, Hans’s ear buzzed a heavy metal ring tone.

  “Whoops, sorry guys, forgot to mute that. Kim’s calling me—wonder why so early? Uh, I better take this; be back in a sec.” He strode from the room.

  “I have one more thing to tell with you all,” George said as he slid on his jacket. “Several months ago, Hans entered himself into the heavyweight class of an elimination-style mixed martial arts competition. He’s done very well so far in the tournament’s opening rounds, and has qualified for the finals a couple months from now in Aztlan. He’s got some good sparring partners already but if any of you would like to volunteer I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

  The youth reentered, face pallid, and grabbed his jacket. Smiling broadly, he left again and jogged off.

  Chapter 17

  President Guerrero pulled gloves over his hands. His palms were calloused from the dumbbells in his private gym, and caught on the material. After some adjustment, he eyed a long black case lying on his desk.

  “Fresh from the factory in San Diego,” said a tall, bronze-skinned man standing nearby. “As I’ve told you, it’s based on the Arab design. Ours come standard with more voltage, though.”

  “It’s about fucking time these are ready,” the president cursed as he popped the locks on the case.

  Within rested an elegant sword. The hilt was garnished with skulls and Aztec symbols, and where normally would have risen the blade there instead was a rectangular, elongated span of titanium. Along this, wedges of obsidian protruded at regular intervals like Jurassic shark teeth.

  “And you say the obsidian won’t break?” Guerrero asked, running a gloved thumb along the ridges.

  “No . . . never. Each of those triangles has been enhanced by our engineers. They’re five-hundred and fifty-three times more durable than naturally occurring obsidian. Think of them as black diamonds.”

  “Black diamonds, huh?” The president removed the sword from its velvet mold. “Rosa would like that.” He extended the weapon, then swept it handily around himself. “Nice balance. So this would split a gray gabacho’s head if I whacked him with it?”

  “Most assuredly, sir. And fifty-thousand volts would facilitate his soul’s flight to Divine Color.”

  “Excellent. Never knew why the Muslims began charging their melee weapons—other than for extra damage and sci-fi feel, I guess.”

  “Actually, sir, if I may, it was a response to the power armor issued to German officers mid-way through the Muslim conquest of Germany. Bullets couldn’t penetrate it. But with a good hack from an electric scimitar, the circuitry-dense power armor would electrocute the operator it was intended to protect.”

  “Interesting. Do we have a figure yet on how much power armor the grays possess?”

  “Not really. We’re more worried about their plasma rifles.”

  “Yes, yes—how is our plasma research coming? When will you boys have a model I can test fire?”

  “Not for some time, I’m afraid. We still haven’t settled on a means of propulsion or encapsulation.” The businessman frowned, and his eyes fell to Guerrero’s polished shoes.

  “Well, can’t you just copy the American model?”

  “The few specimens we possess are ten years old and guard their secrets well. But don’t worry—Aztec infantry will be carrying plasma rifles within the next five years.”

  “Five years? Five fuckin’ years? I just had a psychopath sitting in my office not long ago raving about all the shit that’s in store for us if we don’t throw our hands in the air and wave a flag of surrender. I don’t know for sure about Swan, but that fucked-up Hommler character—he wants war with Aztlan. We have to be ready for that war when it comes, and something tells me that it won’t wait five years to erupt.”

  “Sir, I can only offer my apologies and my assurance that I will convey your concerns to our engineers and scientists.” The tall Hispanic man frowned and lowered his head.

  “Make sure they know Rivera Industries doesn’t have a monopoly on weapons contracts. I’ve also been speaking with groups in San Francisco, Modesto, and Silicon Valley. You’re probably already aware of this, but they have ongoing plasma projects as well.”

  “Yes, sir, we are aware of our rivals.”

  “Good—competition is healthy.” The president thumbed a button
on the hilt of the blade, and a crackle surged through it.

  “Be careful, you just charged it.”

  “Yes, I know,” breathed Guerrero. “I’d like to take off Hommler’s head with this, then watch his body wriggle around from the volts. Enrique, punch an order for 10,000 of these. That, at least, will be enough to cover my officers. My commanders have already examined this blade and each has become its staunch advocate. Your team has done well—see that you do the same in your plasma research.”

  “Yes—thank you, sir!” The visitor rose and shook Guerrero’s free hand.

  After the visitor left, the president tapped his ear and his secretary’s voice called through speakers on his desk.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I want you to call Professor Gonzales for me at Stanford. Tell him I want a thorough, documented study conducted charting the decline and ultimate destruction of Caucasian peoples in America and Europe. Tell him I want to know everything—when it began, how it began, and who’s to blame. Kindly inform him that I don’t want the same shit happening to us down the road, and it’s in the national Aztec interest to be educated on the subject. I want him to deliver a presentation to me within a month, and I want classes taught on it beginning next fall at all our universities. He’ll know exactly what you’re talking about—he and I have discussed the necessity of this research several times before.”

  “Yes, sir. Ah, sir, President Caballero is holding for you on line five.”

  “Gracias, Raquel.” Guerrero tapped his ear and uttered, “Line five. Hello?”