by Purple Hazel
“Range-uh!” clap-clap “Range-uh!” clap-clap “Range-uh!” they chanted together. Thousands and thousands of them. Players stood around. Many—from both teams too—took a knee out of respect and waited for the medics to revive him. It took about three long, terrible minutes to do so. But…when he came to, and they sat him up…the crowd began to cheer. After that, he was able to stagger to his feet with the aid of his proud teammates. Then he was escorted off the field to a smattering of polite, sportsmanlike applause. He’d done it. He’d engineered a scoring drive that put his team ahead for good…
* * * *
Later that evening, Ozzie sat alone at the end of a long, empty bench on the sideline, head swimming and mind swirling while his body tingled. His brain was concussed, and parts of his extremities seemed to go numb at times if he didn’t try moving them. After the crushing hits he took when releasing the ball, the force had jarred his head—much like in a head-on automobile collision. He didn’t remember much after that. Now he found himself sitting there trying to piece together what had occurred.
Fellow players coming up and congratulating him from time to time, patting him lightly on the shoulders or along his thigh armor, gave him some indication he’d done something good. Otherwise, he didn’t have much to go on. But as time passed, he became more aware of his surroundings and what was happening out on the field.
He slowly began remembering the throw. He recalled the crash of bodies…two white helmets with glowing red face lenses coming at him like fiery monsters from the depths of hell. Intense look in the eyes of one of the two defenders still haunted his memories. After that, Ozzie could only remember the sound of crashing, groaning, grunting, and then…nothing. Just a crush of force on top of him restricting his breathing. That’s when he’d passed out.
He vaguely remembered the public address system—as if in a dream—announcing, “There is a player down on the field. Number 65, Ranger Guerrero...appears to be shaken up on the play.” Then after several minutes (maybe even longer) Ozzie felt the sensation of being lifted. Next, he recalled hearing the announcement, “Now entering the game for Dallas, at Center Back, number 24, from the University of New Mexico, Haskeh Naabah!” At the time, it had sounded like he was listening to the world from inside a gigantic coffee can.
Noises had swirled around him during those confusing moments. Men were congratulating him in North American accents. Voices were yelling out obscenities in bitter frustration. Those angry voices sounded British. Meanwhile, he could hear the crowd cheering Haskeh Naabbah entering the game. Seemed like the fans were excited to see the new player drafted by Dallas out of perennial powerhouse UNM.
He’d almost had to chuckle when it became clearer to him what they were cheering. Ozzie couldn’t have blamed them, really. Perhaps for the fans in attendance, it was time to move on anyway. He’d done his part. He’d led Dallas to a spectacular score, and the lead they held now was likely enough to secure a victory. “Looks like they done forgot about me already,” he’d said with a chuckle, then he sighed. “Ah, who fuckin’ cares, right?”
But now, nearly a half hour later as he sat and thought about it, Ozzie assessed his situation. It was time to face facts. “Ranger” Guerrero—his twin brother—was a legend of the game. Everyone probably just wanted to remember him that way. What’s more, sports fans couldn’t start remembering him fondly if he wouldn’t go away—and stay away—for good. That’s what he needed to accept right now.
“They love Ranger. I kin tell. But hell…I’m not him,” he grumbled. “They want to savor their memories of my brother. Let him live on in their legends of famous players who’ve graced this field all these years. I get it. It’s a new game now. Beasts like Assegai Ndwandwe pounding the scrum line with a power running game. Muscle and force of will. No more finesse and strategy like my brother taught me. No more passes downfield neither.”
Ozzie began making a fist, then opening it, to get blood circulating to his forearms. He tried wiggling his toes inside his cleats too, just to make sure everything was functioning.
“Fans just wanna see gladiators duking it out,” he continued muttering to himself. “Big ’ole monsters grappling and pawing at each other to get to the ball carrier. Bone-crushing hits. That’s what they made this game for, really. Folks just wanna see violence—from a safe distance—only nobody dyin’ ’cause of it. Just bodies gettin’ carted off to the hospital once in a while.”
He then looked out at the crowd in the stands and up at the scoreboard. Everything was a blur. The lights hurt his eyes and he couldn’t make out any words or numbers.
“No. I don’t belong here. I know that. I missed my chance when I went off into space. Now I’m just sittin’ here with a poundin’ headache...pretendin’ to be somebody I ain’t. This was Práxedis’s way of life, not mine. Gettin’ beat up every week like this, just to come back and do it again? This iddun me. Nope. Ain’t no way to live.”
He remained silent after that, as time wound down in the match and players out on the field finished the last few minutes of injury time.
PART THREE
TWINS AND LOVERS
Chapter 7
“Kiss Kiss Love”
Meanwhile, at about the same time Ozzie was slowly piecing together what he’d just experienced, finding himself sitting on that lonely bench mulling over his circumstances, the Rudo Love concert was just getting underway across Wembley Park Boulevard. Fans had been lining up outside for hours to get in and finally enjoy the show, some having waited for months after the previous performance was postponed earlier that year. Now they were about to find out if it had truly been worth the wait.
Practically right next door to where Dallas had been battling the London Red & Whites—not even a stone’s throw from it, in fact—sat the old “Empire” Arena. Built in 1934 as a swimming complex, remodeled in 2006, and then rebuilt in 2058, it could seat a capacity crowd of twelve, possibly thirteen thousand. And tonight...it was packed! Rudo Love fans could even hear the roar of the crowd over at Wembley Stadium from the sidewalk out front. Of course, the game was only a preseason matchup, and by this late in the contest Dallas and London were just killing the clock and substituting in fresh players.
Outside the stadium, things were bustling with activity. Public transportation systems ferried people in and out of the area. Trains pulled up at the nearby station. Electric trams carried in Rudo Love fans from massive parking areas to the northeast. They’d offload concert-goers in front of the arena only to load up with London Megaball fans heading home.
Everyone was thrilled coming out of Wembley Stadium too. They’d certainly gotten their money’s worth...and then some! Meanwhile, the multitude of arriving Rudo Love fans could only hope to experience the same thrills. For, indeed, tonight was the big show. The ninth of the tour, as a matter of fact. A grand homecoming of sorts. And Shamiso Kachote—unbeknownst to both fans as well as the entertainment media—had already been doing a rather smashing job of impersonating her sister, Rudo. What’s more, she’d been doing so for months...
* * * *
Yes, the fans truly seemed to have been “buying it”, just as she and her sister (and Neville, of course) had been hoping. With flamboyant stage antics and thrilling performances night after night, concertgoers simply loved it. Didn’t seem to suspect a thing! Neither did the press, which was a relief. Shamiso had learned quite well how to imitate her famous sister—to the point Rudo Love fans fully believed it was the famous pop diva up there on that stage.
It had been a grueling process, learning how to do this. Shamiso was so frustrated at times that she’d been about ready to strangle the prissy dance instructor that Neville had recruited for her. Lucky that she didn’t, of course. The effeminate young man was one of the few people in the world Neville trusted to keep the matter secret!
That’s because it was his very own male lover, Anders, performing the duties; and he was doing so “pro bono” as he liked to call it jokingly: Free of ch
arge. That alone should have been enough to convince Shamiso to spare his life. But even more so, it was because at the end of the day, Anders was still a damn good dancer—and a decent but demanding teacher. Shamiso could tell from the start that she was working with a true professional.
“Okay, sweetie. I know you’re tired. But fucking get over it, okay? ’Cause here we go. Now...in this sequence we’re marching in place. And we’re marching, we’re marching, we’re marching…” For the first few weeks, they rehearsed side-by-side inside a dance studio in front of a mirrored wall to observe their movements.
“Ready? One, two, three…”—then he’d head-bob to the right— “four, five, six, seven…”—head-bob again to the right—“eight. Got it? Then...we turrrrn...and we swivel those hips. Yes-yes-yes, you’ve got it babe! Good! Now...as you’re coming around, we’re facing left with our body. We’re looking right—back at the audience—remember? Let me see it. There we are...fantastic! And the next sequence...one, two, THREE—don’t forget the head snaps back on three and five...four, FIVE, six...now here we need ya’ to snap the pelvis back and stick out that lovely black booty of yours!” He demonstrated the move for her. “Like that.” And waited for her to repeat it. After seeing her nail the technique, he then snarled intensely, “Ah yeah!”
He was incredible! All business. Real slave driver. But he knew his stuff. He’d clap daintily and tell her to take a sip of water while her mind mulled over the moves she’d just practiced. He’d cue the music—usually just a track from the recording studio with no singing in it (instrumental only)—then Anders would clap his hands commandingly to signal they were going to do another run through. Never gave her more than a few seconds to catch her breath.
“Just one swig. Like I told you, remember? We don’t want to cramp up, do we? Now come on back and let’s run through it again.”
He’d repeat routines constantly until her movements were emblazoned in her mind. Until she’d dream of them the rest of the day, even launch into them back at the hotel, right in the middle of the lobby. No warning. Just begin practicing her moves in front of God and everyone, driving the hotel staff crazy, not really knowing what to do or how to react.
God how they worked! Seemed like it was never “good enough”, never “perfect”. “Derz” would never, ever concede such a thing, she noticed. The moment she seemed to have something mastered or gain proficiency, he would immediately add something new or expand on what he’d already taught her. He’d never let her off the hook. Wasn’t rude. Just wanted to make sure he’d squeezed every ounce of effort from her. Demanded full, complete, absolute commitment. And he got it! Shamiso was bound and determined to perfect every aspect of her sister’s signature moves.
Armed with Rudo’s brand new choreography to work on, this gave Shamiso and Derz plenty to develop together. Gave them original sequences to use, while endeavoring to make sure they did them all in Rudo’s distinctive style. Then at night, after Shamiso had showered and iced her sore muscles, she and her twin sister would curl up in bed together, or on the couch, while Rudo taught her everything to say—and when to say it—to her audience. This was what made Rudo Love’s performances unique, by the way. Her candid interactions with concert-goers endeared her to millions of fans worldwide. She took chances that other performers never dared.
Of course, this part of the process wasn’t that difficult, really. Shamiso merely needed to know the words to use, and how to time them just right so that her audience would embrace what she was saying or doing—without feeling like it was “just part of the performance”.
Try not sounding like it was the same old tired one-liners she said in every city, in other words. Make them feel they were personally interacting with her—as if she were speaking directly to every last one of them. Make it sound original...fresh. That’s what Rudo could always do. She knew how to be audacious—bordering on the obscene and offensive at times—yet pulling up short of going too far. Better yet, she intended to teach her identical twin just how to carry it off.
“Say you’re walking out on the catwalk, right? And then...let’s say there’s this bloke out there screaming something vulgar. He says, ‘Get naked, bitch!’ or something sleazy like that. Well...use it in the act, okay? I’ll be back there ready to bail you out with the next song if you fuck up, so you don’t have to worry. But if it were me...I mean since it’s you out there love, pretendin’ you’re me ’n all...then do like I used to do.”
“You say, ‘Oh?’ real sexy like. Then pause...always use the pause...let the audience catch up to you—if that makes sense—from time to time. Pause, and continue real slowly with, ‘Is that what you want me to do?’ Then pause again...put your hands on your hips real seductive-like.” Rudo got up off the couch and demonstrated, while Nigel continued typing electronic letters to people on his computer, looking up occasionally to laugh.
“Remember how I taught you?” she clarified, and Shamiso nodded, grinning. “Now you blow their fucking minds: ‘Get naked?’ you say, taunting them a bit. Not bein’ a cock tease about it. Just making it like they ALL said that to you and you’re reacting like it’s turning you on. See?”
“Lift up your miniskirt and swivel those hips of yours until they can see your bum.” She pantomimed this part since she was wearing yoga pants at the moment. “Move really, really slowly until they’re whooping and hollering like a pack of horny sailors. Get it?” Then she struck an even sexier pose with one hand on her hips, looking tough and defiant. “Now you’ve got ’em right where you want ’em. You then turn toward the band and signal the next song—leavin’ ’em beggin’ for more.”
Yes, Rudo taught her plenty about how to look and sound just like the real pop diva in action. Taught her how to play audiences right into her hands and make the show—as well as her interactions—seem just as spontaneous as it was well-rehearsed and choreographed. Immersing herself in the stage routine and dance steps thus became the young ensign’s focus every waking hour.
Yet Shamiso didn't stop there. She wanted to learn how to match and mimic her sister completely, in both mind and body. They would join each other onstage at the small auditorium where Shamiso began practicing choreography a few weeks into her training. She and Derz had moved over there once she had mastered the basics in the private dance studio. Rudo would accompany them and yuck it up by pretending to talk with some imaginary audience. This Shamiso copied as well.
Movements. Words. Intonation. Gestures. One-liners. Taunts. Challenges. What to say in different countries, based on local customs. Useful phrases in foreign languages that would thrill audiences. All of it. What’s more, her attempts at mimicking her sister never stopped—even after rehearsals ended! Shamiso attempted to become Rudo in literally every possible way—not just on stage. And when they found they could swap identities, it became almost a game with them.
Hotel staff couldn’t tell. Annoyed the hell out of them, too! Clive the doorman especially…he would have fits trying to chase down Shamiso, thinking it was Rudo, and vice versa. They cut their hair the same. Shaved their afros into a mohawk, then alternated between which color they’d paint them, just to throw people off. They’d run naked through the hallways and down the stairwell to the lobby—making sure Clive saw them, of course! Then they’d scamper back to the safety of their hotel room.
Or—sometimes—they’d playfully let Clive “catch” them and escort them back, covered up in his doorman’s greatcoat with its brass buttons and braiding, laughing and cackling like mischievous teenagers.
Practically no one was immune to or excluded from their pranks, either. Nigel, the tour’s (as well as Rudo’s) business manager, at times wasn’t sure which was which! However, it was all a big part of their overall plan. Once absolutely no one close to them had any real hope of differentiating between them, that’s when they knew they could fool the whole world...
* * * *
Inside Empire Arena, twelve thousand anxious fans whooped and screamed with deli
ght. The house lights had dimmed, leaving only a few green, glowing “EXIT” signs and some miniaturized floor lamps at the end of seat aisles to provide illumination. Excitement built to a fever pitch. The show was starting.
“Are you ready, London!?” said a sexy female voice over the interior public address system inside the arena. She wasn’t yelling, but certainly not murmuring, either. The voice was terribly familiar, and when she spoke these provocative words, the woman immediately appeared onstage, walking out from a small tunnel underneath a platform where the drummer was located. The audience roared like ocean surf crashing against a rocky coastline.
One single, stunningly attractive woman with a towering Mohawk afro all colored in flaming hot pink, speaking with a thick East London accent and wearing a headset with a live microphone attached, strutted a few steps out onto the main stage, planting her feet, legs wide apart...and glared out at the thousands in attendance like a general reviewing his troops. A solitary, powerful spotlight meanwhile shot across the arena from the rafters of the building, revealing her to everyone, and directing all eyes to her.
It was Shamiso Kachote, identical twin sister to famed pop diva Rudo Love. But even after three months on the road performing concerts around the world, only a few other people inside that arena knew of this. For that matter, only a handful of people in the entire world knew anything about it.
Shamiso continued to stare out at the crowd, which was now cheering wildly in response and answering her bold question of “are you ready?” with joyous screams and excited cries. Security guards in yellow vests were interspersed throughout the arena floor as a deterrent against opportunistic youths assaulting unsuspecting females in the darkness. This had been a recurring problem over the years whenever waves of Muslim refugees had made it into the country. Meanwhile, Shamiso Kachote, an ensign in the GU Space Programme, and veteran explorer of the galaxy, was standing with hands on her hips glaring at them with a defiant smirk.
