by J. C. Fiske
“You really need to stop talking sometimes,” Kennis said.
“Yeah, probably,” Gisbo said, in a dazed state.
“You going to be ok?” Kennis asked.
“I’m a bit weak in the knees right now,” Gisbo said.
“Let me hold you up then,” Kennis said as she held him tighter.
“No, no, I’m fine,” Gisbo said.
“Good, now be quiet, and let’s let the music take us away,” Kennis said as she leaned her head upon Gisbo’s shoulder and danced their troubles away, feeling a rush of peace and a spark of love neither were prepared for.
Later that night, when both Gisbo and Kennis went to bed, they dreamed of each other and a happily ever after.
Chapter Nine: The Source of Ranto’s Fury
“My damn jaw keeps clicking every time I open it,” Gisbo said, feeling the side of his jaw.
“I got an idea. How ‘bout you don’t open it for a change?” Grandfield said as he crammed half a sugar roll in his mouth.
“I’m not even going to mention the irony here,” Gisbo said.
“Hey! I watch my calories, you know! I work out so I can eat. I have purpose! What? What do all of you do it for? Just work out to look good? Screw that! I look good enough! Anaka asked ME to the dance after all!” Grandfield said.
“Right, that, and so your ring doesn’t start hurting again,” Gisbo said.
“Damn this ring! And don’t worry. You’ll get your chance to punch Malik’s lights out, but I’m hoping I’ll get the chance first. I’ll never forget what he did to Kinny. Just the way her face looked after he kept hitting her, it was like, the top of a pizza or something . . .” Grandfield said, shuddering. He suddenly looked at the other half of his sugar roll and tossed it aside. “Suddenly, I’m not so hungry.”
“Grandfield . . . how long is your dad going to keep us waiting?” Rolce asked.
“Hey! Would you guys can it? He probably just ate some bad bacon this morning or something. He’ll be here,” Grandfield said.
“I don’t even know why we’re here. Not like any of us are going to make the list for Elekai’ sumo,” Rolce said.
“Speak for yourself,” Grandfield said.
“There’s more to sumo than just being . . .” Rolce started.
“Fat? Go ahead, say it, I dare you!” Grandfield said.
“Husky . . . and . . .” Rolce started.
“How about you just tell me what it is? My dad wouldn’t tell me, said don’t worry about it, I won’t be chosen, but screw him! I’m trying out anyway! Then I asked Foxblade and he said it’s a fighting style for hippos and . . .” Gisbo started.
“Foxblade said what!? That . . . that guy! Don’t you guys understand that sumo is an art revered all around the world? It’s about balance, finding leverage, focusing all of your power into a singular point! It’s beautiful!” Grandfield said.
“That explains nothing to me. What is it?” Gisbo asked.
“Ok. Two guys enter a small ring. When the ref starts the match, each combatant throws themselves at one another with all their strength and tries to force the other one out of the ring. Whoever falls out loses,” Grandfield said.
“That’s . . . that’s it?” Gisbo asked.
“It’s exciting! Trust me!” Grandfield said.
“No punching?” Gisbo asked.
“You can do arm thrusts and slaps,” Grandfield said.
“Sounds boring as hell. I’m out,” Gisbo said.
“No, you’re not! You’re staying and you’re going up against me, big shot! Quit your complaining,” Grandfield said. He then turned around and glanced up at Jackobi. “I like your friend here. He’s quiet.”
“Why am I here?” Jackobi asked.
“To learn the fine art of sumo! Jeesh! Oh, here comes my dad!” Grandfield said.
Groggo arrived on the scene hunched over, growling and muttering to himself, then rose and stretched out his back, letting out a huge sigh.
“Sorry I’m late, boys, I think I had some bad bacon or something, woo! Needless to say, I pity those that have to go into the Strifes’ cleansing chambers today. It’s like I left a damned turkey dinner in there!” Groggo said as he burst into laughter, then realized he was the only one who was. “Erherm, down to business. You guys are here to learn some sumo techniques, am I right?”
“No, we were just leaving, and HEY!” Gisbo started as Grandfield punched him in the kidney with a knuckle.
“Oh, come on now, it’ll be good for you boys! Nothing quite gets a man in shape like a few good rounds of sumo,” Groggo said as he smacked his big belly, grunted, then belched.
Gisbo, Rolce, and Jackobi all looked at each other.
“Hold on! We need to wait for Shaved and Knob to get here,” Grandfield said.
“Knob? Kid’s built like a chicken wing. He won’t stand a chance,” Groggo said.
“See! You do need to be fat to do this!” Gisbo said.
“WHAT!? Who told you that?” Groggo bellowed.
“My father,” Jackobi said.
“Foxblade! That, that,” Groggo stammered.
“I’m here,” Shaved said, yawning as he sat down next to Gisbo. “Why am I out here at this ungodly hour?”
“Where’s Knob?” Grandfield asked.
“And I quote, ‘That’s a fat people’s sport, count me out,’ and he rolled over and went back to sleep,” Shaved said.
“Fine, who needs that chicken wing anyway? All righty boys, up and at ‘em, let’s go, Heaven’s Shelter is on the line! Don’t you care? Do you want Chieftain Lamik ruling over us? Do you like the color green? O’ course not! Up, up, up!” Groggo said as he waddled around, throwing his arms about wildly. Gisbo and friends all groaned, except for Grandfield, who stood at attention.
“Here before us, lads, lies a circle; who wants to go inside with me?” Groggo asked.
“Gisbo does,” Shaved volunteered.
“What!? No, I don’t,” Gisbo muttered as Groggo grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him up into the ring.
“Gisbo! Excellent, step right in here and stand on that line. No, not that one, that one, and I’ll stand across from you on the other,” Groggo said. Reluctantly, Gisbo obeyed.
“Good! Now, lean down like this and place both fists upon the ground. Squat down like you’re . . . like you’re . . .” Groggo started.
“Pinching one off?” Gisbo asked, causing everyone except Grandfield to burst into laughter. Groggo pointed at him with a smile.
“I like that metaphor. Exactly! Now, positions!” Groggo said. “We will start with no essence and move our way up. Best to get the kinks out first. I’d hate to flatten you with my trademark Crashing Fire Wave maneuver!” Groggo said.
“Crashing . . . fire wave? Cripes . . .” Gisbo muttered. “Ok, I got my ass in the air, now what?”
“Now, when I say go, we fly at each other and push each other out of the ring,” Groggo said. “Oh, wait! I forgot something! Before we start, you need to learn the rituals of this esteemed art, for you see, even now, within this very ring, evil spirits could be floating about.”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t there be?” Gisbo muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Together, Gisbo, we must purify the ring and stamp them buggers out!” Groggo said. “Do what I do. Lift up one leg, like this, while still in your, um . . .”
“Taking a dump position?” Gisbo asked.
“Right! While in that position, lift up your right leg and stamp it down upon the ground with me,” Groggo said.
“Fine,” Gisbo said.
“Ready?” Groggo asked.
“Ready,” Gisbo said, and together, they lifted up their right feet, extend their legs, and slammed them down together onto the floor.
“Good! Now the other side! Them evil spirits are here, they’re wounded, but not yet gone. Come on, Giz, let’s push ‘em out! Up, hrg!” Groggo started to lift his left leg and let out a massive fart, causing the onlookers to fall off the bench and rol
l upon the floor with laughter. Gisbo, however, wasn’t laughing.
“Groggo! Damn it, that’s terrible!” Gisbo said, throwing his poncho up over his nose.
“Those spirits are gone now for sure!” Shaved joked, causing them all to burst into more laughter.
“Sorry there, Gizzy, that be my wind breaking leg. Every time I raise it, well, who knows!?” Groggo said.
“All right, fine, whatever, I think we can all agree that any . . . spirits, are disintegrated now. Can we please get this over with?” Gisbo asked.
“Right o’! All right, fists down, here we go,” Groggo said.
Gisbo got into position, fists down, along with Groggo.
“Tubby!” Groggo yelled.
“What?” Grandfield asked. “Wait, you mean me?”
“You answered, didn’t you?” Groggo asked. “You give the go.”
“Damn it, gets me every time . . .” Grandfield said as he made his way closer to the ring.
“Fighter in the east corner, are you ready?” Grandfield asked. “Ahem, that’s you, Gisbo.”
“There’s no corner. We’re in a circle, dummy,” Gisbo sighed.
“You know what I meant!” Grandfield snapped. “Just say, ‘ready!’”
“Ready,” Gisbo sighed.
“Fighter in the west corner, ready?” Grandfield asked.
“READY!” Groggo bellowed.
“BEGIN!” Grandfield yelled.
Gisbo, in no way, was ready for what happened next. With a blood chilling scream, Groggo charged at Gisbo like a raging bull, head first. Bravely enough, Gisbo met him head on, only to take a palm under his chin in a fierce strike. His vision snapped into white light before he took a stab in his stomach. Groggo’s massive body caught up to Gisbo and hit him, causing Gisbo to soar out of bounds until a spruce tree stopped his momentum.
“Ughhh . . .” Gisbo moaned, his legs up in the air. Groggo stood at the inside edge of the circle and smacked his hands together.
“And that, ladies, is how a sumo match looks. Now, who’s next?” Groggo asked.
All the boys looked at one another, none of them thinking it was funny anymore.
The boys prepared for five days and tried out like most of the rest of Heaven’s Shelter. Before long, the Renegade Council, composed of Shax, Narroway, Perry, and Honj, decided on the final team. In no specific order, Narroway posted the list of the four Renegade representatives.
Grandfield, Roarie, Groggo, and Rolce.
“Narroway? What in the blue hell and heavens am I doing on this list? Roarie asked, storming up through the crowd.
“You tried out, didn’t you?” Narroway asked.
“Yeah! But I never expected to actually place! Is this a sexist thing? You need a woman on your team? Is that it? Then go and get a fat pig! Look at me,” Roarie said, gesturing to her petite body.
“Roarie, you and I both know that Elekai’ Sumo is about handling power and executing it. Weight is just one advantage. You are exactly what we need,” Narroway said.
“Hmph,” Roarie said. “There goes my weekend.”
“Now, those who were chosen, if you would, please follow me and our team captain, Perry, so you can begin the real training. You were all chosen for a reason, and you will all represent us honorably,” Narroway said. Gisbo took a deep breath.
“Thank, IAM! NOT IN!” Gisbo said.
“WHAT!?” Rolce stammered. “You! You jerk! You feigned a loss to me! You faked it! Get back here, Gisbo! I’m going to kill you! You should be in there, not me!”
“Hah! Later, buddy! See ya in the stands!” Gisbo yelled.
“Let him run, Rolce. We knew he was faking. I don’t think you understand what an honor this is. Believe me, once you are in the ring, fighting for the Renegades, you will feel it, and they will envy you,” Perry said, as he placed a hand on Rolce’s shoulder.
“Perry?” Rolce asked.
“Who else would be fit to coach our team?” Perry joked.
“Right,” Rolce said.
“Come, let’s get the team together. We have lots to discuss and lots to work on,” Perry said.
Night fell upon Heaven’s Shelter and many a warrior and citizen went to bed early on the cool, end of summer night. Narroway, after a long day with a lot of stress, opened the front door to his pond side cabin. He was ready to finally sink down into his arm-chair with a nice, cold beverage and finish the final chapter in the latest Man-Angel book. What he was not ready for was more stress. No sooner had he put one foot on his welcome mat did he hear a vicious scream coming from his son’s room.
“Ranto? RANTO!” Narroway yelled as he ran down the hall and tried his son’s doorknob. It was locked. Narroway backed up and kicked down his son’s door to find a host of carnage. Ranto sat on his bed, his face in his hands, surrounded by holes in the walls, tipped over furniture, a torn pillow with feathers everywhere, and torn magazine pages. One of those pages lay right at Narroway’s foot. It was a torn cover with the title Big Dom Tom, portraying a large, hairy chested man in a sexually explicit position with a much smaller, weaker man.
Without a word, Narroway paced about the room, picking up every explicit image and scattered page. Once gathered, he walked out onto the back porch and lit the pages. Once the images were disposed of, he walked inside and sat next to his son.
“I’m so sorry, father . . . dad, I, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t,” Ranto started. Narroway put a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Son, I’ve told you that have nothing to apologize for, nothing at all,” Narroway said. “If this is who you are, if this is what makes you happy, then I wholly and fully . . .”
“I’M NOT A FAG!” Ranto suddenly screamed, leaping off the bed.
“Son, relax.” Narroway raised his hands and spoke as slowly and calmly as possible.
“I’m not queer! Understand? I’m not! That, all that you burned outside, it shouldn’t be accepted, it’s wrong! Why did you burn it? See! You think it’s wrong too!” Ranto yelled.
“No, I just know that it’s a touchy subject with you. You will come out when you’re ready, on your terms. No one else should know about it until you’re ready. That’s why,” Narroway said.
“It’s damned wrong! I’m going to hell for that, all of it! And you come in here and embrace it? What is wrong with you?” Ranto asked.
“Son? Who is telling you such things? It certainly isn’t me! I’m embracing you, as my son, and what makes you happy. What you do in your spare time, in the comfort and privacy of your own home has,” Narroway started.
“THIS DOESN’T MAKE ME HAPPY! I’m not a fag! I’m a Renegade warrior! Strong, brave, vicious! The strongest there is! There’s nothing wrong with me! NOTHING!” Ranto screamed.
“Son, what, what is this about?” Narroway said.
“You, the Renegades. You all tolerate way too much! This, what I, what I desire, it’s evil!” Ranto said.
“Stop it! Stop that talk! There’s more to this, then,” Narroway stopped, trying to find the words.
“See! You can’t even say it! Can’t even look me in the eyes; you’re ashamed of me, that’s why,” Ranto started.
“SON! STOP!” Narroway bellowed. Ranto simmered down, and Narroway spoke again in a soft, understanding tone. “Now, tell me, talk to me. I’m your father. If you cannot talk to me, who can you talk to?”
“Why wasn’t I chosen?” Ranto asked. “Why wasn’t I chosen for the Elekai’ event?” Ranto asked calmly.
“Is that what this is about? Sit down, son,” Narroway asked calmly.
“Answer the question! Roarie? Grandfield? Over me? WHY!?” Ranto screamed.
“Just calm down and I’ll gladly tell you,” Narroway said.
“NO! You answer me straight! I’ve had it with you, always holding me back! That’s all you ever do! You hold things back, let things continue that should be snuffed away at the source! I should be in there!” Ranto said.
“Ranto, this isn’t just about not being
chosen, this is just an excuse for,” Narroway started, looking around the broken room, “This.”
“STOP TALKING TO ME LIKE A CHILD!” Ranto screamed.
“Then stop acting like one!” Narroway said, rising to his feet to meet his son, who easily stood half a foot taller than him, and finally, Ranto sat down.
“Now, there is more to Elekai’ Sumo than power alone. It is controlled power, something that you have not mastered well enough for this entry. You are powerful, no doubt, one of the most powerful here in Heaven’s Shelter. That being said, you lack control, you lack precision and those skills come with self-control. Those skills are needed to win bouts! Does one with self-control do what you did to this bedroom?” Narroway asked.
Ranto sat there, saying nothing.
“No, they do not. Now, get some sleep, son. Three more events are coming up. I suggest you begin training for them. Ok? Get your mind off things. Now, I need some sleep. We’ll talk more on this later,” Narroway said. As he got up and began to leave the room, he turned around. “And be sure to fix these holes tomorrow, please. Find some peace, son, take your mind off of things. You used to be a wonderful artist. Why don’t you draw for a while?”
With that, Narroway left the room. With a curse, Ranto got up, paced about his room a few times, and saw the outline of a goat’s horns in the moonlight.
“I didn’t realize you were into literature of the . . . graphic variety,” the Goat Man said.
Ranto said nothing.
“Good, you are trying self-control, weighing the options. I know that nobody knows about this little . . . private lifestyle of yours, other than your father, and I assume you would like to keep it quiet. I can do that for you. I only want to help you. You don’t like what’s inside of you, do you? You don’t want these . . . urges, do you?” the Goat Man asked.
Ranto said nothing.
“You think the Renegades are to blame. You believe, since they tolerate such a lifestyle, it’s their fault that you are the way you are. Perhaps if you were raised as a Strife, who in no way, shape, or form accepts such a nature, things could be different? Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong on both accounts. People who truly believe that being homosexual is a choice, truly believe that, because they themselves make the choice, every day, to not be themselves. No one knows why sexual preferences vary; there are only theories. As for you, oh, I know things, things about people who can bring great change to this world. I know exactly why you are the way you are, why utter domination, in every form, is what you crave, and I can give you these answers, but first, I need you to do something for me,” the Goat Man said.
