What in the hell kind of pitiful kick was that? He thought these guys were supposed to possess the skills of only the most elite martial artists. Karate. Aikido. Ju-Jitsu. Tae Kwon Do. Judo. Krav Maga. Gung Fu- Shaolin, Wing Chun, Pa Kua, Tai Chi. Sumo. Hapkido. Boxing. Tai Kickboxing. Wrestling. The countries from which they hail are as diverse as the styles themselves.
Heee YAH!
Pitiful. Was that supposed to inflict pain on him, the behemoth of mortal perfection? Seven feet and four inches of muscles, steel cables working with flawless grace, programmed for no other task than to destroy the human body. But muscles only move behind their master’s ability to manipulate their paths and trajectories. Style. What style are you?
The little fighter comes in with a reverse hook kick. Western Union couldn’t have telegraphed it more.
He catches the ankle in his vice like paws. Twist to hear the screams. And as soon as it started it was over, his puny opponent writhing on the ground like a hooked worm, his foot pointing in entirely the wrong direction. It’ll be ok though, he should be able to walk again in two to three years.
The Gladiator scratches his head wondering if he found the right place. These little flipping ninjas were supposed to be good fighters. He’d already made short work of at least three of them. At least he thought it was three. He wouldn’t start napping yet though, there were a lot of people here and some of them looked half way decent.
Stepping off the sandy-floored courtyard arena, the Gladiator relinquished the stage for the next pair of combatants. He’d been here a day and a half and already he was bored. On Caesar’s request, he’d left the island metropolis on a rickety vessel and had sailed the high seas for five hours until they glided to the shores of this small island. What was this weird place anyway? He’d been wondering that ever since he’d arrived to the secluded fortress, tucked away into the natural landscape of the small jungle island.
He’d still not seen this Han guy Caesar wanted him to destroy. He was supposed to be some Chinese guy with an artificial hand, but what good was that? To him all these guys looked Chinese and it wasn’t any easy thing to get a close look at people’s hands without provoking another skirmish. Not that he couldn’t smash anyone of these pups, its just that it was getting to be a bullshit hassle. You’ll know him when you see him. Caesar had said.
Gladiator shrugged. Sometimes Caesar spoke in riddles and that, as they say, was that. He’d always trusted his instruction before and he would continue to do so now. He just hoped he’d find this guy and crack his skull in time to get back for Ricochet. There was no way he wanted to miss a chance to clobber that Tilley puke, not to mention his MTP partner. And that Haze too. He’d have to bust him up too.
No, wait, that wasn’t right, was it? Haze was on his team wasn’t he? Or was he one of bad guys. Gladiator couldn’t remember. Oh well.
“Which way be the food? Gladiator hungry.”
The alluring Asian vixen dressed in scant silvery garb smiled and motioned up a set of steps that let up from the courtyard.
“Up stairs and to left.” she said in broken English. You fight well Mr. Gladiator.” She added, almost hesitantly. “Maybe you choose me tonight?”
“Yah.” Ok. Whatever that mean. “Well, bye then. Gladiator go eat now.”
What was with all the funny looks and batted eyelashes he was getting from all these chicks that were running around here? For a resort of the male-dominated fighting arts, there sure as hell were a lot of chicks around here. Alexis would not have been pleased had she been there. But Caesar demanded that he make this excursion alone and that Alexis should stay back in King Kong City.
Wow. Look at the legs on that one. Gladiator like. He supposed a furtive glance here and there would hurt any. Up the steps and rounding the corner he came to an extensive buffet, replete with only the most elegant cuisine of the Southern Seas. He didn’t recognize most of it, but it was tasty nonetheless. Gladiator grabbed a plate and began to pile on. Fueling 318lbs of solid muscle was no easy task.
“Hey man, nice match.” Said an American voice.
The Warrior turned and found a black guy grabbing a fresh plate off the end of the buffet.
“Thanks. In not too hard, Gladiator smash him pretty simple.”
“Yeah man, I dig your style. You just kinda grab a hold of something and snap it.
“Sometimes.”
“The name’s Williams. My game is Karate. I’m the baddest cat in Oakland when it comes to kickin’ ass and takin’ names.”
“Oakland huh? Gladiator be from Pasadena. Gladiator wres— ”
“Wrestle for the FHW. Yeah man, I know. Everybody in the 48 knows that. What’s a famous dude like you doing in a place like this?”
“Caesar say Gladiator got to find a guy with a no real hand and crush him to bits…. But Gladiator not seem to be abling to find him….
“Han?! You’re looking for Han?
“Yah. Why you surprise?”
“Shit man…” His voice slinks into a whisper. “I’m looking for the son of bitch too.”
“You looking for Han too!”
He cringes. “Shh, man, like it’s a covert op. Don’t blow the lid, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. So why you look for Han man?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why man. That bad fucker killed my father back in the seventies. Yeah, that’s right, I’m Williams Junior, my dad was the Karate superstar back in the seventies. Back when he and Roper and Lee made their little excursion to this island. Well my pa never made it out. Well Roper was a friend of the family, served with my pa back in Nam, he told me what happened. I’ve been living every day since, wishing I could of killed that bastard myself. But, you know, they said Lee got to him first. Funny thing was though, sometime around the mid eighties rumors start popping up in the martial arts underground that Han was still around. Well I did a little investigating of my own and… sure as hell, son of a bitch’s up to his old tricks.”
“Yah, Caesar say same thing to Gladiator before Gladiator got on the water floating thing to come over…. where be this again?”
“Yeah man, but it doesn’t bother me none because now I’m gonna finally get my chance to put that fucker in hell where he belongs.”
“Yah! Gladiator put him in hell too!”
“Hey man, you seem like pretty cool cat, what say you and me pool our resources and get this chump together.”
“Sound good to Gladiator.”
“Alright man, alright… gimme five.”
“Five what? Gladiator left Gladiator’s wallet back on boat.”
“No man, like gimme some skin.”
“Well Gladiator would but Gladiator no think it wanna come off Gladiator’s bones.
He laughs. “No man, like slap hands.”
Williams holds out a palm and the Gladiator awkwardly swats it.
“Alright man, cool. Now all we gotta do is find this chump. Something tells me, though, that might not be so easy…
And the Gladiator was apt to agree. He’d only been on the island for little more than a day and his skull was already a chaotic mess of thoughts. How would he ever be able to tell one Evil Master from the next? It wasn’t exactly like they were wearing self-labeling T-shirts…
GONG!!!
Moments later, tournament workers began ushering the martial artists back into the courtyard, muttering something about a speech. The Gladiator and Williams head down as well, the former taking along his plate of food.
With in minutes everyone is seated in the courtyard, martial artists of every sort sit before a large, throne-like chair, many of them chatting idly amongst themselves. Then from down a narrow path that descended from the nearby palatial estate walks Han and his entourage of guards and beautiful woman. Amazingly enough he is wearing an Evil Master shirt.
“Welcome martial artists of the highest degree. You have been summoned to this tournament to participate in a most unique challenge that will pit you against the world’s most formidable masters of the fighting arts. I hope that you find your stay on my island pleasurable and if there is anything you desire, please just ask one of my servants and they will do their best to accommodate you. I am looking forward to watching this tournament of champions and for you to test your utmost skills and push yourselves to the highest level. As martial artists you train your bodies year round, placing yourselves under the harshest of conditions, living lives of discipline and restraint. Your physical perfection is a result of countless years of rigorous training. This will be a tournament of truly epic proportions.
“But above all, I will have you remember, to live and guide your futures by, that beyond all things, there is no single thing of greater importance, no shred of information more critical, more vital to the revolutions of this world, more essential to the foundations of the earth, no scrap of knowledge more coveted, no iota of detail more fundamental, no data more pertinent, no understanding more applicable to your lives, no fact more elemental to the warm gaze of the shining sun, no truth more worth telling, no certainty more certain, no reality more deep-seated, no tidbit more juicy, no morsel of kung pow chicken more spicy, no wizard more shiny, no gelatinous substance more viscid, no Chang Kai Shek more Changy than to know… that I….am…
And with that Han and his party turns and exits the courtyard. Gladiator, having never heard a word of the speech, continues to eat his meal.
“Shit man, the dude’s crazy! Goddamn man, he’s really lost it. No matter though, we’re still gonna break his sorry ass.”
“Yah ok. You know, Gladiator not know what Gladiator eating but it is good.”
“Now all we got to do is find out where that fucker runs off and hides. And we have to do it before this tournament is over.”
The following day the Gladiator awoke at dawn upon being summoned by the courtyard gongs signaling the commencement of the day’s fighting. At just after eight that morning, the Gladiator held his next match. An Wing Chung Gung Fu man hailing from Shanghai was the opponent, holding to the stance of the “Tiger,” one of the arts many particular forms. To the Gladiator he merely appeared to be an individual with a sort of posture disorder.
And no easy task that would be, for the number of hiding spots for the Evil Master on even such a small island would be great. Nevertheless, the Gladiator did what he so often does and that is to leave matters up to the winds of fate, letting the cards fall where they may. And as such, his main course of action was to continue in the tournament.
“FIGHT!”
“What? Who? This puny guy? Gladiator supposed to crush him?”
But only a reply of stone cold silence was all that he would receive from the crowd of stoic onlookers. Turning to the matter at hand, the Gladiator watched with curiosity as his opponent with the funny walk approached him.
“Hey what matter with you? You walking kind of funny? Maybe you want Gladiator straight you back?”
A lighting fast kick to the Gladiator’s shin.
“HEY! Don’t you kick at Gladiator! What you want Gladiator to make you broken or something?”
But the Asian gives no reply other than to bounce in and tap the Gladiator’s chin with a quick uppercut, a rather surprisingly forceful blow from a body so “puny.” Rarely does a punch like that ever come from any of his opponents in the FHW. If they did possess some of the skill some of these martial artists did, then likely the Gladiator would have a far more trying time in his federation endeavors.
“Ow! Hey, you damn dirty pig! You punch Gladiator’s chin! Grrrr…. now you make anger for Gladiator and Gladiator got to make you broken!”
The Warrior moves in with a giant right hook that likely would have taken the Wing Chung man’s head off if he hadn’t of ducked. The greasy little fighter returns with kick to the knee of the Roman who winces at the pain.
The Gladiator merely howls with rage and comes back with a monstrous kick targeted at the little man’s midsection. The opponent sidesteps and returns with punch to the ribs of the Roman giant.
“Stay still so Gladiator can clobber you!”
But the Wing Chung enthusiast will do no such thing as the Gladiator proceeds with a right cross, and attempted grapple, a left hook, and a running boot, all of which find nothing but thin air. The little man slips and returns with fierce blows, albeit most of which land with negligible damage to the goliath armored with a thick wall of muscles.
Anger and frustration begin to build as the Gladiator tries to land a match-ending blow onto his nimble opponent. Most of the guys in the FHW aren’t this quick, he muses as he attempts to move in for another swing. Miss. But it is then, just as his fury begins to rise that he hears it….
What? Who be talking in Gladiator’s head? That voice, whose was it? It was definitely not Caesars. But then if it wasn’t his, then who’s was it? It didn’t sound familiar, and yet, it felt guiding nonetheless, helpful, almost teaching.
Now that sounded odd and definitely didn’t make sense. The Gladiator’s feisty little opponent moves in…kick to the groin! No, thankfully he managed to slap that one away.
Instinctually, perhaps a response from years of following direction, the Gladiator moves to the balls of his feet, a more nimble posture for the big man. Here again comes the opponent. Kick to the shin! But he clearly missed this time and the warrior did not even have to take the punishment of the blow.
Again the Gladiator watches the Wing Chung man move it. Another strike at the Gladiator’s knees, but a wide miss! This time the Gladiator bounces quickly back and levels the little fighter with a tremendous right hook to the head! The Wing Chung master goes down, the match, for all intensive purposes, is over. The Gladiator moves in now able to get two claws on the man. He picks him off the ground. Double Powerbomb! And with blood seeping out of his opponents ears, the match is over.
“Thank for help whoever you is in Gladiator’s skull. Gladiator should try on Tilley and Faust.”
Soon thereafter Williams, the Gladiator’s new found friend, fought his match and with a little work, defeated a Judo expert hailing from South Korea. After the match Williams sits back down by the Gladiator who is more than bored out of his mind.
“Good match. Want a hand slap?”
“Thanks man.” Williams says giving the Gladiator a “low” five. “You see anything while you were sitting out here.”
“Yah, them men walking up and down them stairs is kinda funny.”
The Gladiator motions towards a number of individuals who have obviously take the roles as guards on the island. Dismissed at first, the Gladiator has now taken an interest at having noticed a tattoo on one of their arms.
“Funny how.”
“Gladiator know that mark on they arms. Gladiator remember cause back home these guys is always punching at Gladiator.”
“What is it?
“Red Fist.
“Han’s men.”
“They bad. Very bad. And all of sudden, Gladiator get feeling like Gladiator want to destroy.”
“What say we take a little walk. It’s about time we have a little look around Han’s palace.”
The Gladiator nods and the two men quietly slip away from the courtyard.
Back in Hong Kong….
In an uptown open air café, Caesar silently sips a cup of oolong tea, thoughts of Demons, Dragons, and old friends in his head. He likes this town. Always did and probably always will. If not for his duties as a warrior’s mentor, he’d perhaps consider living here. Not that their California base of operations was any convenience in the way of local with the amount of globe trotting the FHW wrestlers did. But there were other reasons that kept them in the city of angels. The Italian family for one. He had always felt a need to help his Italian brothers much as they had helped him during his time in Italy. He and the Gladiator had no real family, but the Fettuccines were a very close approximation.
Poor Don Fettuccini, things have not at all been going well for him as of late, his troubles only increasing with the recent assassination of his uncle, Don Vermicelli. And beneath all this has laid Han and appointed control of his Red Fist cell, festering like a malignant cancer beneath the skin of disguise. Yet the Red Fist was so much bigger that even Han, though their meddling in the Italians’ affairs now were explained. Let’s hope the Champion may take care of that.
And when that is done, the Warrior will have more work to do in the ring, not that I imagine it to be a very tall task to dispose of two feeble individuals. Tilley and Faust. Not in their wildest imaginations could they ever hope to withstand the tempest of annihilation that is about to befall them. If they held an ounce of intelligence in their hollow brain cavities, they wouldn’t show for Ricochet. If they knew what lies in the heart of the Roman Warrior and what he is about to unleash upon the world, they would climb on an airplane and fly far, far away. But no, they are not even dimly intelligence and the failure of their wits to guide them will be their destruction.
The malfeasance of the MTP shall be repaid in full and the marking of several individuals at Ricochet shall be but the first strike in an SFE campaign that will ultimately result in their complete and total obliteration. Not only this, but the Gladiator and Haze will end up with Tag Titles, permanently stripping the MTP of their most undeserved possession of them. How many times have Lupin and Anon defended their gold? Have they? I wouldn’t be surprised if it is the Skull that Haze and the Gladiator finally compete for championship gold. Not that it the identity of the Tag champions is a significant matter. Vampires or Tea Party, whoever it may be shall fall under the heel of Rome.
Even now the Gladiator continues to develop his seeming unsurpassable skills. Yet, what sort of mixture will skill and unfurled, primal rage make? A deadly one, if the Gladiator past has been any indication. He is one of the few to make this recipe work to such success, for the greatest fighters know that the two elements are not meant to work hand in hand. Rage, they say breaks concentration, disrupts the chain of concentration that is required for truly great combat. But the Roman Titan is not one of concentration; rather his is a skill of instinct. The Roman Gladiator lives and breathes combat, his ability fueled by not only endless years of training but also a primal fire that seeks to consume everything in its path.
The future is not as certain as I once assumed. The Gladiator has yet to face many demons, much as my old friend had so many years ago. But the Gladiator, in the way of the dragon, will triumph. There is no answer to his supremacy. The FHW belongs to the Roman Gladiator as does all of its gold. Whenever the Titan chooses that a belt should be his, he will take it. Right now he calls for the Tag Titles and so be his will, he shall have them.
….
But I do know that he boiling now, churning a calamity the likes of which no eyes have ever witnessed, no mind has ever imagined, no nightmare has ever conjured. I have seen it through the glassy mirrors of his eyes, portals into his soul. There in the black shadows of his heart the animus is great, perhaps eternal. I fear what will become of him should Orcus take too much control. But I know now, despite my efforts, it has already begun.
Dis Pater is with him now.
Mayhap be that it is only for a time, hopefully short. But He is here. And I do not know what he intends…..Yet…..to not know would to be obtuse. For Dis Pater intends only one thing.
And that is death.
These shadows are growing long. I feel cold. Something lies here within the dark. Something watching. Waiting. And with it comes that acrimonious odor that we’ve known all to well. The smell of blood, sweat, and death. The smell of steel. The smell of pain.
War.
It is here.
I feel that there is some susurration on the air that portends of change, yet I do not know of its nature. A strange patina on this road the Gladiator walks, bends in the path that I had not known he would take. My influence on the Champion weakens. And so I leave his fate to his own will and that of the Gods. Jupiter, I no longer know what you intend, though I trust that whatever he does shall be for the good of Rome.
Circling around the main guest quarters of the palace, Williams and the Gladiator crouch within the coverage of large shrubbery. In front of them is the “restricted” back garden of the estate. An intricate maze of shrubs and trees covers nearly an acre of flat land before giving way to a steep forested slope that ascends into the forest carpeted mountains of the island. At the far end of the garden is a thin staircase that snakes up into the jungle like a dragon’s tail, but roaming all about and especially near the base of the stairs are guards armed with nunchakus.
“Han’s sure as hell got enough of his goons back here.”
“Yah. Maybe he hide something up there.”
“Maybe he’s hiding himself.”
“Ok, Gladiator go see…”
“No wait- we’ll go tonight, under the cover of darkness. And Han man…. He won’t even know it’s coming. He’s one dead son of a bitch.”
And so would be the plan, but just as Williams and the Gladiator turned to leave…
“Hey what you two do? No back here!”
The Gladiator and Williams exchange a glance as the lone guard suddenly realizes the dire situation he’s in. The guard takes a slow step backwards and then turns to run...
Gladiatorrrrrrrrrrr CHOP!
And down the guard goes, busted and broken.
An hour later Williams and the Gladiator are down in the courtyard for the day’s final round of a tournament that will never reach completion. The Gladiator’s opponent: Thai Kickboxer.
But in fact there is something strange about this Kickboxer. Something familiar. He is tall nearly as tall as the Gladiator himself, bald headed with a patch over one eye and a large diagonal scar running along his chest. Where has the Gladiator seen this guy before?
“Hey, where is you from? Gladiator know you. Who is you?”
But the Thailand kickboxer moves in, silent and deadly. The Gladiator moves his hands up in guard, but the opponent snaps out with a Upper Roundhouse, striking the Gladiator in the side of the head! He’d not anticipated the length of those legs. He’d have to watch out for—
“TIIIIIIIIGER UPPERCUT!”
The Gladiator’s head snaps back from the hard rising blow to his chin. The Gladiator tastes blood on his tongue and instantly rage flows to his body. The Gladiator comes forward with a huge clothesline, but the tall bald headed opponent ducks.
Nearly instantaneously the man counters with a jumping knee.
“TIGER KNEE!”
The blow strikes the Gladiator in the chest, staggering him some. The Gladiator with a right cross, but again he misses and the opponent returns with a sweeping kick to the knee. The Gladiator with a miss, a miss and another miss. These opponents are infinitesimally quicker than anything he’s seen back in the FHW.
“Not you again. Don’t you see Gladiator’s head already confused!”
“TIGER UPPERCUT!”
Compelled by some force almost beyond his consciousness, the Gladiator swerves around the giant uppercut. Suddenly, as though some cloudy veil had been lifted, he sees it. The opening.
“Gladiator…PUNCH YOU HEAD!…..HAH!”
With the force of a small car slamming into a tree, the Gladiator’s fist meets with the opponents skull, instantly fracturing it. Down he goes, but the Gladiator catches him on the way down. Not quite done yet….Alabama Slam!
“Gladiator…. win!’
And it was a little bit frightening….
He did it with expert timing.
Later that night…
“How you know where we go? Gladiator not see a damn thing.”
“Be cool man, just follow me. And try to stay quiet. We’re gonna end this Han bullshit once and for all.”
“Not only Gladiator end his shit, Gladiator end him.”
Through a careful path through the jungle the two find the steps half way up their height, bypassing the numerous guards that stand at its entrance. With softened footfalls the climb the steps. One hundred. Two hundred. Three. Four. And a few more until the reach a stone cobbled plateau, the front artistically landscaped yard of a mansion that could only belong to one man.
“Han. This is it. This is Han’s new little hideaway. The great Evil Master is in there somewhere. Ok, Gladiator, what we gotta do is…. Gladiator?
But the Roman, operating under plans of his own approaches the two guards standing at the front door. Immediately the two individuals begin to spew a fountain of Mandarin obscenities. One of them reaches for a nearby alarm gong, but before he can reach it, their heads crack together under the force of the Gladiator’s strength.
“Enough with that jibberty jabber.”
Doing the obvious thing, as is the Gladiator’s M.O., the Gladiator tests the front door handle. Amazingly, its open.
Williams runs to catch up with the Gladiator but he his too late, the Gladiator has already disappeared within Han’s newly constructed labyrinth of mirrors.
“What the…. HEY! Who are you!”
The Gladiator points at a myriad of his own reflections, the fingers pointing right back at him.
“Don’t you point a finger at Gladiator! What are you some kind of Gladiator v2ah! Why you….Gladiator warn you…STOP POINTING FINGER AT GLADIATOR! Yah you!”
And as the Gladiator’s patience wears thin, so does that of the images in the mirror.
“Ok, Gladiator tell you for one last time…. Stop pointing at…Gladiator! Yah, Gladiator talking at you…and you….STOP IT!! Stop copying Gladiator……THAT IS IT!!! NOW YOU DIE!!!”
Mirror after mirror explodes in a violent shower of shards as the Gladiator kicks, punches and elbows his illusionary opponents into oblivion. Minutes later the Gladiator has rampaged his way through the labyrinth. There he finds a set of wooden stairs leading off the ground and up towards a doorway that opens into the night. Standing in the door way is none other than the Evil Master himself.
“Found you! Ok now Gladiator go hide….. wait a second…. that not game Gladiator playing… Gladiator playing find and smash, not find and seek.”
Ah ha ha ha ha ha….
Strangely though, the laugh seems artificial, almost as though the words do not match the movement of his lips.
Ha ha ha ha ha…..eh? Games are over my friend. You have found but one of my many worldly hide outs and now, I am afraid it is time for me to leave.
“Come down here so Gladiator can smash you brains in.”
Ha ha ha ha ha ha……no. Fear not Roman Warrior, you shall hear of me again, perhaps next time a little closer to you own home. Until then…..farewell!
And with that, Han leaps out into the night. Only moments later, just after the Gladiator returns to the outside of the building and finds his friend Willams, gongs begin to go off left and right from down towards the palace and the courtyard. As the Gladiator and Williams move down towards the source of the sound they find that a giant chaotic brawl has broken loose between none other than those in the black Martial Arts Uniforms and the White Martial Arts Uniforms.
“Man, we got to get down to those boats and get the hell of this island.
“Look like Gladiator got some stomping to do.”
“This isn’t finished with Han, not by a long shot. But maybe we can take a few of his men out in the mean time. Quickly now, the dudes in the black are the bad guys! Let’s rock and roll!
“Yah….time for Gladiator to rocky road.”
Leaping into the crowd (mind you not just running) the Gladiator and Williams enter the melee. Needless to say…. There were funky Chinamen….
from funky Chinatown……
And so it was that the Gladiator and Williams were trapping when up.
And trapping when down.
Funky Chinamen. Funky Chinatown.
“Huh!”
Oh oh oh ohhhh
“Hah!”
“Waaah!!”
Oh oh oh ohhhh
“Heee Yah!!!”
“Whoo!”
Oh oh oh ohhhh
HAH!
In fact it going to be a little bit frightening.
A half and hour and about 80 kicked in heads later, the Gladiator and Williams arrive at one of the docked boats, a chorus of pained wails on the air behind them. With Han in flight, most likely off the island, they know their work has not ended, especially for the Gladiator who must now go on to Ricochet to make two more broken men. Annihilation will come to Faust and Tilley before they can realize what will happen. So rapid will be their defeat, some would say almost as fast as lighting.
“And Gladiator will do this, BECAUSE GLADIATOR IS THE STRONGEST ONE THERE IS!!!!”
