PHILADELPHIA: Hida Yakamo vs. Saint

[TH]

The former MBE World Champion takes on one of the PTC stars entered in the tournament.

 

[Hida Yakamo]

Inside the Yakamo Office, a small brickfaced building in a slightly gentrified area on the Lower East Side. The great Hida Yakamo sits doing paperwork, a somewhat undiginified task for a man who once redefined what was possible inside of a wrestling ring. Reminders of his career litter the desk and walls, from iconic photos of his in-ring exploits to more candid shots of him backstage with title belts and tag partners. And of course a slightly chipped, bent and blood spackled cricket bat.

"And Alexander wept, for there were no more lands to....yadda....yadda...

It's about an hour and change to Phily by train, enough time at least to meditate on a short novella about one's career. What was once a vibrant tale of epic battles, fit for a Homeric Ode or a Shakesperarean soliloquy has been reduced to a staid set piece for a community theater prouduction of "Our Town."

I suppose I should be pleased enough that a mere mention of my name shakes the shadows and calls back echoes of greatness. That my name on the marquee is considered a major coup, even if it is no doubt stands, letters half dangling, in front of a more run-down building than I am accustomed to. But it's still selling out on my name.

No, wrestling ain't what it used to be.

Yeah, you can go to down to Cauliflower Alley and hear plenty of grumps proclaim the same thing. The food's not bad either. I don't care for all the Shriners mulling around, though. But giants just don't walk the earth anymore. Sure, every yokel may purport to be larger than life, and it seems like every kid with a week of training and an armful of tapes can promise you a beating that will 'test the limits of human endurance itself,' or promise an 'a banquet of pain and suffering that will burrow into your vary soul, turn you inside out and back again, and cause you to rethink those drapes in your living room, or something. Kids these days aren't very eloquent. Of course, compared to the Asian Wonder, mere eloquence doesn't hold up so well. Neither does mere talent.

Of course, what does a man with nothing to prove anymore really get out of this whole limb twisting, body bruising, face smashing production?

The satisfaction of a job well done?

Needless confirmation that he is indeed still a titan among mere mortals?

A brief, blood streaked bit of nostalgia to warm the existential shell of a life lived out as a microcosmic supernova?

I wrestle because that is what I do. Now, I could lecture at Colombia about philosophy. I could act in a string of Yakuza b-movies. I could write my memoirs.

I would probably be just as good as those. I am not a mere bundle of wrestling talent and nothing more. Unlike so many of my comrades, I have a more or less complete life, and do not need to garner fulfillment through a mere imposition of my will upon another. I don't need to martyr myself for the entertainment of people who I wouldn't even deign to converse with in my neighboorhood bar. Not that they would say much of interest anyway.

They say a life well lived is it's own reward. Well, I am still seeking my reward in the flashes of agony I can bring to another man's face. And if it is my fate to steamroll over a few foolish gladiators in a dank arena in front of a cavalcade attracted by the mention of my name and a decent cash bar, so be it.

Call it vanity, if you like, it will change nothing for either of us. Certain things are immutable. I am the Asian Wonder, and on your best day, you couldn't even do an amateurish impression of me in your bathroom mirror.

I could have been an architect.

Unfortunately for you Saint, things didn't quite work out that way.

 

[tW Saint]

The scene opened up to a small room, which had a smell of....decay? The room had black wood paneled floor boards, which had used condoms and porno magazines ground into the floor. At the back of the room there was a small matress, it was stained yellow with semen, and had red from blood. The room had a gloomy feel to it. It looked as though it was dawn, the sun was setting behin a big tree, cast a silhouette on the ground. The sky looked like fire, and Saint was the focal point. Standing, looking out the window. Was he thinking? Was he even aware of the situation? He was going to be on national television, infront of millions of people. Was he ready? He felt the coldness of the room, sliver down his spine. Who was this opponent of his? Who is Hida Yakamo? Saint has never heard of him, Saint turned around and looked at the matress? Is this what he wants to be surrounded in this...this filth? Saint needed to break out of here. Saint sat on the matress, and grabbed one of the needles sitting on the floor, did he care he had a chance of getting AIDS? Did he care that everytime he lacerated his skin with the needle, that was another trac mark in his life? It's a known fact, it takes 8 seconds for the Heroin to get to your brain, 12 until you start to feel it work. Saint tied the tube around the top of his arm. He let the needle slowly penetrate his vein, he rested his head on the wall and let the drug drag him into sweet surrender. Then he passed out.



He awoke to find the thumping beat of the band below him. He was sitting in the bar "K.I.L.L". Where was he? What state was he in. He got up and felt his bones crack. He made his way down the stairs. He walked out into the crowd. The band "Dope" was on stage, playing their song "Survive". "I survive, Just like a lie that won't die." Saint repeated that in his head. Was he a lie? He walked to the back of the bar and looked at the bartender behin the counter.



"Shandra," he said "Can you get me a drink. Something heavy please."



The women, apparently named Shandra got him a drink. He smiled in return and took a sip. He let the drink slip down his throat. Saint looked around him, was this his home?

"Hey bro, whats goin on?" some man said to him.

Saint looked up and saw a man looking down at him, this man was about 6' tall. Saint stood up and was a little bit taller. The man had a libre peircing, both his ears peirced and gauged to size 00g.

"Who are you?" Saint asked.

"What do you mean who am I," he said, "I'm your driver, we need to get going."

"Where are we going, sir" Saint wondered.

"Dude, whats with you. You never call me sir, just call me Steve like normal please. We are going to Philly man. Your match against Hida Yakamo." Steve said.

"Ok, lets go." Saint said.

Saint got up and took one more look at all the little punk kids slam dancing, and moshing...

"God, this band sucks." Saint said, and Steve laughed.

"You booked them..." Steve said.

"You mean, this is my club?" Saint gasped.

"Saint, you need to quit doin drugs." Steve protested.

"I know.." Saint said.

Saint and Steve walked out of the room. Now Saint felt the cool fall air on his face, and his whole body. They walked to the Limo sitting outside, and Steve held the door open for Saint. Saint got in and saw a tape sitting on the seat. He picked it up and looked at it. It read Tournament Opponent. Saint put the tape into a VCR and watched as a T.V kicked to life.

It showed highlights of Hida Yakamo's matches. It showed his past feds, and his past titles. It showed him bloodied, it showed him in glory. The tape ended. Saint realized he was not known like this man was. Saint had no history to show. So this is where he needs to make his history. Saint has it set in his mind that he will deafeat Hida Yakamo and whoever else comes along. Saint will be number one. Whoever gets in his way, will get hurt. He needs to make an example of Hida Yakamo. He will show the rest of the participants that he is not a man to play with.

Saint put his legs up on the seat. "It's going to be a long drive" he said to himself. He let the TV auto shut off. He knew what was ahead of him, waiting for him. He knew he would show the world he was capable of winning this whole thing. The time has come for the new Messiah to rise.

 

[TH]

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