| I know the hundreds of pairs of Spartan eyes surrounding us, so anxious to witness the cracking of bones and the effusion of blood, are more likely to witness the cracking of balloons and the effusion of gas. Toody and Thalia square off, despite the apparent hopelessness of our situation, and begin growling and thumping their massive, though empty, chests. As I begin my center ring announcement, I detect indications that Pisistrato’s portion of the Plan is beginning to work just in the nick of time. Smartly dressed Thaliopolitans are approaching individual Spartan soldiers and presenting business cards. These clever individuals soon get the big guys to imagine not Toody and Thalia in the middle of the ring, but the Spartans themselves, covering themselves with glory. A few Spartans are led away from the ring altogether, to discuss “possibilities.” To explain, there are among the professions honored in Thaliopolis several which offer opportunities and advancement for the non-performer. Among these are the talent agent, the casting director and the personal representative, or manager. Though in some ways not so well regarded as a sidewalk mine, or balloon sculpting clown, in another way they are honored indeed, especially for the sake of the city’s cofounder, Pisistrato the Good and Wise Guy. “This one round, do it or die champeenship bout,” I call through a megaphone, “will be fought between these two matchless pugilists.” At this point, Knots arrives, furious, forcing his pony through the crowd into the ring. “WHAT the devil are you doing?” he fumes at me. “Please, Your Highness,” I plead off-megaphone, “we haven’t gotten to the introduction of celebrities yet.” “What are you talking about?” “The Spartans insisted on a symbolic fight between champions. It’s a tradition of theirs, you know,” I fib. “But these are two of our men. Yuck!” He notices Toody and Thalia growling and thumping. “What’s the matter with them, are they sick? They’re all swollen up.” “Your highness, please go back to your place of honor at the edge of the ring. You’re the King here. You don’t have to understand the petty details. Leave that your vassals and underlings.” “Makes sense.” Knots retires to the edge of the circle of spectators, more and more of whom are Thaliopolitans. Practically all the Spartans present are engaged in ringside chats with some person promising to take them to the top. The Plan is working. “These are your two pugilist,” I resume my megaphonic. “In this corner, waiting five hundred and fourteen pounds, not counting foundation and eyeshadow, the screaming maniac of Attica, the CHAMPEEN O’ THE WORLD — BEDELIA THE BELLICOSE!” Thalia leaps in the air, does a triple somersault, lands on her feet and roars like a lion. The crowd, which is by now pretty evenly divided between Thaliopolitans and the city’s would-be despoilers, roars back with delight. “And now the challenger,” I resume. I look at Toody. He is stock still, like a raccoon you catch in your garbage on the back porch. This is not according to the Plan. I go to him and whisper, “What’s the matter with you?” “I was just considering the possibilities of life with a woman who turns triple somersaults and roars like a lion,” he says, as if we were discussing the day’s stock market quotations. “Well, let’s get on with it!” I tell him, then I take up my megaphone once more. “In this corner the Challenger, weighing in at a poundage considerably heavier than you’d expect for a human dirigible, TOOTOOTOOTSYGOODBYE!” Toody flexes his bladders, ripping the seams of his tunic and exposing the straining stitch work of the balloons underneath. The audience responds with delight. Those who are paying attention, that is. These are mostly Thaliopolitans, since the Spartans are largely divided and conquered by now, not by force of arms, but by lure of show business. Seeing this, I know we can quickly finish our little match, and get on with the task of keeping the Spartans stage-struck. “Gentlemen,” I megaphone one more time, “START YOUR ENGINES!” With a roar, mostly from the distaff side, the two titans rush at one another, clinch and fall to the dirt, admitting a never to be forgotten flatulence as their phony superstructures collapse on impact. Human whoopee cushions. After more grunting and quasi-symbolic aggressions, punctuated by punctured muscles and the resulting groan of gas, Thalia simply prostrates herself and Toody places his foot carefully on the small of her back, raising and flexing his arms in the universal pose of the strongman. Unfortunately, his muscles are drooping from his arms and trunk, only one thigh maintaining its profile. This is the moment it chooses to give up the ghost, deflating with an inquisitive creak of escaping air. The crowd is eating it up. I gather Toody and the theatrically downcast Thalia at the center of the ring, with the champs belts at the ready. Standing between them, holding hands with them, I address the crowd. “LAY-DEEZ AND GENTLEMEN, I GIVE YOU THE NEW CHAMPEEN OF THE WORLD!” I raise Toody’s fist in the air. The people howl. At this point, Toody’s mask drops off, and Thalia’s whole outfit evaporates, revealing her clad in a skimpy bathing suit. She jumps into Toody’s arms and gives him a big smack while I affix the belt. The people are delirious with the revelation that their Duke is also their champion. The prearranged triumphal parade starts then and there, with floats, marching bands and big inflatable figures of famous characters from Aesop for the kids. The parade sweeps into town, sweeping the Spartans along with it. Not one of them remembers to bring a spear. Once the whole crowd has left the plain, I sigh with relief. Then I hear the whinny of a pony. I turn around. It’s the man who would be King, but isn’t. As far as I can tell he’s pretty darn mad. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |