| Just outside the gate, the people are crammed in behind the guardsmen, who have formed a line facing the Spartans on the hill. I elbow my way through the crowd until I’m immediately behind the soldiers. Knots is prancing on his pony in front of them, pontificating to no one in particular. I look to my right, then to my left. “Ah-ha!” I see that two of the guardsmen are holding hands. I rush over to them. “Psst! It’s me,” I whisper to them. Toody turns his masked face to me. “Where have you been? Knots is about to go demand the surrender of the Spartans all by himself.” “Oh no!” I am almost too late. “Get out there and grovel,” orders the Duke. “Remember, Bedelia and I are here at the end of the formation.” “Right!” I acknowledge. Then I burst through the line of guardsmen, run to Knots and fall on my knees in the dust. “Your majesty,” I cry out. “The first of my subjects to address me correctly,” he beams. “What is your petition, underling?” “I’m certain that a great king such as yourself will not condescend to accept the surrender of a subject people in person.” “Why not?” he asks me. “It would cause your incomparable majesty to be compared to a mere ENVOY!” “Envoy?” He makes a sour face. “Not very majestic. Say, aren’t you the fellow that Pisistrato appointed to be Assistant Prime Minister for my brother?” “That’s right, sire.” “Don’t you suppose I ought to have you executed, or something?” “Ordinarily, that would be the best thing to do . . .” “Well?” “Except . . . except I AM the first of your subjects to address your most royal and esteemed highness. Also, I am no longer identified with the old administration. Look,” I take off my coat, turn it inside out, and put it on again. “I’m a turncoat.” Knots is intrigued. “So THAT’S what that means,” he muses. Then he snaps out of it. “What’s your proposal?” “Simply allow me to act as your envoy to go accept the surrender of the Spartans, your highness.” “Alright. That’s good.” “I’ll need a military escort,” I explain to Knots. “How about those two fierce-looking fellows at the end of the line?” “Alright, alright. We’ll give you a fanfare and a flourish. Get going.” The drums thunder and the horns bleat like big, metallic goats. The newlyweds form up behind me, and we begin to make our way across the field between the two armies. As I walk, I begin to appreciate what we are trying to pull off. You don’t know the worst of it yet, dear reader. The fact is, we’re not going to obtain a surrender to make peace, but to enter a challenge to do battle. At the midpoint of our journey, Thalia speaks from behind her mask. “Okay, I think this is a good place.” We stop. Thalia turns to her husband and says, “I’ll pull yours if you pull mine.” “Bedelia! Really!” exclaims the Duke. Then he grabs a string dangling from her tunic sleeve and gives it a tug. She balloons suddenly at the shoulders, arms torso and thighs. She does the same to Toody, and soon I am in the company of two incredible hulks. Really incredible. More of The Plan. “How do you like my body masks?” asks Thalia cheerily. “They’re just fine,” I say aloud — then think to myself, Just fine if the Spartans are all afflicted with chronic myopia. “Do you have the belt?” Toody asks his wife. “Right here,” says the muse. She whips out a grotesquely thick and bejeweled belt, with a gigantic buckle emblazoned with the words WORLD CHAMPION. I take it from her and sling it over my shoulder. At that moment, over the city gate a banner is unfurled of equally gigantic proportions and decorated in the same impeccable taste. It reads: |
| This is the work of the Pisser and the love of my life, Calculotta, all according to (you guessed it) The Plan. “Are you ready?” I ask the two gas bags. They grrr at me, and we are off to confer with those darling boys of the Peloponnesian peninsula, the Spartans. As we labor up the slope approaching the enemy camp, my two companions harrumphing fiercely with each measured step, I see a party of Spartans break away from the general mass of soldiers and destructive machinery, and head in our direction. “Here they come,” I observe. “We’ll stand our ground right here.” We stop as the Spartans approach. “Bigger audience if we get closer,” Thalia suggests. Toody answers, “My Dad used to say, be grateful for a small audience, cause with an audience, it can go either way.” The Spartan party consists of a dozen foot soldiers with heavy spears on their shoulders double-timing behind a single mounted officer. It might be the way their jaws hang open as they noisily snort and pant, or the dull, greasy gleam of their gray-brown skin, or possibly, as they draw closer, the blood shot vacancy of their eyes, like shattered window panes on a row of abandoned houses, but something tells me these men eat a terrible diet, and wouldn’t know a raw vegetable or a piece of fresh fruit if it offered to bite THEM. These guys are strictly processed meat, pimento loaf, braunschweiger, bologna. Of course, if we are what we eat, what does that say about vegetarians? Such are the thoughts of the condemned man as the gallows looms ever closer. Yet the Spartan army is the gallows upon which the city hangs its hopes. For the Plan requires but one requirement to ensure its success — that the Spartans behave like Spartans — irresistibly attracted to violence and bloody fame, susceptible to the seduction of the arena, willing to boink their best pal but good, if the price is right. You’re getting a vague notion of the Plan. Here follows its crisp, sharp outline. “Greetings, oh Spartans,” I call out. (How’s a guy supposed to greet Spartans?) The group stops with its leader about a pony-length away from me. “You Knot?” inquires the biggest, greasiest number of the group, perched on his little horse. “No, I’m not Knots,” I reply. “You Knot-Knot?” “No, I’m not.” “Oh. You Knot, yes?” “No.” “Not Knot.” “It’s not ‘Knot,’ it’s ‘Knots’.” “Oh. Knots. You Knots?” “No.” “You not?” “No, I’m not.” “Oh good. You are Knot. I thought so. We surrender. God of war say to us, we surrender, we get to burn, tear down, rip up, chase girls, the usual stuff. So we surrender, let’s get show on road, huh?” “Oh, Spartans,” says I just after that moment when doom seems so certain you say to yourself — Hey, why not? “Oh, Spartans. An army as well known for his fierceness as yours cannot surrender even symbolically without at least a symbolic combat. Right?” “No understand the question, Knot. Try again.” “Okay. These two . . .“ I gesture to Toody and Thalia. “. . . are the Champion and Challenger to the Championship of Thaliopolis. This afternoon they will battle for the privilege of fighting the Spartan champion in single combat. The winner of that contest will accept the surrender of the loser’s army.” “Then we can chase girls and stuff?” “Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” “Okay. Only one prob. No Spartan champion.” “Not a prob,” says I, neatly positioning the hook. “We are EXPERTS at choosing a champion. We’ll take you through the process step-by-step. Just come into town and watch our final championship and . . .” “No, no. We not go into city until nightfall, when God of war come to claim for his own. Sorry not to mention earlier. Forgot.” “Oh.” I’m stuck. Toody steps forward and whispers in my ear, and I immediately transmit the message. “Alright, we’ll have the championship match right here on this spot.” “Right here? Ya-hoo! And we all can come?” “Everyone’s invited!” The captain beckons for one of the foot soldiers to approach him, then mutters some excited instructions to him. The big beefcake brightens up, turns and tears up the slope to his camp as fast as his gunboats can carry him, shouting, “A show! A show!” A roar goes up from the Spartan host. In a body they charge down the slope toward us, hurrahing and whooping. Soon we are surrounded by Spartans, all restlessly anticipating the bout of the century between a man and a woman fitted out with inflated bladders for muscles. I am to officiate. Everything is going according to the Plan. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |