Kiss of Death

Tashiro could hear the crowd from the locker room, his name in the form of a baying chant was something he could never get used to.

It was only supposed to be a small hobby, enough to get him to become a Paramedic. Now he was almost complete with the training, what was he fighting for?

Not wanting to be distracted by unnecessary thoughts, he popped in a couple of earphones and listened to ‘Unleashing the Bloodthirsty’ to get himself pumped up and in the headspace of a fighter.

It worked.

The Death metal chugs were just the thing to keep him in the zone as he bobbed his head to the music.

Soon enough, it was time to go. His trainer laced up the gloves and gave a quick pep talk before they headed for the bulk of the small Arena.

Exiting out of the tunnel, lights seared from up above, as he caught the miasma of sweat and hot breath. The sound of the crowd was like a raging sea of singing and cheering.

Tashiro kept his head down under the silken hood and bumped his gloves together.

His opponent was already in the ring, thumping his chest and riling the audience, who responded with a howl of boo’s.

Go time.

The fight went well for three rounds, with both fighters matching each other in pace and technique. This looked like it was going to be another throwdown.

Tashiro spat in the bucket and allowed his face to be mopped by the cornerman.

And yet, something felt off.

After talking with the Manager, a little itch of anxiety had worked its way through the Boxer’s mind, before becoming a full-blown rash by the time he reached the match.

What bothered Tashiro most was why his manager told him he was to be replaced before a fight? Was it to throw him off his game? He knew Tashiro needed to be in the right headspace, so what was with the timing? It couldn’t have been a psy-op to make it easier for him to be replaced? Show the world he was past his prime?

As much as he wanted to concentrate on the fight, he couldn’t focus any more; the conspiracy had rooted itself, until the Boxer started to miss easy swings and hooks.

The trainer yelled for him to get his head in the game, but try as he might, his mind was now elsewhere, and he was functioning close to ninety per cent of the time on the fight.

This proved his undergoing, however. His opponent unloaded an uppercut to the jaw, causing a traumatic brain injury.

Tashiro went flat onto the mat and didn’t get up.

The last thing he saw was the dimming of the overhead lights and the sound of a crowd becoming muffled, like someone turning down the volume on the world.

***

Exhaling violently, he let out an elongated rasp, followed by several hacking coughs, as his chest heaved with every newfound breath.

Still flat on his back, Tashiro stabilised his breathing, but something wasn’t right; he could feel a cold breeze wash over him, as if lying on the beach.

This wasn’t the only thing.

Firstly, why was he outside? Maybe the Paramedics had brought him out, but why was the sky bright blue when the fight was at night? It didn’t make sense for them to wait twelve hours and then take him to the hospital. Also, why were the crowd dressed like peasants out of the Sengoku period?

Huh?

The crowd leaned in, almost blocking out the blue sky; the men were unshaven and had let their facial hair grow out like wildflowers. The women wore scarves and scratched at dirty faces.

Blinking rapidly, Tashiro stared up at the ragged people, who gasped, paused, and then became excited, laughing and clapping like idiots.

Sitting up, Tashiro stared down at his feet, which were filthy and almost blackened with dry mud.

Wait, where are my boots? Did people steal my boots and then dump mud on my feet? How random.

Tashiro rubbed his legs. Expecting to find powerful muscles, borne out of hard work and training, in their place were scrawny, skinny, muddy, rash-riddled limbs, which could have easily passed as broomsticks, such was the malnourished state of them.

He let out a little yelp of surprise.

My leg days! All for nothing.

Finally, after a few attempts, Tashiro managed to stagger upright and swayed slightly as he adjusted his balance. Looking around, he could not believe what he saw.

Everyone was dressed in rags, dirty grey rags covered in mud, which made sense since the entire ground was packed earth.

It was the surrounding through. Mounds of household waste were piled high and spread out, resembling the home of a hoarder that had expanded to an entire village. 

Are these people living in a trash?

The buildings were a mix of decrepit, low-ceiling shacks and ancient ruins, which resembled uneaten pizza crust left on the plate. The air smelled like a cross between a landfill, manure and body odour.

From what Tashiro could tell, the peasants had formed a ring, and at one end was a sneering, gaunt-looking man in slightly better clothes. This guy could have easily played a lawyer in some Saturday Morning cartoon show about Magic girls.

“Hoo hoo!” The sketchy man said. “I didn’t expect him to get up from that one.”

That one? Tashiro thought and tasted copper. Looking down, he saw that his threadbare Hemp Kimono was matted with dry blood. Did this old coot deck me sideways? Also, why am I dressed like a Furōsha? He looked at his arms, and his breath hitched. What happened to his arms?! They were completely emaciated; and one skipped meal away from becoming a Skeleton!

What the hell is going on here?

“Buru,” The Sketchy Man said. “Finish the job, show these slum-dwelling vermin what happens when you don’t pay your taxes!”

A half-naked, Swole-looking man wearing a Bull’s head that completely covered his own, rose from a seated position and strode slowly in the direction of Tashiro.

The crowd went silent as a cold tension settled like a miasma, turning nearby spines to ice.

“Ehhh?” Tashiro said. “I just woke up, I don’t need this tutorial boss crap!”

Buru was a third taller and had fists like milk pans. Tashiro started to back away as the Minotaur cosplay guy came at him with clumsy jabs.

After a few near misses, the Boxer’s muscle memory returned, and all at once, the cold fear bled away.

This guy is terrible! It's like he’s trying to hang up laundry on a windy day: no footwork or finesse.

A little more confident, Tashiro ducked and backed up. The crowd were mesmerised. What happened to this meek and weak Vagabond that could barely stand up to stray cats?

Now he was taunting a man built like a restaurant refrigerator.

Not just taunting, but laughing and doing a little dance.

No one else laughed however; they didn’t want to be the next target of the Bull-Man’s ire.

Clearly agitated, Buru became desperate, trying to grab at the Vagabond with both arms, but Tashiro easily fell away out of reach.

Worried the Bull-Man would take it out on the crowd, Tashiro did a little spin and launched a perfect upper cut in the one place guaranteed to cause an instant blackout.

It worked like a charm. Buru went down like a sack of hammers, spread-eagled on the mud.

The crowd cheered, and in true supervillain style, the Sketchy Man pointed and raged.

“You think you’ve won the day,” He said.” Have you forgotten I came here on behalf of the Tax Service? They will come back with more men and hike up the charges. What victory do you think you’ve earned?”

Tashiro turned to see Buru on all fours, shaking the dizziness out of his head.

“What about this guy?”

The Sketchy Man threw a sword. “I am in no need of worthless goods. Here’s your chance to take his place and earn a bonus.”

Tashiro picked up the sword and looked at the Bull-Man. For the first time, he could see genuine fear in those eyes behind the mask.

“I’m gonna regret this.”

He sighed and threw the sword at the Sketchy Man, who fell onto his behind as it landed between his legs.

“It’s your weapon, you deal with him.”

The Sketchy man started to babble, pointing with nervous indignation.

“I’m a noble,” He said. “Killing me will bring an army upon these slums, there will be consequences, a systematic cleansing of all!”

Tashiro looked back at Buru, who was already on his feet. The bigger man nodded.

“No one said anything about killing, although that doesn’t rule out…severe injury.”

Tashiro moved away from the ring of people, giving the Sketchy man a sarcastic pat on the shoulder as he walked on.

“No-no-no-no-no-no…!”

Tashiro kept on walking, leaving behind the sounds of screams and snapping bones.

***

Making his way down the roads of rampant desolation, he passed sad, hungry faces of men, women and children. Dirty, dishevelled and dressed in Hemp clothes.

They would have called this ‘Skid Row’ in America.

Spotting a brass pot, he looked at his reflection. It was the closest thing to a living Skeleton he had seen. Staring through sunken eyes, the famished features were like paper over the curves of the skull.

I’m about two weeks away from becoming dust.

Suddenly, an uninvited memory popped up in his mind. It appeared to belong to the former owner of the body, who had passed away after his first encounter with Buru.

They wanted to make an example of you, huh? Put the frighteners on everyone else.

A name? The Vagabond’s name.

Knotweed. Tashiro thought. That was your name. You were a beggar who sold homemade medicine. It was popular and it worked. That’s why you were targeted, because you were unlicensed. The Boxer smiled. Reminds me of how all those who invented clean energy were suddenly struck down in car accidents and heart attacks. I’m sure that was a ‘coincidence’ as well. Tashiro looked at his bony hands. Alright Knotweed. You may have gone, but I’m not. So this respawn is getting a new player. First…a bar?