Poetic Justice
Master Samo, atop the lofty Forbidden Pillar, forced his protesting frame into the lotus position. From the majesty of this location, he enjoyed an unsurpassed view of proceedings below. Trailing his aged fingers through his beard, he observed the two combatants as they entered the arena.
Beowulf stepped into the sunlight swinging the double-handed axe about his body with effortless ease, the heavy weapon yielding willingly to leather-bound hands. With a final flourish he quickly twisted the axe through the air, spinning the metal tip on his right index finger.
Keeping his eyes on his opponent at all times, Gilgamesh silently mouthed a prayer to the gods of Babylon. He drew Enkidu’s sword from its scabbard, the audible throb of the blade merely hinting at the raw power contained within. Gilgamesh was King. He had no need of theatrics.
Master Samo allowed himself a smile, relishing the warming rush of adrenalin as it pumped about his withered body. This was why the old master still lived, his only reason to live. He was the Grand Adjudicator of the Poetic Justice Tournament for the sixth consecutive year, and the eighth match was about to begin.
“Bout EIGHT,” bellowed the Master, his voice surprisingly powerful for one so diminutive.
“FIGHT!”
Immediately, Beowulf somersaulted the thirty feet between him and his adversary, bringing down his mighty axe blade in one fluid movement. Unfazed by the hurtling metal, Gilgamesh used his free hand to seize the oncoming axe’s hilt. By viciously twisting the weapon upwards, Gilgamesh forced his airborne attacker to follow. Finding himself overturned, Beowulf was unprepared for the Babylonian boot that hammered into his breast bone, returning him the thirty feet he had previously covered.
Now, flat on his back in the dirt, Beowulf rapidly appreciated two of his greatest problems. The first, unavoidably at the forefront of his mind, was the invasive agony that told him that his sternum was shattered, and that he was most likely bleeding internally. The second, although, this problem, probably more important than the last, was this – he now saw that the man, capable of causing such heinous injury with a single kick, was now fifteen feet away and advancing. Only ten feet away, and an impressive sword held in his left hand, Beowulf’s own dear axe in his right. It was if his enemy’s fingers molested his soul. Beowulf pounded the floor with self-disgust and hauled himself as upright as he could manage. Without mercy, Gilgamesh hurled the axe towards the head of Beowulf with alarming velocity. Amazingly, only inches from the target’s skull, the thrown weapon stopped dead and exploded, a mass of fragments showering the competitors. Beowulf had somehow snatched the twirling blade from its fatal flight, clasping it between his palms. Rejecting the force of the throw from his body, Beowulf had inadvertently caused a reverse shockwave to rip its way through the weapon’s hilt, shattering it into a million splinters, leaving only the axe-blade intact.
“Weapons DOWN!” cried Master Samo, wanting to avoid a premature end to the spectacle he so morbidly relished. As Grand Adjudicator of the competition, it was his prerogative to do so.
Gilgamesh complied with an arrogant snort, throwing his sword to the ground. As it hit the dirt, the resonant hum of the steel faded and died, signifying the blade to be merely a channel of the great king’s power, and not the source of it. In contrast, Beowulf tenderly cradled the surviving axe-head like a new-born child and placed it carefully on the ground. Returning to full height, a new hatred blazed through his eyes as he advanced on his adversary.
Beowulf began to batter the Babylonian about the body, but to no benefit. While the ineffective assault rained all about him, the mighty ruler Gilgamesh stood immobile, indifferent. Exhaustion eventually turned Beowulf’s blows pathetic, and Gilgamesh lifted the man by his wrist as a rag doll, laughing uproariously as he did so. In this moment, Beowulf used his free hand to plunge the axe shard he had hidden, quite literally up his sleeve, deep into his enemy’s throat. Gilgamesh fell to his knees, his chuckling replaced with choking. Coughing blood and splinters, he pulled the offending article from his jugular; a mistake, considering the resultant red geyser that gushed from his carotid artery. Gilgamesh collapsed. At last, he was defeated, but the pain and confusion contorted on the loser’s face robbed Beowulf of any satisfaction he might have gained in victory.
“Justice has been served. Beowulf…Wins!” Samo exclaimed. “Next bout, Beowulf…Versus…Brünhilde.”
The four teenagers stood in awe. On a single pound coin, Dave had reached level nine of Poetic Justice 3 EX Alpha Turbo Edition, by far the most difficult beat-‘em-up video game ever to feature in the Mumbles Amusement Arcade.
“No way!” said the biggest of the group, “I always thought it was rigged so you couldn’t win.”
Dave blew on his fingernails and smugly rubbed them on the lapel of his blazer. He quickly returned his attentions to the game.
“What is he? Like, six?”
“I’m thirteen.” said Dave, offended, but not enough to look up from the screen.
“Well, beginner’s luck is what it is, I tell you!”
“Shut up Rhodri!” Dave retorted, “You can’t even do level three.”
Shooting a look of indignation at the boys, Rhodri grabbed at game’s controls while elbowing at Dave’s ribs.
“Oi, you!” Dave shouted, grappling with the joystick, “Get out of it!”
The teenagers laughed as Rhodri, older and larger than Dave, pushed him easily aside. Searing with frustration, Dave struggled as he was held back by the other three boys. Rhodri played on with glee, the madness in his features illuminated by the machine. It was slightly less than six seconds later when the boy’s on-screen avatar lay lifelessly on the deck.
“Absolute Rubbish.” Rhodri kicked at the machine and walked away without a backward glance. “Come on lads, we haven’t got time for any more of this kid’s stuff.”
Dave is roughly released as the boys scurry away to the alpha male; flitting about Rhodri like chimps around a box of bananas.
As they leave, Dave can clearly hear the boy’s snide jibes.
“Who cares about games? I’d like to see how he’d do in a real fight.”
“What, fatty over there? No one would hit him; they’d lose their hand in his belly!”
Although he realised their intention was to bolster Rhodri’s ego rather than injure his, the cruel comments continued to churn through Dave’s mind long after the event.
“You lose!” Samo exclaimed from within the game.
Without knowing you it is impossible to make accurate judgements about your observational skills. It is quite likely, however, that had you been present during the events described above, you would have noticed nothing more than four Swansea schoolboys bullying a chubby lad. It’s almost a certainty that you would have failed to detect the ominous individual observing them from a corner of the amusement hall, and even more doubtful that you would have seen him produce a sinister object from a gloomy pocket of the equally shadowy overcoat to which it belonged. You shouldn’t feel bad about it. This was exactly the effect he was going for. After all, being of the genus Homo sapiens, it’s not your fault your optical capabilities cover such a limited spectrum. Just allow a few more ice ages of evolution and it won’t even be a problem. For the benefit of those impatient few who cannot wait until then, I will tell you what happened next.
The mysterious figure flipped open his device, (which, as it disappointingly turns out, was an entirely non-mysterious mobile phone), and dialled shadily, as was his manner.
“Sir?” he said, in an eerie voice which complemented his appearance perfectly. “It’s Platt here. I think I’ve just found what you’re looking for.”
Beowulf stepped into the sunlight swinging the double-handed axe about his body with effortless ease, the heavy weapon yielding willingly to leather-bound hands. With a final flourish he quickly twisted the axe through the air, spinning the metal tip on his right index finger.
Keeping his eyes on his opponent at all times, Gilgamesh silently mouthed a prayer to the gods of Babylon. He drew Enkidu’s sword from its scabbard, the audible throb of the blade merely hinting at the raw power contained within. Gilgamesh was King. He had no need of theatrics.
Master Samo allowed himself a smile, relishing the warming rush of adrenalin as it pumped about his withered body. This was why the old master still lived, his only reason to live. He was the Grand Adjudicator of the Poetic Justice Tournament for the sixth consecutive year, and the eighth match was about to begin.
“Bout EIGHT,” bellowed the Master, his voice surprisingly powerful for one so diminutive.
“FIGHT!”
Immediately, Beowulf somersaulted the thirty feet between him and his adversary, bringing down his mighty axe blade in one fluid movement. Unfazed by the hurtling metal, Gilgamesh used his free hand to seize the oncoming axe’s hilt. By viciously twisting the weapon upwards, Gilgamesh forced his airborne attacker to follow. Finding himself overturned, Beowulf was unprepared for the Babylonian boot that hammered into his breast bone, returning him the thirty feet he had previously covered.
Now, flat on his back in the dirt, Beowulf rapidly appreciated two of his greatest problems. The first, unavoidably at the forefront of his mind, was the invasive agony that told him that his sternum was shattered, and that he was most likely bleeding internally. The second, although, this problem, probably more important than the last, was this – he now saw that the man, capable of causing such heinous injury with a single kick, was now fifteen feet away and advancing. Only ten feet away, and an impressive sword held in his left hand, Beowulf’s own dear axe in his right. It was if his enemy’s fingers molested his soul. Beowulf pounded the floor with self-disgust and hauled himself as upright as he could manage. Without mercy, Gilgamesh hurled the axe towards the head of Beowulf with alarming velocity. Amazingly, only inches from the target’s skull, the thrown weapon stopped dead and exploded, a mass of fragments showering the competitors. Beowulf had somehow snatched the twirling blade from its fatal flight, clasping it between his palms. Rejecting the force of the throw from his body, Beowulf had inadvertently caused a reverse shockwave to rip its way through the weapon’s hilt, shattering it into a million splinters, leaving only the axe-blade intact.
“Weapons DOWN!” cried Master Samo, wanting to avoid a premature end to the spectacle he so morbidly relished. As Grand Adjudicator of the competition, it was his prerogative to do so.
Gilgamesh complied with an arrogant snort, throwing his sword to the ground. As it hit the dirt, the resonant hum of the steel faded and died, signifying the blade to be merely a channel of the great king’s power, and not the source of it. In contrast, Beowulf tenderly cradled the surviving axe-head like a new-born child and placed it carefully on the ground. Returning to full height, a new hatred blazed through his eyes as he advanced on his adversary.
Beowulf began to batter the Babylonian about the body, but to no benefit. While the ineffective assault rained all about him, the mighty ruler Gilgamesh stood immobile, indifferent. Exhaustion eventually turned Beowulf’s blows pathetic, and Gilgamesh lifted the man by his wrist as a rag doll, laughing uproariously as he did so. In this moment, Beowulf used his free hand to plunge the axe shard he had hidden, quite literally up his sleeve, deep into his enemy’s throat. Gilgamesh fell to his knees, his chuckling replaced with choking. Coughing blood and splinters, he pulled the offending article from his jugular; a mistake, considering the resultant red geyser that gushed from his carotid artery. Gilgamesh collapsed. At last, he was defeated, but the pain and confusion contorted on the loser’s face robbed Beowulf of any satisfaction he might have gained in victory.
“Justice has been served. Beowulf…Wins!” Samo exclaimed. “Next bout, Beowulf…Versus…Brünhilde.”
The four teenagers stood in awe. On a single pound coin, Dave had reached level nine of Poetic Justice 3 EX Alpha Turbo Edition, by far the most difficult beat-‘em-up video game ever to feature in the Mumbles Amusement Arcade.
“No way!” said the biggest of the group, “I always thought it was rigged so you couldn’t win.”
Dave blew on his fingernails and smugly rubbed them on the lapel of his blazer. He quickly returned his attentions to the game.
“What is he? Like, six?”
“I’m thirteen.” said Dave, offended, but not enough to look up from the screen.
“Well, beginner’s luck is what it is, I tell you!”
“Shut up Rhodri!” Dave retorted, “You can’t even do level three.”
Shooting a look of indignation at the boys, Rhodri grabbed at game’s controls while elbowing at Dave’s ribs.
“Oi, you!” Dave shouted, grappling with the joystick, “Get out of it!”
The teenagers laughed as Rhodri, older and larger than Dave, pushed him easily aside. Searing with frustration, Dave struggled as he was held back by the other three boys. Rhodri played on with glee, the madness in his features illuminated by the machine. It was slightly less than six seconds later when the boy’s on-screen avatar lay lifelessly on the deck.
“Absolute Rubbish.” Rhodri kicked at the machine and walked away without a backward glance. “Come on lads, we haven’t got time for any more of this kid’s stuff.”
Dave is roughly released as the boys scurry away to the alpha male; flitting about Rhodri like chimps around a box of bananas.
As they leave, Dave can clearly hear the boy’s snide jibes.
“Who cares about games? I’d like to see how he’d do in a real fight.”
“What, fatty over there? No one would hit him; they’d lose their hand in his belly!”
Although he realised their intention was to bolster Rhodri’s ego rather than injure his, the cruel comments continued to churn through Dave’s mind long after the event.
“You lose!” Samo exclaimed from within the game.
Without knowing you it is impossible to make accurate judgements about your observational skills. It is quite likely, however, that had you been present during the events described above, you would have noticed nothing more than four Swansea schoolboys bullying a chubby lad. It’s almost a certainty that you would have failed to detect the ominous individual observing them from a corner of the amusement hall, and even more doubtful that you would have seen him produce a sinister object from a gloomy pocket of the equally shadowy overcoat to which it belonged. You shouldn’t feel bad about it. This was exactly the effect he was going for. After all, being of the genus Homo sapiens, it’s not your fault your optical capabilities cover such a limited spectrum. Just allow a few more ice ages of evolution and it won’t even be a problem. For the benefit of those impatient few who cannot wait until then, I will tell you what happened next.
The mysterious figure flipped open his device, (which, as it disappointingly turns out, was an entirely non-mysterious mobile phone), and dialled shadily, as was his manner.
“Sir?” he said, in an eerie voice which complemented his appearance perfectly. “It’s Platt here. I think I’ve just found what you’re looking for.”
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home