LotS/The Story/The Prince & The Pixels/Count of Monte Fisto

Count of Monte Fisto

Count of Monte Fisto

"Hey, are you Glass Rautha?" Telemachus asked.

"Who's asking?" the boxer replied. He looked the boy up and down with a sneer.

"I am."

"Yeah, I'm Rautha. But after tonight no one's going to be calling me 'Glass'. I'll be Iron Rautha... Steel Rautha... Diamond Rautha!" He raised his gloved fists in the air, stared up at the heavens -- or at least the damp, stained ceiling of the jobber's dressing room -- and closed his eyes. "I can already hear them chanting. Die-mond Row-tha! Die-mond Row-tha!"

"That's great... But I need to-"

"Die-mond Row-tha! Die-mond Row-tha!" The boxer opened his eyes, frowned, lowered his arms, and looked down at Telemachus. "What're you doing in here anyway? You're not on tonight's fight card."

"Not yet... But I want to be. Step down, and let me fight King Mega instead."

"What? You want me to give up my big break, my chance at the big time, my one shot at-"

Telemachus didn't have time for this. He sprang up and nailed Rautha with a right cross on the tip of his prominent chin. The glass-jawed boxer hit the ground before the boy landed.

The door to the locker room opened. Telemachus turned towards the newcomer, fist clenched and ready to mete out more of the same. But it wasn't another boxer. It was the portly referee who stood there in his black slacks, white shirt, and bright red cap. Telemachus was no veteran of the squared circle, but even he knew that beating up the referee would be inadvisable.

"Mamma mia!" the ref exclaimed. "What-a happened to Rautha?"

"He..." Telemachus began. "He knocked himself out shaving!"

The referee sighed and stroked the end of his prodigious moustache.

"Again? Madonna! But he's a-supposed to be fighting King Mega tonight! And who do you think the promoters are a-going to blame-a? It's a-me! Minchia!"

"Hey, why don't I just take his place?"

"You? You're just a bambino! King Mega will-a kill you!"

"Hey, yesterday I saved the president from ninja. This morning I killed a big monkey monster. I think I can handle a boxing match."

The referee shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands in the air.

"Madonna! You want-a to get-a yourself killed? You be-a my guest!"

---

"How long have you known the prince?" Arla asked.

"It feels like forever," Talia said.

They were milling around a corner of Telemachus' bedroom, running idle hands and eyes over some of the inexhaustible supply of knickknacks which seemed to fill the chamber and turn it into a cross between a museum and a scrapyard. Their places at the prince's bedside had been usurped by the latest psionic healers to arrive and lend their minds.

"Has he really killed people?"

"One or two..."

The girl glanced into the gunslinger's eyes.

"Okay, maybe it was one or two thousand," Talia amended. "It's hard to keep track. Things happen pretty fast when you're fighting."

"That's... terrible."

"They all deserved it though."

Arla frowned. Talia decided to change the subject.

"Hey, check this out!"

She picked up a small disc that was nestled between stacks of assorted toy robots, set it down on the floor, and pressed a button on its side. A large holographic screen popped into being -- taller than either of the two women, and twice as wide as it was tall. Its expanse was dominated by the near life-size images of two people in battlesuits punching each other. Behind the bellicose pair, thousands of spectators were screaming their approval or lack thereof.

"This is from when the captain was in Twisted Steel. Tel loved watching him fight."

"The captain?"

"Willy. You know, the Jian. Back on the Child of Heaven, we had a whole bunch of captains. But when we said 'the captain', everyone knew who we meant. That's how great he is."

"We should take this over to the prince."

"Reckon it might do some good?"

"Yes, if it reminds him of happy times and good friends."

---

"Phage drek, chummer!"

King Mega yelled out the serving suggestion. But in the absence of any available 'drek', he fed Telemachus his fist instead. It proved an unenjoyable repast.

The boy flew across the ring and slammed spine-first into the turnbuckle. He slumped against the corner, his arms stretched out on either side -- draped across the ropes like he was being crucified. And from the way his face felt, his groggy mind doubted crucifixion would hurt any more. His dazed vision roamed across the ring, searching for the chunks of brain matter he was sure had been knocked out of his skull.

"Go on, scav! You phobed? Baino over here and get wrecked!"

King Mega beckoned him over with both fists.

Telemachus pulled his arms off the ropes, took a step out of the corner, and fell on his butt. The podgy referee bustled over like a waiter preparing to serve his last meal.

"A-one! A-two! A-three!"

The boy flopped over and dragged himself towards the ropes -- those dear sweet friends he had been a fool to abandon.

"A-four! A-five!"

He grabbed hold of them and tried pulling himself up. His legs were like rubber underneath him.

"A-six! A-seven!"

But somehow he made it to his feet. The count stopped. And the beating continued.

King Mega's fists knocked his feeble guard aside and thundered against his ribs, his skull, his brain. His whole body shook with every impact. His spine had just burst out and landed in the crowd... He was sure of it.

"Call this a rumble?" King Mega asked. "Kauf tickets for this drek? Find me someone with proper fighting meat on their bones!"

A sweeping left hook battered Telemachus' head. He felt something under his back. There was blackness in front of him. Blackness and distant lights. Distant, twinkling lights.

"A-one!"

It was peaceful here.

"A-two!"

A good place to rest.

"A-three!"

To sleep.

"A-four!"

Yes... Sleep.

"A-five!"

Sleep forever.

"A-six!"

"Tel!" The voice... a man's voice... drifted in front of him like a black bird. No... A dancing dragon.

"A-seven!"

"Tel! Get up!"

"Eight!"

"Are you going to let this fat sack of crap beat you?"

The darkness parted. The lights blazed above him.

"A-nine!"

The universe shifted around him, reality tumbling and turning like it'd taken a big hook of its own. When it righted itself, he was on his feet. And no one was counting.

Telemachus raised his guard. He wasn't done. Not yet. Not ever.

Across the ring, King Mega lowered his arms. His eyes widened. The boy was up... That kind of beating, and the boy was up.

The bell rang. And they both breathed a sigh of relief.

Telemachus staggered over to his corner and dropped onto the stool. A face appeared next to his, between the ropes.

"You can win this, Tel."

"Willy? What're you doing here?"

"Saving your butt, as usual."

"He hurt me bad, Willy."

"You're still alive, aren't you?"

"I think so..."

"Then he hasn't hurt you enough to win. The next round. Just one round, and the fight's yours. One more round."

"Think it's going to take more than that..."

"No. Not if you fight smart. Think, Tel. Think. Look how much he loves to open that big mouth of his. He leaves himself open. When he does that, pop him there. Then work the body. He's got big muscles on his arms, but I bet that flabby gut of his is weak."

"Okay! I'll do it!"

The bell rang. The boy got to his feet.

"Tel! Don't forget the most important thing..."

"What's that?" he asked, turning back.

"I believe in you."

Telemachus looked across the ring at King Mega.

"You're about to get rumpled, scav! I'll knock the noosing meat right out of you!"

"Keep talking," the boy murmured, as he stepped forward to meet him.

Some of King Mega's punches missed. Telemachus was focused now. He dodged and weaved, letting them slip by his small body. Others hit him hard. But this time he took them without so much as flinching. Pain didn't matter. Broken ribs didn't matter. Only the right moment mattered. He didn't launch any punches of his own. Let King Mega think he had nothing left to throw at him. Let him get cocky. All that mattered was the opening. And there it was...

"Time to get rumpled, chummer!" The burly boxer raised one arm in the air.

Telemachus struck. Blood and teeth rained on the canvas.

"Should have worn a mouthguard, 'chummer'," the boy said.

King Mega groaned. His gloves rose to his injured maw. His flabby gut was wide open... So the boy punched. His little arms moved like pistons, throwing out a flurry of powerful blows. Each one thudded into soft flesh, pounding it like they were trying to tenderize a great slab of meat.

The fat boxer reeled. He staggered backwards with each fresh blow. It was time to finish him...

"I believe in you."

Telemachus' fists glowed.

"Kasan!"

He punched, a tremendous uppercut straight to the abused abdomen. King Mega's guts exploded.

Pixelated blood, gore, and excrement spewed out in all directions. King Mega looked down.

"Drek!" he groaned.

Then he fell.

"Tell me why you unleashed Grislak!" Telemachus said, gazing down at his dying foe. "Tell me!"

"Wreck off..."

The boy stomped down in the middle of King Mega's churned up guts. The boxer screamed.

"Professor Squiller! She told me to! Professor Squiller!"

Telemachus walked towards the ropes. Behind him the referee scurried over to the dying pugilist.

"A-one! A-two..."

Telemachus stepped between the ropes, walked down the stairs, and headed up the aisle. Professor Squiller, he mused. Interesting...