Balrog

				BALROG


	"You ain't shit," she said.  "You ain't shit, you ain't never  
been shit, an' you ain't never gonna amount to shit!"
	It wasn't as if that were the first time his mother ever said  
that to him.  Hell, no.  If she'd said it once, she' said it a  
thousand times.  It or something a lot like it.  He wasn't worth the  
offal that the neighbors' dogs left in their front yard.  He was a  
worthless, lazy bum like the no-good vagrant his father was.
	He didn't remember much of his father.  A big, black man,  
toweringly huge, who he had better not bother; that was most of what  
stayed in his mind.  His father had been so strong that the man did  
not need a belt or a rod or something in order to give him a  
whipping.  No, his old man could beat him savagely enough with fists  
alone, if he broke any of the rules--and there were so many rules, he  
always seemed to be breaking one or another.
	His father had used to beat his mother a few times, too.   
Probably not as much as his son, though.  Still, every so often  
there'd be friction, or some argument or other, and his father would  
shut his mother up.  For a while, at least.
	His parents argued mostly about money.  That, and why his  
father didn't have a job.  You ain't no cripple, his mother would  
say, so why can'cha act like a man?  You just gonna waste in front a'  
TV all day?  When you gonna put that brawn a' yours to work?
	Shut up, bitch, his father would reply.  I can't get any  
better shit for you now if I busted my ass twelve hours a day.  So  
you just shut your mouth.
	Sometimes, she would be sensible, and she would shut up.   
Other times, she'd be stupid and press, piss his father off, and get  
slapped around for it.  

	Maybe it was her shrewish tongue that made his father leave,  
in the end.  Then again, maybe his father took off because of a son  
that couldn't hack it outside the 'hood without screwing up.  He'd  
been about nine when his father just took two brews and walked on out  
of there, never to return.  Some six months later, it began to sink  
in for real that the old man wasn't coming back.
	He knew for sure that the old man was gone because he'd  
pestered his mother about him, and she'd finally said as much between  
puffs of cigarette smoke.  Then she'd started in on him again.  But  
it wasn't the first time she'd said it to him, so who cared?
	For what it was worth, though, he later proved her wrong.  He  
learned to fight other men with his fists, and got good at it.  Real  
good.  He smashed his way to a Champion Heavyweight title.  He was  
tough, he was a winner, he was a man now and crap, he'd proved them  
all wrong.
	Or at least, he thought he had.  For a time.

	The emissary of the Shadoloo organized crime ring had come to  
this seedy, foul-smelling Los Angeles bar as the Shadoloo Lord's  
"ambassador".  She was looking to speak to a man who had formerly  
been connected to the Shadoloo.  M. Bison had gauged that this person  
would serve "passably" as a "lesser barrier" for his blood-sport  
martial arts contest.  In other words, the tournament's entrants  
would have to defeat this former boxing champion long prior to  
earning the privilege of facing M. Bison, the "King of Destruction",  
in single combat.  The Shadoloo Lord was determined to crush only the  
best, in this display of power he was sponsoring.
	The ambassador adjusted the shoulder pads of her dress, an  
economical gesture that allowed her to check whether her concealed  
weapons were in place without making her actions seem too obviously  
hostile.  She was as prepared as she could be to confront the  
heavyset, brooding African-American sitting next to the bar's  
counter.  She doubted that she was in severe danger of an attack from  
him personally, provided that she played her cards right, but it was  
still good to be prepared.
	She had studied the Shadoloo files on this man.  He'd once  
been a member of a gang with connections to the Shadoloo (the Skulls,  
they'd been called.)  The gang was long since broken up and  
destroyed; the Shadoloo now had alliances with other gangs to  
distribute its drugs in return for a cut of the profits.  Still, the  
files on this man remained.

	The motherfucker has a gun.
	That was what went through his mind over and over again, that  
one day.  He was seventeen, and with the Skulls in order to make some  
money.  Where else could he get the cash for food and a place to  
sleep?  His mother had died some three years ago, and he needed to do  
something for a living.
	She'd perished from a hot shot.  He never knew if it was be  
accident, or if the dealers who sold her that last dose of smack had  
rigged it to kill her.  She had been busted for the stuff a few  
times; they probably had every reason to rub her out before the cops  
used her to narc on them.  But he never knew for certain.
	Yeah, he'd missed her... a lot.  Despite all her drugs, and  
transitory lovers, and verbal abuse... she was his mother.  But she'd  
already been dead for a long time.  She'd been using the junk for  
years, and by the time she'd died of it, it was all that she could  
think about.  There'd been days when she didn't know who he was.
	Now that she was gone, he balked too much at the thought of  
trying to hook up with one of her relations.  He wasn't about to go  
back to that old shit routine, not so long as he could hang out with  
the Skulls and make some real money, for a change.
	He got to fight people when he was with the Skulls, too.  It  
was even kind of fun, in a savage, violent sort of way.  Who gave a  
damn about whether the world thinks you're scum, when you could  
flatten any fool that looked at you cross-eyed?  The Skulls were at  
war with another gang, but he could take care of himself in their  
rumbles.  He wasn't afraid of anyone or anything.
	But this was different.  The motherfucker had a gun.  The  
stupid, idiot homeboy rival had a fucking gun and was pointing it at  
him.
	He wasn't sure if he recognized the moron; they might have  
met before, and not just in a major rumble.  Sometimes, he would feel  
tough enough to go prowling outside his own territory, and if he  
caught anyone wearing the wrong colors, he'd teach the fool a lesson.   
So maybe he'd met this dumb kid before.  And maybe that was why the  
motherfucker was levelling a gun at him.
	Red rage flashed before his eyes as he stared at the pointed  
metal tube in front of him.  He didn't think; he acted, charging  
forward and lashing out at the stupid shit before the gun went off.   
He knocked the young fool down easily with his superior size, but his  
fury didn't lessen.  The motherfucker had pointed a gun at him,  
dammit!  You don't use guns at a rumble, unless you want it to get  
bloody.  He'd seen bloody rumbles before.  He'd seen other members of  
the Skulls with their chests and brains shot out, limp and crushed  
and smelling of wet blood and shit.  He'd seen--
	"Hey Balrog, man, cut it out!" whined Sam's high-pitched  
voice behind him.  "It's over man, the cops 'r' comin'.  Come on!"
	And screw it all if he didn't know the stupid kid he'd been  
pounding on in the first place.  The young imbecile couldn't have  
been older than thirteen.  He wasn't any previous target of Balrog's,  
out for a payback; Balrog had never gone out hunting for such small  
fish.  The kid was just some idiot motherfucker with a gun--
	"C'mon, man!" Sam nearly cried, tugging at his sleeve.   
Balrog listlessly responded, although his eyes remained fixed on the  
kid who still wasn't moving.  Blood spattered Balrog's fists, dripped  
off them, onto the ground.  The shrieking wail of a siren screamed in  
the air.  The concrete rumble grounds were nearly empty, now, except  
for Balrog, Sam, and the motherfucker who had dropped his gun a long  
time ago.
	Balrog cut his ties with the Skulls soon after that, and  
started hitting the boxing circuit instead.  He was exceptionally  
large and physically strong, for his age (perhaps because he took  
after his father?) and so, he had no trouble getting into the ring.   
The money wasn't all that great, but it continued to support him  
after the Skulls were rubbed out.
	Maybe he should've tried to help his old gang--but that  
wouldn't have made the nightmares go away.  He still had bad dreams  
about that last rumble, dreams with the kid stretched out on the  
ground.  Sometimes the kid's chest would still be rising and falling  
in his dreams, and he would toss and turn a bit.
	Sometimes, the kid's chest wouldn't move at all, though, and  
Balrog would wake up screaming.  At times, it was so bad that he'd  
look at his fists and still see the blood on them, six years later.

	"Hey, man.  Wha'tcha wanna order?" came the cool, quiet voice  
of the strawberry-haired bartender.  She tossed her head to the side  
a little, and eyed the withdrawn boxer, waiting for an answer.
	Ever since he lost his title of Heavyweight Boxing Champion,  
Balrog spent a lot of time in her business.  For all she knew, he did  
nothing with his life but box in an empty city alley and drink in  
bars.  Even right now, his dull red boxing gloves lay next to where  
he hunched, resting his elbows on her bar counter.
	He was wearing his "fighting clothes" too (no surprise  
there).  A blue jersey with the sleeves raggedly ripped off clung to  
his upper body; the garment was at best haphazardly tucked into a  
thin-fabriced pair of shorts.  His tightly laced shoes might have  
looked heavy and clumsy, at first, but she had seen him fight on TV,  
and she knew how fast he could skate in them, if he wanted to.
	His black, curly hair happened to be shaved in some weird,  
angular pattern.  It literally framed his face with pointed  
triangles, making him look a little like the demon he called himself  
after.  But only a little.  The man who frequented her bar was too  
consumed with depression to really appear demonic.  He kept his eyes  
so downcast that she wasn't sure what color they were.  Probably  
brown, but she wasn't sure.
	"I said, wha'tcha wanna order, man?" she repeated, a bit  
slower and more firmly, to the unmoving person on the bar stool.
	"Thought my credit was spent," he muttered at last, without  
looking up.
	"It is.  The woman over there just bought you a drink.  She  
said to get you whatever you wanted."  Balrog turned his head  
slightly, the better to catch a glimpse of his benefactor.  She stood  
some twenty feet away, eyeing him dispassionately.
	She appeared unfamiliar; in fact, he doubted that she was  
from Las Vegas.  She certainly wasn't a known, common whore, like  
some of the other white women who frequented this place.  Her black  
dress was fine, but very conservative; all that it exposed was her  
hands and head.  She would have been prettier if not for the  
stressed, harried wear upon her face.  Her hair was tied back, and  
slightly frazzled; presumably, it hadn't been brushed in a while.
	As soon as they made eye contact, she curtsied.  She  
literally curtsied, stiffly bending to one knee as she held her jet  
skirt in either hand, humbly bowing her head.
	This chick was weird.
	But she had bought him a drink, and so he might as well enjoy  
it.  "Bourbon," he grunted to the strawberry-haired bartender.  "Be  
sure to chill it, you hear?"  He didn't turn his head as the  
black-dressed white chick approached, figuring that she could go  
ahead and make the first move.
	She did not sit next to him.  Instead, she remained standing  
a short distance away, and waited patiently.  She didn't speak until  
after he had received his drink and sampled it.  The booze was warm  
enough to gag on and tinny besides, but hey.  The two things he liked  
best in the world were bourbon and women.  A little more of both, and  
maybe, just maybe, he could forget the humiliating defeat that had  
sunk him into this miserable claptrap in the first place.
	"Do I have the honor of addressing Mr. Ronald Tolkein  
Jackson?" she asked at last, respectfully.  So this chick had heard  
of him, had she?  Well, he'd better set the broad straight on his  
name, and set her now.
	"My name is Balrog.  I don't let anyone use anything else,  
not even you, gorgeous.  You hear?"  Actually, addressing her as  
"gorgeous" was doubtless an exaggeration, at best.  Oh, she might  
have the potential to get tarted up and look fine, if she tried; as  
it was, with no makeup and plenty of stress lines, she wasn't more  
than average.  Still, he wasn't in a position to be choosy, not any  
more.  The ladies no longer flocked to his side, not since the day he  
lost his title.
	"Mr. Balrog, I am an emissary from the 'company', come to  
discuss business.  Would you be willing to talk?"
	No buts about it; this chick was definitely weird.  Whoever  
heard of a line like that?  "Around here, the women come to discuss  
only one kind 'a business, gorgeous.  But go ahead.  I'm listenin'."
	She curtsied again (man, but this chick was weird!) and  
quietly explicated the basic, formal terms of her "company's" offer.   
Geez, why the hell was she acting so dead?  She was treating him with  
the same, polite deference that an undertaker might use to relatives  
of the deceased.
	"And just why should I fight in your tournament?" he mumbled,  
getting a little too put off by this chick's morbid attitude to even  
call her "gorgeous" anymore.
     "I do not know."
     "What if I decide I don't want to do it?"
     "I do not know.  The 'company' may simply ignore you.  Or, they  
may be upset by your refusal.  I cannot say.  I am under orders to  
speak something to you, though, should you say that you will not  
participate."
     "Oh, yeah?"
     "Yes."  She curtsied again.
     "Dammit, broad, will you stop doing that?  What's your problem,  
anyway?"  She reminded him of a raven--a ragged-feathered,  
carrion-eater perched with wings folded as it regarded the next  
potential roadkill.
     He was the ex-champ, the man who'd crushed a hundred men if he'd  
ever crushed one on his way to the Heavyweight title.  Even if he'd  
lost the fame and glory, even if all he did now was scrap for spare  
change and rot--he was still the dangerous one.  At six and a half  
feet, 225 pounds, he was the one she had better show respect to, or  
else--
     Except that she was being respectful.  It could be no act.   
Crap.  The first female to solicit him since the day everything came  
crashing down just happened to be one of the walking dead.  She  
wasn't one of the strung-out junkies slowly frying out her brains on  
a steady diet of poison, but she had a similar, sickly look.  He made  
the comparison based on experience.
     Maybe he could shock some life into her.
     "I will not participate.  Your 'company' President can-" and  
then he told her where old Bison could go, and what he could do.
     The raven tensed, shifting her stance slightly. She glared for a  
moment--and then the emotion faded.  It slipped away from her, like  
rainwater dripping off her wings.  

     Then she drew a plain slip of white paper, seemingly out of thin  
air, and read from it tonelessly.  "I am instructed to repeat the  
following to you:  'Nothing that you do now has any value.'"

     The emissary did not understand for certain why the taunt that  
the Shadoloo Lord had dictated to her should strike such an  
inflammatory reaction (perhaps because it had some basis in truth?)   
Still, he wouldn't have given her the words if they had been  
meaningless, so she was prepared.  She weaved to the side, moving  
just out of range of Balrog's sudden lunge.
     "Don't you TALK to me like that, you--" he bellowed, aiming a  
swing at her to silence her lying, shrilling raven's caw--but she  
wasn't there.   He felt something prick his exposed forearm instead,  
and suddenly standing up became a chore.
     "What-" he gasped, and then he couldn't see any longer, much  
less stand.  The last thing he heard was the sharp retort of the  
strawberry-haired bartender.
     "If he's dead, then you'd better be able to pay off his tab."

     He came to on a filthy couch next to a men's room that smelled  
like it hadn't been cleaned since Carter was president.
     "Wha'...?"  His right arm throbbed, and his entire body felt  
stiff and filthy.  But he was alive, and well enough to stagger out  
to the front of the bar and demand an explanation.
     "She paid off your tab," the bartender shrugged.  "Told us to  
put you up for the night until you recovered from the toxin, in  
return for a slight 'service charge'.  She also left this," and the  
drink-server passed him a note scribbled in scratchy, bird-track  
pencil.
     You are in fact very wise, the note read.  Returning to the  
company's employment can only destroy you.  It would in truth be more  
valuable for you to do anything else with your life.  I regret having  
to say what I did, but I was under strict orders.  I hope that there  
are no hard feelings. 

     "'No hard feelings', huh?" he muttered to himself, tightening  
his grip on the note until he nearly crumpled it.
     Well... perhaps his sudden fit of rage had been misdirected,  
after all.  She hadn't wanted to insult him; she was just Bison's  
messenger-lackey, repeating the old crimelord's words.
     Plus... does the truth qualify as an insult?  He really was  
leading a worthless, valueless, miserable existence here.  A year  
after the fact, and he still couldn't comprehend how he'd lost his  
old title.  

     You ain't shit, you ain't never been shit, and you ain't never  
gonna amount to--
     "NO!" he roared, suddenly slamming the note down on the bar  
counter.  A few heads turned his way, but not very many.
     "Got a problem, man?" inquired the bartender coolly... and from  
a safe distance away.
     "I'm goin' on the underground circuit," he snarled to her.  "I'm  
gonna show all those fools the true meanin' 'a power, do you hear me,  
woman?  I'm gonna teach 'em--" here, he brought his fists up before  
his eyes--"I'm gonna teach 'em that sometimes a man's two fists are  
all that can save his butt!"
     "Sure, Balrog.  Whatever you say."
     "Gimme another bourbon, woman.  And this time, if you don't  
chill it, I'm gonna start breakin' things."
     "I suppose that means you want ice, or something."
     "Move your ass, already."

Bethany Cox
Carleton College
coxb@carleton.edu