FOR LOVE OF COUNTRY
			      by Bethany Cox


     No sunlight entered the grim, cold prison. 
     Two sputtering candles set far outside its bars lent a traceable
amount of illumination, but no warmth to the cell's sole human occupant. 
Clad in nothing save a few, torn rags, the prisoner did not seem to be
fully aware of a chill that hovered upon the threshold of deadly.  His
attention was entirely fixated upon a small crack in the wall.  With the
patience of a carnivore, he waited. 
     The man was unusually large--tall by most standards, nearly gigantic
in comparison to the hunched, close-mouthed villagers of his home.  His
nearly seven-foot frame was weighted with thick, heavy muscles, built up
since he was a child from long hours of toil in the metal refinery.  Burn
marks on his chest and knees remained as a result of an unfortunate
accident involving molten lead over half a decade ago. 
     He was something of a stranger even to his own family.  His parents
had died when he was still very young--crushed beneath unsound structural
supports in the same industrial factory he himself had come to work for. 
He had been raised virtually at arm's length by two uncles who had taught
him some things about duty and love of country... but neither of them had
ever appeared to extend love of one's country too closely to love of one's
fellow citizens. 
     The man's full name was Nicholas Zangiefyedkov; most of his
co-workers knew him informally as "Comrade Zangief".  A close friend might
conceivable have the privilege of addressing him as "Nicholas"--but such
extrapolations were purely conjecture, for few dared to become to close,
literally or figuratively, to the brooding powerhouse of a man well-known
for his erratic mood swings and fits of ill-temper. 
     In the end, though, Zangief's own temper had brought the curse of the
Fates down upon him.  It all happened a mere two weeks ago, when the
Constable Inspector-General had arrived in one of his periodic appraisals
of the quality of the factory's output. 
     All plant members deferred to "the honorable" Constable Ilyovitch. 
His judgments preceded promotion and status... or termination and
disgrace.  The Constable received the full respect of all the men he
reviewed... or at least, he expected to. 
     "Comrade Zangiefyedkov!" the irascible inspector had snapped,
vehemently. "Stand at attention when you are being reviewed!"  But the
huge factory worker had not changed position.  Instead, he only continued
to operate the heavy, clanking machinery as per his job. 
     "I said_ for you to show some respect!" snarled the bristling
Constable. Still no reply.  Seething, he approached the huge laborer and
seized him by the arm, jerking him away from his task.  "I should have you
fired for such impertinence--" 
     Then Zangiefyedkov had moved, not with the slow, ponderous rhythms of
his toil, but rather with quick, fluid swiftness.  To some of those
looking on, the sudden change was more frightening than the action itself. 
The towering factory worker clasped one hand around the inspector's throat
and unceremoniously hoisted the shorter man into the air. 
     "I am not moving because the last time I was distracted, I felt hot
lead burn upon my chest," growled Comrade Zangief in his deep, throaty
voice.  A handful of co-workers present knew him just well enough to guess
that he was being extremely_ patient with his tormentor.  "Every few
months, one of your kind comes to this place, but none of you ever work_. 
I work_.  I_ work_ hard_.  So leave me be!" 
     The dangling inspector furiously and incoherently managed to gasp a
few, vitriolic threats.  "--you--will pay for this indignity--I am a
member of the Party--ack" 
     "Bah," shrugged Zangief, casually tossing Constable Ilyovitch across
the room.  The wheezing man collapsed next to the fraying chain-link fence
that divided the heavy machinery section from the refineries.  "No matter
what you think you are, my_ strength_ is much greater than yours." 
     A low moan came from the crumpled heap of discarded human being. 
"Next time I see you--I will make you beg for mercy--" 
     "So?" was the grunted reply.  "Next time we meet, I'm gonna break
your arms!" 
     ...save that Constable Ilyovitch and Comrade Zangiefyedkov never did
meet again.  For the rest of the day, and all that week, Zangief continued
his daily routine uninterrupted.  Then eight men with guns came to his
front door. 
     They tried to physically subdue him, and this time he really did
break some people's arms.  Then they tried to shoot him during the
struggle; the violence was so thick that the bullet fired into the fray
killed one of their attacking force instead.  Finally, one of the cloaked
assailants thought to hit the huge man from behind.  Not even the
formidable Comrade Zangiefyedkov could long fend off attacks from (now
seven) directions at once. 
     He was offered a confession to sign--clearly, he was a filthy,
stinking ingrate, and a disgrace to his motherland; he was guilty of
disrespect, assault, battery, and murder.  What, would he protest his
innocence of the murder? Despicable liar, one of the fine officers of the
law sent to bring you to justice lies in a wooden cabinet now!  His seven
brothers in duty all say that you brutally slew him in cold blood,
monster!  Whose word will the state believe?  Confess, and perhaps at
least God will forgive your miserable soul! 
     If he signed the confession, he might live.  If he refused to sign
it, he would be shot by the end of the week.  If he dared to put up even
the pretense of another struggle, he would be shot then and there. 
     So he confessed to everything, orally and in writing, his instinct
for survival finally influencing his actions.  And now he languished here,
in a cold cubicle of rock.  They had not served him his last, customary
meal of thin soup for over seventy-two hours now, and he hungered.  So, he
kept his attention fixed upon the fraction of the wall, and waited. 
     There! 
     He almost lunged at the slight flicker of movement, but checked
himself.  A faint twitching of whiskers could be seen.  Then a mammalian
outline, as the crack's occupant stepped out, its eyes bright, and its
hairless tail twitching. 
     It never stood a chance. 
     The prisoner dived, faster than the creature could react, almost
instantaneously crushing the rat in his huge hands.  Then he devoured his
catch entire, not wanting to waste a morsel.  If he was aware of the two
overseers monitoring his actions, he ignored them. 
     "So, this is the notorious 'Man with the Strength of Ten'?" mumbled
the first of the onlookers.  His face was hidden beneath the hood of a
deep, red cape.  "Pfaugth!  The wretched traitor is more animal than Man. 
It would be a kindness to shoot him." 
     "He did sign the confession," replied the second observer, whose
sharp, black eyes missed nothing.  "Should we be so hasty as to condemn
one who seeks our forgiveness for his crimes?" 
     "We have before." 
     "But should we now?" 
     "What, do you think we could get some use out of the hulking brute? 
You can control a horse by beating it, but the only way to control a man
like _that_ is to kill him." 
     "'Control'?  You forget yourself, comrade; in our nation, men serve
men to aspire to the common goal of brotherhood and equality for all!" 
     Perhaps the cloaked figure bit his lip, beneath that shielding hood. 
"Noted, sir." 
     "In answer to your question--yes, I believe there may yet be ways for
this one to serve his country.  His strength is such that it could
entertain the masses of humanity." 
     "You don't mean..."
     "Yes, I do."
     "Not professional wrestling!"
     "Yes."
     "Better to shoot him now and be done with it."
     "I question whether he would agree with that assessment."
     "There is still the matter of his crimes--"
     "The people of our nation cry out for the spectacle of combat. 
Strong men are common, but exceptionally_ strong men are rare.  The
managers of the prime- time shows are seeking new blood.  They would be
grateful indeed for the chance to indoctrinate one such as this man." 
     "Oh."  Then, "How grateful would they be?" 
     "Do you remember that trip to France we wanted to take but could
not?" 
     "I see." 
     "But of course, as you have already, astutely pointed out, Comrade
Nicholas Zangiefyedkov has committed some very grievous crimes against the
motherland, and must pay for them." 
     "Surely we could opt for leniency?"
     "Justice must be equal for all_ our nation's citizens."     
     "So what do you suggest?"
     "An examination of his abilities.  If he is strong enough to complete
a certain task, then he will be worthy to perform in the squared circle
for the adoration of the masses." 
     "What task is that?" 
     "A feat so momentous as to merit a pardon from God's Kingdom itself." 
     "I see.  And what would be his chances for survival, should he try to
complete this task...?" 
     The man with rapacious black eyes merely shrugged.  "At the worst, we
will merely have to vacation in the Ukraine again, this summer..." 

*****

     There are those who claim that Hell is actually a frigid wasteland,
and that the eternal, biting torment is Ice, not Fire.  Zangief was
disinclined to believe in such speculation, though.  For the panorama of
mountainous iceland about him was as beautiful as it was frigid, and how
could there ever be beauty in Hell?  No, the hooded man had been wrong. 
This test, this task that he had to undertake to prove himself worthy of
continued living, did not constrain him to walk amidst the snowy plains of
Hell.  Siberia was very cold, yes; but it was also far too breathtakingly
gorgeous to merit biblical insults. 
     Of course, Zangief might have thought more harshly of the sub-zero
wind- chill and the thigh-deep snowdrifts if they were truly enough to
overwhelm his massive endurance and freeze his limbs.  In fact, he
_shouldn't_ have been able to continue trudging, hour after hour.  He was
not clad to ward away the cold.
     He wore very little upon his enormous frame.  A pair of thin-soled,
white laced red boots, a close-fitting pair of matching briefs with a
tight, studded belt--this was all at first glance, that insulated him. 
Despite his high toughness of skin, one would still expect him to die of
exposure.  He most likely would have done so, too, if it were not for the
plain, dull bronze bracelets that he wore about his wrists.  The hooded
man had offered the nondescript items to him (from a safe distance). 
     "I suppose the Ukraine is a nice enough place," the cloaked one had
said, "but I would like to be able to see France at least once in my life. 
It would be nice to seek to learn whether French wine, women, and song are
truly as exceptional as they are purported to be.  I might not be able to
stay long enough during two weeks' sabbatical to find out for certain. 
Still, I would expect to thoroughly enjoy myself trying..." 
     Comrade Zangiefyedkov's reply had been a snarl molded into words. 
"Which one of us is a filthy, stinking ingrate, and a disgrace to his
motherland?" 
     "Don't be so personal," sniffed the shielded figure.  "You want to
survive. I want to go to France.  So, take these."  Two, glittering
bracelets were thoughtlessly discarded in the direction of the prisoner,
who made no move to pick them up.  "A hag was supposed to have cast spells
of elemental protection upon them, once.  You'll need them to last the icy
Hell that you are about to enter.  If they still work, that is.  If they
do not..."  A shrug.  "Well, the Ukraine isn't truly all that_ bad.  I
have only spent my last thirteen holidays within its borders." 
     Perhaps Zangief should have let the things molder where they had
landed.  Then again, there had been something so attractive about their
simplicity. Plain, stern, and unadorned, they seemed to reflect just a
little of his inner nature.  So, he put them on... and was later able to
trek in ever-expanding circles, looking for the object of his test, long
after he should have perished from hypothermia. 

*****

     When at last Zangief found his quarry, he did not deliberate.  He
charged to attack it, heedless of its sharp claws and fangs. 
     The old grizzly bear that he battled was clearly a survivor of many
winters.  Its deep fur was matted and tinged with grey, and its size was
tremendous, seemingly at least twice the man's own.  At first, it appeared
bewildered by the unprovoked assault; then it reared upon its hind legs,
the better to overwhelm its challenger. 
     Zangief had worried that he would not be able to find a live bear;
most of them hibernated in spurts during this time of year.  Fortunately,
bears are known to engage in a little activity even during the deepest
winter months, and so Zangief had been able to locate a lone ursoid.  Now,
all he had to do to pass his test was conquer it and survive
     The bear sought to crush him in an enfolding hug, but Zangief
anticipated the move and brought both his great hands against the sides of
the beast's head. It roared, and he shouted his own wordless cry of
defiance. 
     (I was born to do this), he thought, as he grappled with the
behemoth.  (I was born to fight.  This task is no duty, no perilous
labor--it is what I was meant to do!)  Joy surged within him; it was the
elation of matched prowess, spurred by the force of the struggle between
man and nature.  The blood and the claw-wounds were nothing to him; it was
not the same as the time he had been scarred with molten lead.  The savage
exhilaration swallowed the pain, and was all.  He struck the animal again,
and again... 
     ...until it fell away from him, unmoving on the snow-covered ground. 
A small portion of him felt absurdly depressed that the battle was over so
quickly. He leaned forward, the better to check whether or not it was
safely dead. 

*****

     Both the hooded man and his hawk-eyed superior were visibly surprised
when Zangief came trudging back with his trophy. 
     "Comrade Nicholas Zangiefyedkov!" snapped the caped figure.  "You
were to bring back the head_ of the bear, not its entire, stinking
carcass!" 
     "I did_ bring you back its head," muttered the former factory worker,
allowing the unconscious beast to fall off his back.  "The head is still
attached to the rest of its body because it is still alive.  I will not
kill this proud animal that is the living symbol of our nation."  He kept
his words guarded, but non-hostile, for a number of trained security
officers with firearms watched his every move. 
     "Whatever," yawned the man with sharp eyes.  "Okay, you passed the
test.  You'll get turned over to the ring tomorrow.  Guys, take him away." 
     "Wait!" piped the hooded man, suddenly.  "He is still wearing my
bracelets!" 
     "You want these trinkets?" shrugged Zangief, over the motionless body
of the bear.  "Come and take them from me."  An unkind smile formed across
his face. 
     "Comrade," addressed the hawkish man to his fellow judge, "come
inside. You can buy as much jewelry as you want, in France.  Let the
prisoner be." 
     "But--"  The cloaked man's eyes nervously flitted back to Zangief,
who still wore that dangerously challenging grin.  Zangief returned the
stare, appraising the lesser man like a butcher gauging the quality of a
slab of raw meat. 

******

     Zangief adapted quickly to his new life of professional wrestling. 
He loved it, much more than he had ever loved his tedious factory job. 
Surely, his nation was the most benevolent country in the world, for it
had given him the chance to achieve his fullest potential. 
     He trained for countless hours in the Art of Sambo, and further
invented new throws and holds of his own.  He freely borrowed moves from
other professionals as well, learning and creating dozens of different
ways to smash a man's face into the ground, or to forcibly pump a person's
gut.  Soon, his strength and skill were of such renown that he was invited
to compete in international wrestling arenas. 
     Some of his admirers claimed that he accepted challenge after
challenge out of fierce respect for his country.  They were only partially
correct.  Zangief loved his country, but he loved to pulverize his
opponents even more. 
     What else might one expect of a man who, once every year, would
return to Siberia in order to wrestle bears for fun?