Round Six
By: Lee Thomas Penn
-Son of-
Thomas Lee Penn
Jean Vachier-Lastaff stared at his
opponent and Russian chess-boxing champion, Vlad Korsakov, from across the ring.
Jean’s lips were swollen, and a swift left hook had closed his right eye in
round 4. He danced, pirouetting and chasseing before the pulpous demigod. Vlad
sneered.
First
position! Advance! Right, Left, Right! Defend! Right, Right! Allegro! Duck! A
la seconde! Flourish!
The
combatants fluttered around the ring in front of an audience of 4,000 at the
Palais des Sports. Over 70,000 televisions displayed Vlad’s stolid form as he
dealt blow after blow to the nimble Jean.
“Korsakov
strikes left, but Lastaff dodges!” spoke the silky French commentator. “Lastaff
feints with his right, and he lands a blow to the nose with his left! Now
Korsakov is advancing: Oh! A heinous blow to Lastaff’s stomach. It looks like
Lastaff is struggling out there…”
Jean
Vachier-Lastaff tried to focus on the next round, Round 7, of chess. He was
only two moves away (duck!) from checkmating his opponent and winning the
match. If he could just stay focused until the end of this round (block!
block!), then he would move his queen here (dodge!) and move his knight…
Slam!
Jean was a
child at the park and Big Mitya was mean and Big Mitya had no father so he was
mean to all of the first-years and besides he was Russian and looked greasy
like snails and Jean didn’t like him no one liked him he was a foreigner and
Jean told him so and Big Mitya pulled Jean off of the monkey bars and slam!
slam! slam! hit Jean’s head against the pavement and it wasn’t a fair fight and
teacher sent Big Mitya to the prefect’s office and Mitya called him a svoloch’ but Jean had a com-motion cèrèbrale and cried and threw
up his quiche in front of the girls which wasn’t fair either but the girls
screamed and Jean wanted to laugh and chase them but his head hurt so much he
didn’t want to die where was his mom why couldn’t he stop crying he hated Big
Mitya and his cold face and…
“Korsakov
lands a hook on Lastaff’s right side! He’s cuffed Lastaff on the ear! This may
be the end for Lastaff! And… Oh! There’s the bell!”
The bell
chimed and the roar of the crowd rushed back like the swells in the South Sea
of France. He fell head-first into a wave, and, when he opened his left eye,
his manager was slapping him on the face.
“Jean!
Jean! Stay with me! The match! You’re so close!”
And Jean
was forced to drink water, stripped of his boxing gloves, and ushered over to
his seat for four minutes of chess. It was his turn. He stared drunkenly at the
board.
“You do not
look so goot,” said Vlad.
Jean waved the annoyance away with
the flick of his hand. Where was he going to move? Was this the same game as
before? The board was swaying, but the pieces somehow remained at attention.
“Warning on
Jean Vachier-Lastaff! You have ten seconds to make a move!”
“Quiche,”
he mumbled.
Vlad grinned. “Yes, friend!
Fantastic idea you have! When we get back into ring, I will turn your body
fluffy like eggs, knead your face like dough, make your head fiery like oven.
We will both share hearty petite-dèj, eh?
Hahaha!”
Jean picked
up his queen. It swayed over the board like a phantom. He started to set it
down. Vlad’s smile collapsed as the realization dawned on him that he was about
to lose. His calculating, albeit tenderized, mind could envision Jean’s chain
of moves. His world became surreal, panicked, desperate. The crowd screamed
madly.
He watched
the little Frenchman’s face – senseless, dripping with perspiration, swaying
back and forth like a cobra’s – and he saw a wine-red rivulet drip from Jean’s
nose. Jean’s left eye fixated fiercely upon the spot between Vlad’s two good
eyes, and without warning Jean struck across the table with a wide,
bare-knuckle right hook. A shallow cut bled where Jean’s fist grazed the left
side of Vlad’s chin. Jean’s body, carried by the momentum, fell and caught the
left side of the chessboard, spilling pieces like so many casualties in the
Patriotic War of 1812. He landed in a heap on the floor and did not move.
“Oh my
goodness, ladies and gentlemen! This is unprecedented!” spoke the announcer.
“Jean Vachier-Lastaff has struck Vlad Korsakov outside of the ring! The judges
are…Yes! Jean has been disqualified! It looks like the tough and mighty Vlad
has defeated the quick and clever Jean! Medical personnel are rushing to the
ringside now…”
Vlad was
holding his chin and pushing a concerned doctor away. Two paramedics kneeled
next to Jean’s body and turned him over. While the one rinsed away the grime
from Jean’s face, the other held two fingers to Jean’s neck, head cocked as if
listening to a parley between spirits. He readjusted his fingers. The crowd
grew quieter and quieter until all were hushed.
The second doctor looked at the
first and said, “Mort.”
“Oh my God. Ladies and gentlemen,
they have just pronounced Jean Vachier-Lastaff dead. Wait… Yes, it is affirmed.
My condolences go out to Jean’s family. This is truly a terrible loss for
France. God rest his soul.”
Vlad, still in his seat, stared
dumbly at Jean’s body and the doctors until Vlad’s coach came and took him
away.
In an interview the next morning
with ESPN, Vlad stared straight into the television camera and said, “This is
brutal sport, yet never have I faced more fierce and commendable opponent in
all of my time. In last moment, Jean refused to give in without taking one last
shot.” And with that, he pointed to the scar on his chin.
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