Ryujin II

[Nightcall]

Being a dragon was not enough — I had to become a meme.

The Ryujin show went well, bringing in a crowd of 40 people who decided the reptile house just wasn’t doing it for them like the large gyrating lizard was. I ended the spectacle with an impromptu parade, spanning from the amphitheater all the way up along the monkey trail and into the gift emporium. They cheered as I took a bow and bought a matcha bottle with a red panda head top.

The man in the white suit with the deep pockets commended me, and asked me to go on Japanese television to try and save The Ryujin Memorial. I knew I was this guy’s puppet to stir interest for the park, but it was fun to become something you weren’t.

This must be what mall Santas feel like every December.

I complied, thinking about Effie and how she should see the little guy get a win on a national stage. It was time to save history.

As I waited in the zoo’s makeshift dressing room, powdering my nose and doing up my eyelashes as everybody who gets on TV does, the rich park owner guy (Judo Kahn) came in with a large box.

“Here is the new costume,” Judo said, “You have to look presentable.”

You ever see something so beautiful, so finely-tuned, that you had no other physical response but to gag? That’s what I did. There is such a thing as too perfect. This suit was made of a thread I couldn’t identify. Too smooth to be silk. Too strong to be leather. Convention apparel was on the same level as dirty gym socks compared to this thing. It reminded me of affluence. High dollar garbage tailor-made for the ultra rich... destined for the back of the closet. Never to be worn again after tonight. It sparked something in me. Not anger. No, that’s a word the wrestling community overuses. Anger is when you rip your tights or have to pull up your jocks because they keep slipping after every spot. Anger is a blast in the face with mist. This was more primal than anger. This was rage.

I put the shitty dragon suit back on.

Television Saitama, abbreviated TVS for channels 32 and 38 for Japan, was huge about supporting local businesses and usually go on-the-scene to cover their story. I sat on the outside theater’s bench, careful as not to cause more damage to this clearly fubar’d suit, and waited as the cameramen and reporter lady checked their equipment.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” the elderly woman said, smacking my dragon’s bottom lip with the microphone. Sweet Jesus, it fell off. I was a man in a colorful onesie now. “This isn’t about Ryujin. This is about your title defense against Tyler Bradford at Night of Champions. Everyone at the network wants to know your thoughts. Word is getting around that he has bid his time, sized you up, and found you wanting. Even mentions Sun Tzu. What do you say in your defense?

My Japanese is pretty broken, so for the sake of this entry I’m talking like a true son of the East, okay?

“Yeah, well, Tolkien once said it isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons. What does Sun Tzu say to that?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Neither would Tyler. You know why? Because it takes longer than an hour to read any of Tolkein’s books while you can get through Art of War in a single sh-”

Effie gleamed against the daylight, reminding me about the no-no words.

"...shuffle into the bathroom, feel me? This man is so full of himself if I rip his head off two will take its place. Maybe one of those new heads will know Sun Tzu isn't Japanese."

"He still fashions himself an icon once he beats you."

“Yeah, well, he can think the world of me. He can think the worst of me. Doesn't matter. I am the champion and he better be weary of me. All the compliments and insults don't tally up to the heart of the matter. He's not ready. "

"He hasn't lost any singles matches. He has momentum on his side."

"Momentum is for that clicky metal ball paperweight you screw around with in the office because you're bored, lady. Momentum is nothing without love. Where's the love in Tyler Bradford's eyes? He loves being a name. That's what I got from his call to me. He already thinks he can be a monster. Where's the red in those eyes? Where's those teeth and claws? What wild world has he created for himself to earn that moniker? I've fought and beat a Beast once, a rival who got the name rightfully. Tyler is so baby-poo green this far into his career it's enough to make me sick, and I'm a dad! And he wants to be a Monster? Not under my watch. Not under the night's watch."

I folded my arms. Aggression set in deeper than any buzz of hard liquor.

"It's like he felt some celestial force, some heavenly energy in the cosmos that knew I was approaching a new persona. A new madness. The Monster...The Mad Lad is at the door. I'm at the top of that mountain, ma'am, and it's all about to go sliding downhill after Night of Champions. You can call that my momentum."

The reporter appeared nervous, probably under the impression that I'd be a happier, more playful spirit for her.

"I don't have much more in the way to say about Tyler Bradford. He has my attention. There's no denying the wins he has earned. But you get enough of those and you'll fall into a false sense of security. I think that's what has happened to the gentleman. I plan to make an example of him come the pay per view. There are monsters growing in the shadows, and Tyler fancies himself one. There is danger at the edge of tomorrow. I must take back the night."

I got up from the bench, and started towards the zoo's exit when a kid with an adorable little asshole for a dog stepped in.

"Excuse me Nightcore," the grade schooler asked, looking up at me with saucers for eyes. "Can you take a picture with my Ruffie?"

I don't care if you're the captain of a murderous biker gang deep in the hills of California, when a kid asks you to do something precious, you are tasked to do it and do it well.

Kids. What won't we do for them? If you're Tyler, sadly neglect them. No good for my Effie. No good at all.

Oh boy! Oh wowzers! Unfuckingbelievable!

The Mad Lad done did the unrepeatable!