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The midday sun shone in all of its merciless glory on the deserted battleground, scorching the sandy ground below and draining the very water from what few bushes had survived the early morning heat. The wall-like structures scattered here and there in the arena had not been spared from the cruel rays either, their rough surfaces now seemingly closer in temperature to large cubes of magma than the simple rock they were originally made of. Even the air had become unbreathable from how uncomfortably dry it was. The mighty heatwave plagued the battlefield from end to end, ready to answer with hostility any sign there could still be life forms daring to cross the rays’ path.
And yet, in spite of everything, a middle-aged man with olive hair framing his cheekbones had managed to find refuge from the sun behind one of the rocky walls spread across the arena. Quiet as a mouse he waited for his opponent to show herself, to make a wrong move and let her location be discovered. “The poison’s getting closer”, Chuck thought, eyeing the acidic clouds dissolving enemy carcasses as they swallowed the arena little by little. “That marmocchia* should come out soon.” That was what he hoped, anyway. Not feeling the sun directly on his head didn’t mean he had successfully escaped the heat infused in the air, after all. He took a mental note to avoid blazers or wool scarves with this weather next time. *[Young kid/brat (female)]
Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice the slight movement coming from a nearby bush, or the tiny portion of cherry red helmet that could be seen poking out from the grassy surface. Keyword: almost.
Wasting no time, Chuck’s arms swiftly propelled his wheelchair forward like pistons moving a locomotive’s wheels. The plan was simple: dash towards the little girl, have her inhale the toxic steam he’d rigged his top hat to emit, boom, he acquired a winner-sized portion of bragging rights. Simple as that. As his chair sprinted in the bush’s direction, he leant forward in his attacking stance…
…but a tiny rock laying on the ground turned out to have other plans.
Chuck could swear his heart stopped for an instant as his wheelchair dangerously tilted to the side, and all hope was gone when immediately thereafter his weight unbalanced to the right. An especially loud “CAZZO!” escaped his throat as he fell face-first on the ground, enabling the warm sand to cling to his face and hair.
-“Oltre al danno la beffa, ci mancava solo la sabbia negli occhi…”*- he muttered, opting to use a way of saying rather than another cuss, as a hand tried (with little success) to cleanse his eyes and locks of the hundreds of minuscule grains. *[Roughly, “Adding insult to injury, sand in the eyes was just what I needed”]
Meanwhile beside him stood the marmocchia from earlier. Bonnie wore a smile on her face, a helmet on her head, and a long-sleeved jumpsuit, which hid a little grenade clutched in her chubby hand. Chuck, who had turned his head to face her, could not see her weapon but knew from experience her oversized clothes where meant to help with the concealing, which in turn kept up the "innocent, defenseless little angel" façade she liked to trick new, unexperienced brawlers with.
-“So. I’m guessing I’m not the winner here, now am I.”- The older man told the girl, stating a fact more than asking a question. The hat he used as a weapon was now on the ground, and though it was within arm's reach he had a feeling any attempt made to retrieve it would have resulted in a mini-grenade or two (or three) straight to his face. He couldn't just get up and pin her on the ground either, mostly because it had been years since last time he had intentionally moved anything below waist-level. And just plain giving up would result in…yeah. While Chuck always tried his best to maintain a glass-half-full attitude, he had no way of denying all scenarios would inevitably result in the same miserable outcome: Bonnie acquiring a winner-sized portion of bragging rights, as he spent the following days studying strategies and weeping in a corner while recalling the many times he had got THIS close to 1st place before someone just came and obliterated his dreams.
Back to reality, Bonnie shook her head as an answer to the rhetorical question. –“This is my time to shine.”- Her lips were curled into her usual mischievous grin that could almost be described as toothy wasn’t it for the handful of baby teeth which either had fallen out or were about to. Chuck sighed and shut his eyes whilst turning back his head, bracing himself for his incoming demise. Instead of an explosion, he heard a voice. –“Wait,”- Bonnie asked, -“What does that word mean?”-
Chuck cautiously opened his eyes and turned to face her. –“What word?”- -“That one you said when you fell! ‘Cat-so’!”-
…If that wasn’t awkward. –“Uh,”- the green-haired man racked his brain for an answer, preferably one that wasn’t the truth. He couldn’t just teach cuss words to someone who hardly even knew how to write down her own name, per l’amor del Cielo*! –“Well little one, it means ‘no’. What else am I supposed to shout when I fall down? ‘Yes!’ ?”- he told her, still not believing the world’s fattest lie had been hiding in his mouth the whole time. *[For Heaven’s sake!]
-“Oh, okay.”- And then she tossed a grenade on his face.
~~~~
Whoever had designed the brawling arenas was of remarkable skill. The many fields intended for different variants of the game were aligned in such a way to form an open ring, leaving an unoccupied spot to act as the entrance. The arenas encircled a lounge bar, located exactly in the center so that it would take every brawler roughly the same time to reach it, no matter what mode they were fresh out of. It wasn’t that big of a place, but it was comfortable nonetheless. Plus, the drinks and snacks there knew no rival (well, except for those served at Barley’s. But that’s beside the point).
Inside the lounge Chuck sat half-dead in his wheelchair, arms dangling lifelessly by his sides while his head was slumped backwards, mouth agape as he breathed in the chill radiated by the God-given air conditioner. There was an armchair close by where a boy with pale hair sipped a can of Fanta while awkwardly staring at him. If the child had to be honest he would say that the more he watched the man lay there motionless, the more he seemed to resemble a handful of overcooked pasta someone had tried to salvage by making a puppet with a flaccid spaghetti body.
-“Uhhh…hey, uncle Chuck…”- By now the man was probably dead, but it didn’t cost him anything to try get his attention.
–“Uncle Chuck…?”- He didn’t budge. A formerly warm body was now a refreshed, lightly snoring corpse.
-“ZIO GIACOMO!”-
Chuck finally awoke, screeching like a cicada during mating season. His fight-or-flight instincts catapulted his upper half forward, and he thanked the Lord for the paralyzed legs which safely anchored him to his wheelchair, preventing him from tumbling over like a potato sack. After a couple seconds of figuring out exactly where he was and who was calling him, he took a moment to compose himself and answer. –“Y-Yes Gus? What’s up?”- -“Nothing. Just checking if you were still alive.”- Gus took another sip of his Fanta. –“Plus, it’s funny seeing you get all jerky when you’re startled. Just try not to sound like a dying seagull next time, thanks.”-
Chuck was about to give that prick of his nephew a fairly large piece of his mind on the topic of being abruptly torn away from slumber for no good reason, but was promptly interrupted by stuttered mechanical words resounding near them. -“Hey ga-ga-gals!”- A robot sporting a single wheel in place of legs reached a table a few feet away from Chuck and Gus’, where two young girls sat. On a small two-person sofa was Bonnie from that awkward showdown encounter, and by her side was her sister, apparently texting someone on the phone.
The robot sat down on an armchair in front of the sofa. –“So how did it go? Did my po-popstars have fun?”- His large azure eye flickered golden as he spoke. Robots of his model experienced changes in eye color based on their mood, with yellow being both default and a visual shorthand for happiness. In Stu’s case however an old injury caused his eye to get stuck with blue as default instead. Fortunately the mechanisms controlling changes in eye color were relatively undamaged, allowing him to switch to yellow any time he got a chance to spend some time with his precious daughters.
-“Yeah, a lot actually.”- Janet turned off her phone and shoved it in the pocket of her shorts, grinning at her father. –“Too bad you didn’t get to watch me as I carried my Gem Grab team. I’ve even been named the Star Player!”- Then before Stu could reply, Bonnie immediately chimed in. –“I won too dad! First place in Solo Showdown!”-
-“We-we-well, that’s really n-nice to hear!”- The robot spoke, delighted not by his daughters’ wins but by their joy in announcing them. –“C’mon, let’s go home now. It’s almo-o-s-st lunchtime, and I f-found online this delicious salad recipe-”
Stu’s youngest daughter cut his sentence short. –“CAZZO! I want ice cream!”- She objected, balling her fists from inside the oversized sleeves of her jumpsuit. Her father figure made a sighing sound and his eye glitched back to its default blue. –“N-No, Bonnie. A meal can’t be ju-ju-just dessert. Maybe after l-lunch we’ll go to-to Mandy’s, alright?”-
The little girl nodded, satisfied with the compromise. Right then Janet asked, -“Hey Bon-Bon, what did you say? Kat-saw? I’ve never heard that before. Did you make it up?”-. Her sister turned to face her and shook her head, lips curled into a tiny innocent smile typical of children her age. –“Mister Chuck says it means ‘no’.”- Janet mumbled a simple ‘mh-mmh’ in return, nodding back. Bonnie took a close look at her eyes, and noticed the lighting of a small creative spark.
–“‘Cazzo’…‘Caz-zo’…that sounds catchy, actually. A hard ‘K’ sound followed by a slightly softer ‘Z’…”- Her eyes widened, and a beam formed on her mouth. –“You know what guys? I think I know what I’m gonna title my next song!”- She whipped her phone out of her pocket, and opened the Notes app. –“Maybe it can be about, I dunno…love? Yes, a good love ballad never gets old!”- She began quickly typing down verses. –“It will be about cuddling with a charming Italian guy!”- More typing followed, and then she cleared her throat. –“‘Oh cazzo, cazzo, cazzo, cazzo, cazzo~…Don’t ever leave my side…’ doesn’t that sound so passionate?”-
Bonnie nodded as their father clapped, impressed by his daughter’s song-writing skills. –“We-We-Well, I guess t-that’s why Italian counts as a ‘romance’ la-anguage!”- he remarked, chuckling while the youngest of the girls cried out ‘dad jokes alert!’. –“Bonnie’s not wrong though,”- Janet told the robot, -“Will your humor ever improve?”-
Stu’s eye turned yellow once again, and even if he had no physical mouth Janet knew he was smirking at the sisters. –“Cazzo!”- he exclaimed chuckling, eliciting giggles from the girls as well (though those were probably out of cringe). Going back to discussing the topic of Janet’s new song, the family got up from its table and headed towards the lounge’s exit, eager to try Stu’s newfound salad recipe. And of course go get some ice cream at Mandy’s, because who doesn’t love a nice cone in the middle of the scorching summer?
Meanwhile a few feet away from their table, a certain Italian man sat in his wheelchair. His mouth hung agape as if gravity was actively trying to tear the jaw off his skull, and wide-open eyes stared at the trio of stuntpeople as they left the building. Beside him was a pale-haired boy holding a half-empty can of orange Fanta. Gus got closer to his uncle and waved his free hand in front of his eyes, to no avail. He then got his face close enough to Chuck’s ear for the boy to almost touch it with his lips. –“Zio Giacomo!”- He exclaimed rather than yelled, because Heaven forbid he ends up deafening his music-loving former orchestra director uncle. Yet he seemed to have already gone deaf, as his nephew’s voice inches away from the entrance of his ear canal didn’t make him budge in the least.
Chuck’ other side was then reached by an acquaintance of the man’s, who like him had borne witness to the entire thing. Adjusting the suspenders of her red denim overalls, the newcomer knelt down to Chuck’s level. –“I’m betting ‘cazzo’ does not in fact mean ‘no’. Does it.”- A rhetorical question, for which she expected no answer. A reply of sorts did follow soon after, although it couldn’t exactly be called an answer. The man muttered a sentence, in a whisper that sounded more like a faint exhale, like the syllables were being pronounced by pure accident. –“Sono un coglione…”-
Jacky was not Italian, and neither was she fluent in the language. But her dear Argentinian friend Shelly had uttered the word ‘cojón’ in her presence more times than she could count, giving her a vague idea of what was the wheelchair-bound man saying. She then turned towards him and in all of her proverbial honesty, commented: -“Yes Chuck…you most definitely are a coglione.”-