Subject: [FFML] [spam] Now that's gotta hurt...
From: "Martin L. Metke" <sleet01@balista.com>
Date: 2/23/1999, 8:32 AM
To: UnderF4331@aol.com
CC: ffml@fanfic.com

This is what happens when good people get bad ideas at
five in the morning *_*
Enjoy!

____________________________________________________________

   Hiroshi shook his head in wonder.  While he didn't
believe in Karma, nothing else could account for this
stroke of sheer good fortune.
  "Hey, bud,"  he caught Daisuke's attention with a quick
backhand to the chest, "What do you think the odds are
that the two of _us_ would get picked for this?"
  Daisuke could only reply with a noncommital grunt, distracted
as he was by his search.  Where was that damned ball?!  He'd
only turned his back for a minute and it was gone!

  Sighing happily, Hiroshi turned from his friend to peer
out the window yet again.  He had to laugh.  The most
important, most televised event in human history, and
he and Daisuke had been chosen by computer lottery to be
the aliens' employees.  Working hand in hand with gorgeous
alien women was reward enough, of course, but the salary
was astounding!  Although his eyes were rivetted on the
pre-game festival out on the Arena Floor, all he could
see were stacks of yen, yen, and more yen.

  Daisuke pushed everything else to the back of his mind,
somehow managing to ignore even his partner's maniacal
chortling in his frantic effort to track down the elusive
Smear Ball(tm).  Without the ball, there would be no game.
Without the game, there would be no victor, and without
the victor all bets were off, literally.  If the Saiyajins
and the Oni couldn't settle their millenial wager, they
were bound to get... grumpy, something Daisuke had absolutely
no wish to witness.  Anyway, that damn ball was his
responsibility, so he knew where the axe would fall if it
didn't get to the field on time.  Too bad for him it
had simply disappeared, only minutes before the game!
  "WHY ME!?" he shouted out to the uncaring universe.


  "Now, Guillame will come home with Asuza-chan and meet all
his little friends!" Asuza-chan had really lucked out today.
Guillame was just the cutest little thing ever, a transparent
acrylic-like ball with eight kawaii red stars that spun and
twinkled within.  In sunlight he gave off a brilliant sparkle,
and his skin was ever-so-lightly tinted gold.  He was going
to make a perfect addition to her marble collection!

  "Gottafinditgottafinditgottafinditgotta...a-HA!" a wave
of relief swept through Daisuke as he reached underneath the
locker, clawing at the ball wedge between it and the wall.
With one savage yank he managed to pry it out, although it
looked a bit the worse for wear.  He could have sworn the thing
was round before, though the ball in his hand looked more like
one of those Nerf footballs, silvery grey and ridged.  Must've
been squished; it would surely return to its original shape in
a minute.  Satisfied with his reasoning, Daisuke slapped the
squishy ellipsoid into Hiroshi's hand.
  "Better get the Super Glue, 'Roshi," he grinned, "it's game
time."

  Neither boy noticed the steaming hole in the ceiling, but if
they had, they would have wondered what had possessed the force
to punch straight down through sixteen stories of Ceramament
construction.

  Hikaru Gosunkugi was resigned to his fate.  When the aliens
had announced their plans for the planet, humanity had pretty
much unanimously acceeded to their demands.  In order to stave
off another eon of devestating warfare, Mankind had been informed,
the Saiyajin, the Oni, and their various allies would be holding
a little game.  The various alien races would wager upon the
outcome of this game, with a millenium of galactic governance for
the prize.  Sure, it was a little childish, the aliens had
admitted, but hey, it sure beat planet-buster warfare.  Anyhow,
since none of the races could be sure the others wouldn't cheat
if they chose a champion from among themselves, Earth had
been chosen as a neutral, if somewhat squalid and backwater,
setting.

  The Saiyajins had gotten the choice of planet, so of course
the Oni were left the choice of champion.  Advanced as they were,
the Oni still hadn't gotten over how neat digital computing could
be, so they had asked their Grand Computer to randomly select
a human from among those best suited to running a long and exciting
game.  
  Hikaru Gosunkugi was that human.

  "Oh, my poor son!" wailed Mr. Gosunkugi, while his wife puffed
her pipe and tried to look stoic.  Hikaru had to admit, he was
taking this whole thing better than his parents.  At first he'd
been shocked: the aliens had chosen _him_ to play a bloody game
of keep-away with the world's greatest warriors and athletes?!
There had to be some mistake!  Gosunkugi was weak, both in will
and body, and he knew it wouldn't take much to snap him in two.
But as he'd considered the rewards, he had approached a zen-like
acceptance.  For his sacrifice, the Saiyajin would bestow upon
the world their knowlegde of bioscience and longevity, while the
Oni would welcome Humanity to the stars with gifts of advanced
technology.  The winner of this free-for-all would be granted
one request, and humanity would be spared a fate worse than death.
Well, okay, the fate was as bad as death: global annihilation,
and slavery for the handful of humans that their would-be
benefactors might spare.  So it was worth it... wasn't it?

  "Hey, Gos, you ready to rumble?" called Daisuke from the door.
Hiroshi waved happily from behind him, then pointed to the tube
in his other hand.  Gosunkugi took one last loving look at his
parents, nodded, and donned his helmet.  The gladiator gear
had been tailored to fit his skinny body, but still looked out
of place.  A few tugs satisfied him that all the padding was
tightened correctly, then it was time.

  "I really appreciate you helpin' me out on that test, man"
Hiroshi said, slathering glue across Gosunkugi's left palm.
Hikaru nodded absently, eyes sweeping the field for familiar
faces.  The competitors where starting to appear now, finding
their marks on the outer ring of the arena floor.  The raised
platforms and obstacles at the center blocked his view of the
far side, but he could already see a couple of his fellow
Furinkan High-ers warming up nearby.  They were quickly swept
up in a larger group, lost among a crowd of fighters preparing
for the greatest gladatorial competition ever.

  "Good luck, Gos," Daisuke told him as he pressed the ball
into his hand, "I've got money on you, you know."  Gos blinked
at that, then nodded.  "Now get going, Champ."  With a friendly
slap to the arm, Daisuke herded the ball-carrier out the door.

  When Gosunkugi was gone, the two boys turned to gaze upon the
arena once more.
  "Did you really put money on that guy?"  Hiroshi asked, curious.
  "Well, yeah, but only a hundred yen."  Daisuke grinned, then
admitted, "Still, at those odds I stand to make a cool billion
if he survives."
  Shaking their heads, Hiroshi and Daisuke headed for the bleachers.

  "Good luck, sugar," Benten yelled, then slewed her skybike
around a tower and away.  She'd dropped Gosunkugi off in the middle
of the obstacle maze, rather than making him walk in.  Nice of
her, he thought.
  Only a few seconds before the start signal, and he was starting
to get the shakes; maybe he should have skipped that last pot of
coffee.  Not only was he losing his nerve, but he was starting to
imagine things too.  Like the ball in his hand was pulsating.  Like
it was warmer than his skin.
  Like it was trying to talk to him.

  "Welcome to the Millenial Game, folks!  The air is tense with
excitement as the ballman, Hikaru Gosunkugi, awaits the signal to
begin his run.  With over six thousand square meters of arena floor
to cover, not to mention hundreds of obstacles, tunnels, and mazes
to search through, all while fighting off opponents from around the 
world, today's competitors will be hard pressed to end this game
quickly.  Isn't that right, Dan?"

  "Absolutely, Steve-John.  The odds of Gosunkugi making through
this match alive are, of course, so close to nil as to approach
your sexual activity for the last decade, but the identity of the
victor is the subject of much debate and heated betting.  Here's
a look at the Akogi betting pools on the east side of the Arena..."

  "Whoa, look at that little guy makin' money.  Too bad he's not
the one making your alimony payments, eh Danny-boy?  And that's
just the smallest portion of the business transacted today, with
nearly twenty thousand licensed bookies at this stadium _alone_
and untold thousands more all across the globe.  Truly, this
event promises to unite Humanity like nothing before."
  
  "Just like my fist and your face, Steve-John, but it looks like
it's time for this unprecedented game to kick off!  The gates
are up, the lights are down, and the clock is ticking off the
seconds.  Who knows what this brawl has in store for us?"

  Gosunkugi ignored the dimming lights.  Cocking his head, he
could almost make out words from the greyish ball.  He shook
the thing a couple times; maybe there was a speaker embedded in
it?  Holding it close to his ear, Gosunkugi strained his hearing
to make out the words it spoke to him.

  "Let's cut to the Gosunkugi-cam before everyone gets sick of
your ugly mug, Dan!"

  Pressing his ear to the warm, soft surface of the ball let
Gosunkugi make out the voice from within quite clearly, but it
didn't help him understand what it was saying one bit.

  "It's showtime!  Folks, the gates have just gone down like
Steve-John's mom's knickers, and hundreds of eager combatants
are streaming in towards the unfortunate Hikaru Gosunkugi."

  The first, and last, words patched into the arena's sound 
system from Gosunkugi's helmet link didn't make much sense
to anyone else, either.

  "Guyver?  What the heck is Guyver?!"

  "Much like the tsunamis that once plagued this island nation,
the first wave has crested the walls of the inner maze and
fallen on the motionless Gosunkugi!  There's no way he could
survive that punishment!  Looks like you lose that bet, Dan!"

  The flash of pain and light that suffused Hikaru etched the
moment forever into his mind's eye.  Crazed, snarling martial
artists vied with grim soldiers and leaping athletes to fall
upon him, to kill him, to rend him...NOOOO!!!

  "It looks like that first wave has been viciously rejected,
much like Steve-John on a date!  A flash of light, a crushing
'BOOM', and they're fishing martial artists out of the porta-
johns!  What an upset, now that's gotta hurt!"


--------------------------------------------------------------

C&C, Ideas, Whatever, all welcome.  Heh.




  
-Martin L. Metke
-sleet01@balista.com

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