Few in history are the referees who have resorted to striking the contestants in order to persuade them to abide by Queensberry rules, but Radiane is not exactly a veteran of the position.
Fewer yet (if not by many) are the boxers who have found this situation a first bit of common ground, and who have siezed the newfound bond to turn their gloves upon the referee in question.
But unique to this match is the interruption of a teenage girl named Georgette: shrieking, leaping from the rubbish bin-cum-cornerpost, defending her friend with the world’s first flying elbow drop.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Zach snaps out of the flashback and they hit the long vertical banners screaming. Sara’s fumbled a multitool from her pocket and she drives its pliers through the fabric, which is when Zach realizes she’s got their arms locked in some complicated grip, because it almost dislocates his shoulder.
They continue to descend, albeit more slowly, still screaming. Eventually Zach realizes it’s just him screaming and shuts up.
A jolt, as the pliers snap through the banner’s bottom hem; they fall fifteen feet to a balcony. Sara lands on Zach. He wishes his lungs would reinflate so he could enjoy it.
The basket climbs its endless tether, winding upward into the mist.
“You truly belong here among the clouds,” Rotten Gamble coos to the Princess.
“Aren’t you afraid the Heavens will shut you down?” Dog Shouting says quickly.
Gamble grunts. “No, not actually. We don’t fall into their, uh, jurisdiction. Our operation is small enough not to be noticed… and our customers are anxious to avoid attracting attention to themselves.”
Dog Shouting grins. Gamble catches it, grins back.
“I’ve just made a deal,” he says, “that will keep the Heavens out of here forever.”
The basket opens.
The Speaker is waiting outside.
Ah… the Milano.
It has been long since anyone asked his story. He is not from Milan: for then he would be the Milanese. Instead he uses the city to inspire his accent, his moustache, his taste for shirts striped like those of the gondoliers.
You say those are in Venice?
The Milano probably does not know that.
Nevertheless–the next time you see a man ordering his coffee en italiano, a man angrily declaring he is no mime, a man sour and sallow of face–look closely. Is his moustache just slightly the wrong color?
Yes?
It is the Milano!