Tommy Wieringa - Joe Speedboat

‘Ready. . Go!’

Without blinking an eyelid, Horst pushed me past the critical forty-five-degree limit. I heard a muffled shriek from P.J. and tried with all my might to get out of my predicament. I tapped into reserves I had never touched before and made it back almost to perpendicular, at which point Horst simply attacked anew. I never left the defensive and Horst won the round, but he seemed disappointed at not having slammed me against the table.

I flexed my wrist back and forth. Fixedness means a dead hand. We started all over again.

‘Tut-TUT!’ Joe shouted.

‘With very quick timing you cut, scolding the enemy.’

Come on then, you blond bastard. But my attack was neutralized by his. The Nazi swine. I realized that I had only one chance: to bend his wrist, which meant I had to pull him toward me a little in order to get past dead centre. Pliability is a living hand. I looked at Joe, who glanced quickly at his stopwatch.

‘Thirty seconds!’

Thirty seconds. Fuck you, Kartoffelsalat .

‘Fifteen!’

I had worked him toward me very slowly, in accordance with the principle of Knowing the Times, now was when it had to happen. His hand was bigger, but mine was stronger; all physical performance in my life until now had been the product of manual effort. I put so much pressure on my wrist that my molars cracked, his wrist bent far over backwards. It coincided perfectly with the final whistle and both referees awarded me the round. I had won on a technicality; it was my most strategic victory to date.

One round to go. My arm was still feeling good, no cramps or stiffness, I felt capable of breaking his morale. Horst Worst began the third match with barely visible reluctance. He had been counting on finishing up in two rounds, and now he was faced with a draw. And with an opponent whose muse was looking on. (Can you see me, P.J.? Do you admire me?)

OK, Horst Wessel, this won’t take long. I’m going to burn you down, pizza face. With your faggy beard. Does it hurt? This is Frank the Arm calling, are you ready for the ultimate humiliation? It’ll only hurt for a moment. Here it comes: in the name of the Father. . the Son. . and the Holy Ghost. .

Horst went way down, but not all the way. I wanted to crush him completely, and the thought of shouting occurred to me. ‘Shout according to the situation. The voice is a thing of life. We shout against fires and so on, against the wind and the waves. The voice shows energy.’

The first time I shouted there was something hoarse about it; it had been so long since I’d shouted. The second shout was already fuller, stronger. The third time, though, it was a shout I believed in myself: rounded and powerful and the embodiment of the struggle. And Horst buckled. ‘We shout after we have cut down the enemy — this is to announce victory.’

Die, dog.

We went out to dinner at an Italian place in the centre of Rostock. It was almost midnight, in the Burger King across the street they were busy mopping up. The waiter put a bottle of red wine and a beer on the table. I had been sensational, my arm was twitching from the energy still being released. P.J. fed me quattro stagioni and tomato salad with basil. Meanwhile I smoked and drank — all at the same time and in indecent quantities. We were feeling like free agents, heroes. We thought about Lomark and laughed, because we were out conquering the world. We would become travelling ronin , landless prize-fighters without a lord, free beneath the living sky. I was ecstatic and wanted it to never end, which is usually about the moment closing time arrives. We were allowed to take with us one more bottle of wine and a couple of beers in a plastic bag, but then it was really Schluss . We exited laughing and noisy, it was grand to feel that something had gone the way we’d dreamed.

Now we had to find a hotel. Someone pointed us toward the station, which was bathed in unreal, green light. Close by was the InterCity Hotel, but it was full of visitors to a trade fair for the offset industry.

‘I could always just drive home,’ Joe said.

Still cheerful, we headed out of the quiet city. At the commuter village of Kritzmow we got our last chance: along the highway lay ‘Kritzmow Park’ with a supermarket, a bank, a Spielparadies and a hotel. We parked the car and wandered around the empty amenities centre until we found Hotel Garni.

‘All right,’ Joe said, ‘you never know.’

He rang the bell, and did it again after a couple of minutes. The intercom produced a rattling sound, then a woman’s voice.

‘ Ja? ’

The door remained shut; the desk closed at eight. Joe had an ace up his sleeve, however, and announced that we were travelling with a handicapped person who was completely exhausted. Where he came up with the word ‘ Behinderte ’ was a glorious mystery to me. The voice on the intercom had to think about that one. From the corner of my eye I saw a curtain move on the first floor, and to illustrate my defects I swayed back and forth a bit in my cart. The electronic catch on the door buzzed open.

The woman at the top of the stairs was businesslike, but not unfriendly. Breakfast was served until ten in the morning; P.J. got a room of her own, Joe and I would share a double. In the room we sat around having a few more drinks, but the thrill did not return, the experience had started wearing thin. After half a bottle of beer P.J. said good night and went to her room. Joe collapsed in an easy chair, I fell on my back onto the bed.

‘I saw what you did,’ he said with his eyes closed. ‘You pulled him toward you slowly, but without him noticing. It was brilliant. I knew that when you looked over you were asking me how much time was left, I knew it right away.’

He raised the bottle to his lips, but it was empty.

‘How’s yours?’

Mine was empty as well. He sat up and looked around the room, searching for the plastic bag with bottles from the restaurant.

‘Fuck, I guess P.J.’s got it.’

He went out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

When I woke up the clock radio said 03:52. In alarm-red digits. The light was on, I was still dressed, and Joe’s side of the bed had not been slept in. The shock came after the perception: he had been gone for almost two hours. A crippling realization spread through my body: Joe and P.J. .

I sat straight up in bed, beset by images of Joe and P.J. who had entered a world where I was no longer needed. A single bed was enough for them. That I was lying alone on the double bed only thickened the poison. I had brought it on myself; I had asked her to come along, out of vanity, because I wanted her to admire me. For her I had won the tournament — and Joe had walked away with the main prize. The hot beast of jealousy gnawed at my innards. He knew what I felt for her, how could he not know! Technically speaking, that made him a traitor. Joe Turncoat. Our affinity, my everlasting deference to him: meaningless. The disaster couldn’t have been more complete, this was a crisis the ramifications of which could not be over-seen. I would be tossed back into deepest loneliness. Never to wrestle again, never to see P.J. again, or Joe: to avoid the two of them like the plague for the rest of my born days. Never to say a word about it, but to be consumed from inside by prideful bitterness.

04:37 and he still hadn’t come back. Joe and P.J.; I had never thought it was really possible. I swear. Even though it was so obvious. And it went so easily: Joe closed the door behind him and everything changed. Should I go and look for him? Wait in front of her door, sneak in, find them? Naked, asleep?

Strangle them.

WHEELCHAIR ATHLETE EXTERMINATES LOVE NEST

05:20. Outside, the traffic had started rolling.