The agent trudged through the knee-deep snow, shivering in the cold, despite the layers of winter clothing wrapped around his body. His guide, a local named Vassily Dombritch, urged him forward, saying their destination was not much further. He had been saying that for an hour, thought the agent bitterly.
Thomas Kleinstock sucked in a lung full of frigid Siberian air and plowed forward, wondering why he had been stupid enough to take this assignment in the first place. Not that he had much of a choice. He was one of the relatively few agents who were fluent in Russian, and as black luck would have it, lowest man on the totem pole. Thus, Mama Kleinstock's baby boy was freezing to death in the Siberian wastelands looking for a rumor of a myth.
Just when it seemed to the agent that the limit of human endurance had been reached, Vassily came trotting back, his grin showing a mouthful of stained teeth through a bushy beard. "It is there," he said, pointing to the crown of the hill above them. Kleinstock squinted his eyes, and could just make out the few structures that symbolized his goal. The thought of heat and possible refreshment made him practically sprint up the incline.
Kleinstock knocked on the door of what had to be the main residence. The whole place looked to be a worn down collective left over from the bad old Soviet days. An old man with a shock of unruly white hair and a tangled beard answered his pounding. "Hello sir," began Kleinstock. The old man said nothing, but stared hard at the agent. "Uh, I was told I could find a man called Zangief here." No hint of reaction came from the wrinkled face. "I have come with a proposition for him." The man's eyes betrayed nothing. Kleinstock was becoming frustrated and craned his neck to see past the old codger. "It's about a fighting tournament. One that will pit the best fighters from around the world against one another to crown the ultimate street-fighting champion." After what seemed to be thoughtful consideration, the old man stepped aside and beckoned Kleinstock to follow him. They moved to the back of the house, where the old man pointed to a window. Kleinstock looked out to a scene out of some Hollywood writer's fever dream.
The most massive and muscled human being the agent had ever laid eyes upon stood bare-chested in the Siberian snow. He circled a huge furry animal, which raised itself onto two legs and bellowed a deadly challenge. Kleinstock turned toward the old man. "Is that a bear?" he asked incredulously. The ancient Cossack cracked a gap-toothed smile and pointed again.
"Zangief," he said.
Kleinstock watched as the Russian giant deftly eluded a paw swipe to his midsection, then darted in behind the beast to lock in a half-nelson chokehold. Kleinstock was flabbergasted that a man so large could be so quick. The bear hit the ground and rolled, trying to fling the man off his back, but Zangief held on, steadily applying more pressure until the bear went limp on the ground. The Russian stood and let loose a shout of victory. He leapt over the high fence and strode toward the house, picking up a mammoth fur-lined shirt on his way.
Zangief entered the dwelling, shaking stray snowflakes from his brows. His bulk filled the entire doorway. He immediately spotted Kleinstock. "We have a visitor, Dimitri," he stated. Zangief's voice was a low rumble that sounded like the beginning of a rock avalanche. His head nearly brushed the ceiling of the little house. Kleinstock had to admit the Russian was intimidating.
"Mr., uh, Zangief," he began, "I represent an international organization that is interested in showcasing the world's top martial artists in a grand tournament." Zangief settled into a reinforced chair as the old man brought him a steaming mug and a platter heaped with food..
"What is your name, little man?" asked Zangief.
"Thomas Kleinstock."
"And what organization is making this happen?"
"Ultimate Street Fighting Champion." It was a lie. USFC was indeed the cover sponsor, but Kleinstock would have rather cut out his own tongue than reveal the true benefactor of the tournament.
"Never heard of it," replied Zangief.
"I assure you, sir, USFC may be fairly new, but it does have the highest degree of private backing, and the clout to pull off a tournament worthy of your talents." Kleinstock launched into the details of the competition until Zangief held up a hand large enough to palm the agent's entire head.
"Tell me about the prizes."
"Compensation for fighters would vary, but I can tell you that in the later rounds,a seven figure deal per fight would not be out of the question. Any fighter who reaches the finals will get the reward of a lifetime." He had some idea that final reward might be a six-foot plot of ground somewhere in Thailand. Or in the Russian's case, a seven-foot plot.
"There will be no restrictions on styles or moves?"
"None. We believe warriors should be allowed to fight to the best of their ability. In fact, there is a real danger of serious injury or death. You have to sign a waiver." Zangief's eyes lit up.
"No sporting body would sanction this type of competition."
"Which is exactly why we are providing a format for the world's greatest fighters. People want to see the best of the best try each other one-on-one. I am also authorized to guarantee you at least two home bouts." Zangief rose to his feet and stared out one of the windows.
"I am tired of wrestling bears," he whispered. The man-mountain whirled toward Kleinstock, who recoiled in surprise. "Can you promise me that there will be real challenges in this tournament of yours?"
"Absolutely," replied Kleinstock.
"I will sign your papers."
After the details had been hammered out, the agent rose to leave. "Details about your first match will be sent here," he said. "Transportation and quarters will be arranged. Be prepared to leave within a month." The Russian nodded his head absently, his mind already turned toward the upcoming battles.
Four weeks later, Zangief and a hand-picked training team boarded a private plane bound for Japan. Clutched in one huge hand was the name and profile of the Russian monster's first opponent. E. Honda was a sumo wrestler of great fame and renown. He was exalted as the greatest sumo of the century. Zangief looked forward to their meeting.
Three very long days later, Zangief moved through a cheering throng of Japanese. He towered above them all. The place the fight was to be held in was a nondescript warehouse in the center of the city. Reaching the makeshift ring, the Russian entered and stared across at Honda, who had arrived before him. The face of the sumo showed no emotion. The referee beckoned both combatants and their respective translators to the middle of the ring. Zangief did not hear the words of the official. They were irrelevant. He was searching Honda for a psychological weakness. He did not find one. The sumo was confident. When the fighters were released to their corners, the gathered fans began to jeer the big Russian.
"The crowd doesn't seem to care much for you," said his old friend Dimitri, leaning in close to be heard.
"They just want a good show," replied Zangief, "And a win for their hero. I will be happy to disappoint them on the second count."
"Yes. But do not disappoint the others that are watching." Dimitri pointed to a skybox with darkened glass that looked down upon the ring.
"Who?"
"I don't know. Someone who wants to see, but be seen. You have other things to worry about at the moment."
"Da." Zangief stripped off his shirt, and for a moment, the crowd went still. Countless eyes crawled over the hyped musculature and the scars that criss-crossed the wrestler's body. Honda removed his ceremonial robe and the masses roared once more. The Russian flexed once before the official screamed for the match to begin.
Zangief moved toward the center of the ring, expecting Honda to charge across in classic sumo style. The Japanese surprised him by not doing so. Honda began a slow circling, trying to flank the Russian. Zangief moved to counter, cutting down Honda's maneuver space. Suddenly, his opponent dropped into a sumo crouch, then crashed across the ring. A brief grin flitted across the Russian's face as he surged forward to meet Honda. The clash of the behemoths shook the walls of the structure.
Both men grappled with one another to find a hold. Honda was heavier than the Russian, but Zangief soon proved he was stronger. He slowly forced the sumo's grip away from his own body, and was on the verge of trapping Honda's arms, when the Japanese lunged upward. The top of his head smashed into the Russian's nose. Zangief grunted in pain as cartilage crunched and blood sprayed across his face. Honda used the moment of shock to break away. The crowd thundered at the sight of the Russian's blood.
Zangief swiped at his face, conceding first blood to the Japanese with a slight nod of his head. His nose had been broken before, and no doubt would be again. The fighters moved toward each other, still measuring a largely unknown opponent. Honda swept forward, using hard hand slaps to try and batter the Russian's face. Zangief hunched down, covered up, and waited for the storm to pass, taking the blows on his shoulders and arms. He saw Honda's attack slow slightly, and took advantage of the opening, stepping forward to deliver a hard chop to Honda's chest. The sumo straightened and came back with a chop of his own. Zangief's skin reddened, but he hardly felt the blow through a solid wall of pectoral muscle. Honda went low, squatting to try and grasp an ankle that would tumble the Russian to the floor. Zangief lifted his leg, avoiding the move, and lashed out with a boot, catching the sumo on the side of the head. Honda staggered back. A hard jab caught him above the eye, rocking the Japanese fighter again. Honda roared and sprang forward, coming in low. Zangief jumped up and planted both feet squarely in the middle of the sumo's chest. Honda sprawled in the dust, and the crowd fell silent in disbelief at seeing such a huge man react so quickly. The Japanese shot back up, already growing desperate. He ran forward trying to end the contest with a bull rush. Zangief met him again in the center of the ring, as the two strained for an advantage. Honda tried for a sumo slam, but the Russian had prepared for the move. He locked the sumo in an arm bar, and then let him jerk out of it. The Japanese took the ruse, and in his moment of pure reaction, Zangief struck. He spun around, gripped Honda around his considerable girth, and executed a flawless belly-to-back suplex. The crowd gasped, and Honda lay stunned on the ground again. Zangief reached down to drag him back up when the bell rang, ending the first round. A flicker of annoyance passed over the Russian's face as he headed toward his corner. Once there, he sat heavily, staring at Honda, who slowly regained his feet and moved unsteadily toward his own corner. Honda also sat, a small trickle of blood falling down his face. The two warriors stared each other down. A trainer tried to attend to Zangief's busted nose, but was brushed away by the Russian's paw.
"A good finish to the round," said Dimitri, "but you should never have gotten tagged with that headbutt." Zangief snorted.
"He is in over his head, and now he knows it. His will is broken. I will finish him in this round." The bell rang again, and Zangief came to his feet, eager to end the match. He marched across the ring, daring Honda to stop him, threats of violence flashing in his eyes. The sumo attempted an awkward mid-level roundhouse kick. The Russian easily swatted it away, and went for a collar-and-elbow tie up. Honda slipped the hold, and grabbed Zangief around the torso, attempting to gain leverage for a takedown. The wrestler responded with a double-axe handle blow between the shoulder blades. The force of the attack buckled Honda's knees. Zangief followed with a viscous knee to the solar plexus, and heard a rush of air leave the sumo's lungs. Zangief saw the opportunity to end the bout. He shoved Honda's head down and clamped it between his powerful thighs. The Russian bent over and grasped the Japanese around the middle. Using incredible strength, Zangief levered up the bulky Japanese warrior. When he had lifted him to the proper angle, the Russian bunched his legs and jumped up and back, folding his body in the air, so Honda's head was hanging below the wrestler's body. The textbook piledriver shook the rafters, as all of Honda's considerable weight came crashing down on his neck and skull.
Zangief sat for a brief moment, then pushed Honda's unconscious body off of him. The Russian stood as the official came over to check on the fallen sumo. The referee did a quick check, then waved a medical team into the ring. As they swarmed around Honda, the official turned toward Zangief. The Russian's hand was raised in victory. The fans, silent since Honda's demise, erupted into cheers. Zangief answered with a loud shout of triumph. He walked back to his dressing room amid scores of hands reaching out to touch him.
Some hours later, Dimitri entered Zangief's hotel room with a sheepish smile on his face. Two small-framed Japanese women slithered out of the large-framed bed, and ran giggling toward the steamy bathroom. Zangief sat up, sheets pooling around his waist.
"I hope I am not disturbing the great warrior and his victory celebration," said Dimitri with a smirk. Zangief ignored his mocking tone.
"A few more minutes and you might have," he answered. "What news, old friend?"
"Pack some sunglasses and ugly shirts for the next trip," said Dimitri, showing his gap-toothed grin. He held up a packet of plane tickets. "We're going to America."