The flight attendant eyed the huge man sprawled across two reclined first class seats. Most of the passengers she encountered on a chartered private plane wore expensive suits carried either a briefcase or a laptop computer. This one wore khaki pants and a sleeveless shirt. All he had brought on board with him was a Russian-English dictionary, and an appetite. The man had polished off five airline dinners since they had been in the air. The attendant's gaze lingered over the exposed bulging arms of the behemoth, one of which was larger than both of her thighs together.
Zangief cracked open one eye. He was used to people staring at him. "Yes? Is something happening?" he asked in Russian. The woman blushed slightly at being caught.
"We are beginning our landing approach, sir," she replied. "You will want to put on your seatbelt and prepare for the end of the flight." A native of Moscow, the flight attendant had been hand-picked for this job. Zangief nodded, then stretched and yawned as the rest of the Russians on board were woken.
After disembarking from the plane, the Russian team was met by Thomas Kleinstock inside the terminal. "Good day gentlemen," he said with a note of cheer. "I have been appointed as your tournament liaison. I have taken the liberty of arranging for transportation to your hotel." He smiled broadly. "If you'll follow me." Zangief shrugged and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. He tailed Kleinstock through the airport, the crowd parting before the massive wrestler. It was something else he had become used to over the years.
Kleinstock led them outside to a pair of waiting limousines. The Russians arrived as the last of their luggage was being packed into the cars. Kleinstock hopped into a front passenger seat. Zangief crammed his bulk into the backseat, alongside his old trainer, Dimitri. When everyone was seated, the vehicles rolled away and down the street.
Cruising through the winding boulevards of the city, Dimitri stared wide-eyed at the multitude of shops, stores and high rise buildings, along with the throngs of people.
"America is a decadent place," he said, a note of wonder betraying his words. Zangief chuckled, a low deep rumble in his chest.
"Dimitri, you sound like on of the old commissars," he said. The old man shot him a sheepish look.
"Well, look at this place, Zangief," he said. "Did you ever dream of anything like this?"
The Russian shook his massive head, which brushed the car's ceiling. "No. I never imagined anything like this."
Kleinstock turned around in his seat. "Gentlemen , you will be staying at a five-star hotel until the fight, the exact time and place of which has yet to be determined. In the meantime, you will be provided with a training facility that will be placed at your disposal." He prattled on about food service and things to do and see, but Zangief tuned him out. He was not concerned with these petty details. Only the fight mattered.
Eventually, they reached the hotel. Kleinstock took them inside and got everyone checked in and situated. Zangief wandered around the opulent surroundings with a look of awe on his face. He was intimately familiar with brutal Siberian winters and a spartan training regimen. He felt awkwardly out of place in the midst of this modern metropolis.
Later in the afternoon, Zangief was testing out his extra large king-sized bed. He did this by laying down on it. It was almost big enough, and it did not break. He took that as a good sign. The wrestler's eyes had just closed when a knock sounded on his door. A beat later, Dimitri entered the room.
"I was almost asleep," growled Zangief.
"Sleep later," replied Dimitri. He held up a videotape. "We have work to do."
"What is that?"
"Kleinstock gave it to me. It seems every fighter gets a tape of their opponent's last fight." He walked over to the television set. "Let us see what we've gotten ourselves into."
"Dimitri, do you even know how to use that machine?" asked Zangief as his trainer poked about the VCR.
"Of course I do," snapped Dimitri. "I'm old, not stupid." Zangief raised a bushy eyebrow. "Alright," Dimitri admitted, "Kleinstock showed me how to use it."
The tape began and the first image was of a blond American dressed in a red martial arts uniform. "A pretty boy," murmured Dimitri. The name 'Ken Masters' flashed onto the screen, followed by a wide shot of a makeshift ring surrounded by screaming fans. After a brief introduction, the battle began. The Russians watched every move, every nuance. "Impressive," said Dimitri. "Shotokan, I believe."
Suddenly, Zangiewf lunged for the remote control. He mashed the pause button. "Dimitri, what the hell was that?"
The old man gazed at the screen for a long moment. "I have heard of Eastern martial arts disciples," he said, "who are able to gather their 'chi', their life force, and propel it forward. Like a ranged weapon."
"I can't do that," said an appalled Zangief.
"I know. Settle down. Play the tape again." They watched Ken unleash the fireball again and again. "You see," said Dimitri, pointing at the screen, "He must gather the energy before throwing it. That pause will give you an opening." Dimitri smiled. "Or simply dodge. Or cover up." He waved his hand at the image of Ken performing the improbable move. "This is not insurmountable."
Zangief relaxed. "I suppose not," he said. On the tape, Ken launched a spinning hurricane kick. "Neat trick," said Zangief, never taking his eyes off the television. The match ended when Ken blasted his opponent with a spectacular finish.
"The Dragon Punch," said Dimitri. "A very advanced technique." He glanced sideways at Zangief. "Don't get hit by that." The big Russian didn't answer.
The next day after breakfast, Kleinstock escorted the Russian team to their designated training gym. It was a small one-story cinderblock building called Greg's House of Pain. It smelled of old sweat and hard work. Zangief liked it at once. The lighting was low, except in the middle of the four-square ring which dominated the center of the gym. Racks of equipment lined each wall, from iron weights to heavy bags. A dozen fighters stopped whatever they were doing when the Russians entered through the front door.
A small man rushed over and introduced himself as Grigor Mashilev, the owner of Greg's House of Pain. He welcomed the team to his humble establishment, and bade them to use it as they saw fit.
Zangief glanced over the assembled fighters. "I think a display of force is in order," he said, "to establish the proper hierarchy of this place."
The call went out that the big Russian would be taking on all comers in twenty minutes. Anyone who could beat him would earn five thousand dollars. Zangief retired to a dressing room to change and go through his warm-up routine. In the mean time, more people began to gather at Greg's House of Pain as word of the reward began to spread out onto the streets.
When the allotted time was up, Zangief emerged from the locker room and stalked to the ring. One look at his face, was enough to move people out of his path. He climbed into the combat arena, swinging his legs over the top rope. The Russian looked over his first challenger, a muscular man with several tattoos and a drooping mustache. The bell rang to start the bout, and the man charged across the ring in a wild rush. Zangief calmly reached out and grasped the man by the throat with one massive hand. The move stopped him dead in his tracks, and he began to paw at the Russian's arm. Zangief squeezed. As his opponent began to choke, the wrestler hoisted him up into the air by his neck. With his arm fully extended, Zangief held the man up for half a minute, then slammed him to the mat with all of his brute strength. He did not get up again.
The next fighter was a boxer. Zangief met him in the center of the ring, and let throw a flurry of punches. The Russian swatted them away, slipped past the boxer's guard, and executed a devastating reverse neck-breaker.
One after another, each man who entered against Zangief was carried out. Suplex's, DDT's, back breakers, pile drivers and slams of every description dispatched everyone who crossed the threshold. Zangief had barely broken a sweat by the time the competition was ended.
A week later, Kleinstock knocked on Zangief's hotel room door. The Russian answered with a mighty yawn.
"Good morning, Mr. Zangief," began the agent. "I have good news for you today." The Russian waited in silence, leaning against the doorframe. "Right," continued Kleinstock. "The street fight is scheduled for tomorrow at one o'clock." He smiled expectantly.
"It's about time," said Zangief, then he closed the door in Kleinstock's face. The befuddled agent contemplated the closed door for a moment then walked away.
As the time to fight drew close, Zangief and his team were taken to the site by another pair of limousines. The Russian wrestler sat in the back of one car, already dressed to fight. The vehicles drove down a dead-end street, and came to a stop outside of an abandoned cul-de-sac.
"We're going to fight out in the open?" asked Zangief.
"Apparently so," replied Dimitri. "What does it matter?" Zangief shrugged in answer.
The Russians exited to a cheering mob that surrounded the outlined area. Zangief bulled his way through the fans. He found Ken Masters already there, arms crossed, tapping his foot. Both fighters came forward for the introduction. The announcer droned on, while Zangief and Ken measured one another.
"You're a big one," said Ken. "You came along way, Ivan, just to get your butt kicked." Zangief sneered.
"What did he say?" asked Dimitri when Zangief returned to his corner.
"I don't know," replied the werestler. "But I think he called me Ivan."
"Who's Ivan?"
"I don't know." Zangief had time to flex once and roll his neck before the bell rang for the first round of the fight.
Both fighters warily advanced toward each other in a guarded position. While Zangief watched, Ken launched himself into the air, twisted into a high somersault and lashed out with a kick to the Russian's head. Zangief blocked it with his arm and shoulder, but the Shotokan master tried for a leg sweep as soon as his feet hit the ground. Zangief had to leap backwards to avoid ending up on his back. He stood his ground to lure Ken in closer, and when he moved within range, Zangief moved to grab him. Ken ducked and slipped off to the side, then came around with a hard punch to the wrestler's ribs. The blow had little impact on Zangief, except to startle him. The American was quick.
Ken avoided a backhand chop, then delivered a stinging kick to Zangief's thigh. The Russian narrowed his eyes as Ken danced back out of range. The red-clad karateka took a deep breath and brought both hands in close to his right side. Zangief saw this, and sprinted toward him. Ken gathered his chi energy and focused it on the charging wrestler. He let it go with a scream as Zangief closed with him. The Russian saw it coming and dodged to the side at the last possible moment. Before Ken could recover, Zangief reached out and snatched him by his uniform. Dragging him in close, Zangief brought his heavy forehead down on top of Ken's nose. The headbutt busted Ken's nose and filled his eyes with tears. Acting on instinct, he threw two hard punches into Zangief's midsection, and backed him off with a high kick to the upper chest.
Ken shook his head to clear it of the pain, then blocked a lariat blow from a crushing forearm. Zangief swung through the block and spun. Ken was caught by surprise by the spinning lariat, and an arm as big a tree trunk smacked into his head, making his head spin and leaving him open for another blow. He sprawled into the street, rolled and barely avoided Zangief's boot as it crashed down next to his head. He kicked out at Zangief's ankle and it caused the Russian to back up.
The wrestler closed again, as Ken got to his feet. Gathering himself, he struck out with a powerful sidekick. Zangief knocked it aside and swept Ken up in a bear hug. He squeezed with all his might as he buried his face into Ken's chest to avoid any hits to his face. Ken felt the pressure on his ribs, and hammered on the back of Zangief's neck. The Russian dropped him, and fighting back the darkness, Ken whirled into a roundhouse kick that found its mark, alongside the wrestler's thick skull. Zangief rolled with the blow, but blood trickled out of his mouth. Both fighters were regrouping when the bell rang, ending the first round.
Zangief made his way back to his corner, but refused to sit down, instead he stared holes through Ken across the ring. Dimitri gave him a small drink of water.
"Are you finished playing around yet?"
"He is fast," said Zangief.
"So, take away his advantage."
The bell rang to begin the next round, and Zangief surged forward. Ken feinted with a low kick then jumped up and landed a hard right hand to Zangief's face. The hit rocked the Russian backward. Enraged, Zangief caught Ken halfway through another roundhouse attempt, and clubbed him across the upper back with a forearm. It slowed Ken enough for Zangief to pick him up over his head and dash him to the ground. Ken's shoulder took the brunt of the shock, and he felt a tidal wave of pain tear through his body. Zangief bent down and picked him up off the pavement. Ken hit him across the face with a spinning backfist, but did not have the leverage to put his full power into it. Zangief howled and grabbed Ken by the waist with both hands. Raising him up toward the sky, the Russian power bombed Ken to the ground. The red garbed warrior went limp on impact. Zangief reached down and picked him up by the throat. He cocked a fist, but Ken was unconscious. Zangief let him go, and watched as Ken crumpled to the ground.
A medical team rushed in as Zangief was declared the winner. His team mobbed him as he made his way to his corner. The thrill of victory surged through the Russian, and he screamed in triumph.
The next day, Zangief was looking at his face in the bathroom mirror. He was examining an ugly black eye, which threatened to look worse before it got better.
Dimitri stuck his head inside. "You appear none the worse for wear," he said.
"It will heal in time," said Zangief. "You have seen Kleinstock?"
"Yes. A very odd man that one."
"What did he say?"
"He said congratulations on your victory, and we are leaving in two days."
"Where are we going this time?"
"Back to Mother Russia, my friend. Our next fight is at home." Zangief smiled despite the pain in his face. It would be good to go home again.