Authority

Authority (n): power to influence thought or behavior; persons in command

Authoritative (adj.): supported by, proceeding from or being an authority

-from The Merriam-Webster Dictionary, 6th ed.

Luigi was up well before the others, when night had just faded to gray dawn. A wad of cash was nestled in one pocket of his overalls, and change clinked in the other. Just across the way was a 24-hour convenience store which sold everything—and I do mean everything—a Smasher wanted and needed. This store was considerably smaller than its size today, but it still garnered satisfaction among its customers. It topped the list of the best convenience stores in Smashville.

As the first birds awakened and sang their songs, Luigi disappeared into the store. About ten minutes later, he emerged with his arms full of merchandise. The sky had really begun to lighten when Luigi returned to his room.

He briefly leafed through his CD collection, removed the CD of his choice, turned on his stereo and placed the CD in. Then, from one of the bags of merchandise, he selected a practice dummy, complete with a realistic face and build. Luigi wasted no time in setting up the dummy. The salesperson who'd recommended this particular brand assured him that little or no assembly was required, which the man in green appreciated. Once the practice dummy was ready, Luigi put away the rest of his purchases, opened his curtains and his window, flicked off his lights and hit the "play" button on the stereo.

And then he pounced on the dummy.

Mario stirred awake in time to hear the first peals of his brother's music, which did little to drown out the punches and grunts. The red-capped hero was rumpled and unshaven, dried drool on both corners of his mouth. His sleep had been quite the uneasy one and had come in staccato intervals. Memories of Douglas's stunt that afternoon had always snatched slumber from him. It wasn't just because of what the racer had said to Luigi; it was because the racer had tried and failed to intimidate him. His baby bro had held his own and given that upstart racer exactly what he deserved. He could imagine the condition Douglas was in now.

Mr. Nintendo slid out of bed, showered, washed his hair, shaved and put on a clean shirt and overalls. He styled his hair in his usual way and slipped on his iconic red hat. Since breakfast wouldn't be served in a while, Mario decided to watch some TV while listening to his brother train in the other room.

Perhaps through some shared telepathy, Ness, DK, Samus and Link were also awake. DK was lifting weights, Link was practicing with his Master Sword against dummies of his own and Ness and Samus were going for a jog outside. They all made plans to meet up with Luigi at breakfast and discuss a plan of attack against the "upstairs", so to speak, because if they messed with one of them, they messed with them all. Samus really hoped that the Captain saw the light after yesterday's events, because she didn't want to stop seeing him. Douglas was a genial, if annoying, guy, but he just tended to let things get to his head.

After sleeping on and off most of the night, Luigi was loaded for bear. He'd purposely selected a CD with lengthy, lyric-less songs so he could just pummel away. These practice dummies were the number one brand in Smashville because of their ability to last a long time. Too bad they reminded him too much of Captain Falcon—otherwise, he wouldn't have focused so much on the stomach area and then the face, shouting as the anger came back to him. Now, the dummy before him was merely a mangled mess of clay, the face smashed off and the stomach a gaping crater. There were dents along the neck area where Luigi had practiced some strikes to the throat. Once the practice tool had been completely rendered useless, Luigi simply replaced it with a fresh one and kept going. When his CD ran through, he popped in a new one. And on and on and on and on and on and on it went until he ran out of practice dummies, until he heard his perspiration dripping on the carpet, until his knuckles were sore and until the last of his foul mood had been blasted away. He turned off his stereo, cleaned up his room and plunked himself down beside the window, breath steadying and sweat drying. As soon as he was certain he felt better, he stood, went to the bathroom and took a good, long shower.

Meanwhile, hearing the noises stop, Mario turned off the TV. Good, his brother was calming down now. There was the closing of the bathroom door and the rush of the shower. Then, there was rustling as Luigi changed into a clean pair of clothes. Quickly, Mario crossed the room to the connecting door and knocked.

"Bro? May I come in?"

A few seconds later, Luigi opened the door.

And he smiled.


As the Smashers were finishing up their breakfast, Master Hand's voice crackled over the PA system. "All Smashers, please report to the main hall immediately. Leave your belongings behind. And no talking."

By the tone of his voice, everyone knew that something had happened, and that Master was not happy. Falcon, still sporting a dull headache, was especially alarmed by this sudden meeting. Fox, also battling his own guilt, placed a paw on the racer's shoulder.

Silently, the twelve filed into the main hall and sat on the chairs provided for them, waiting uneasily for Master Hand. They didn't have long to wait before he warped into the room.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning, Master Hand," chorused the Smashers.

"I suppose you'd like to know why you're here," said Master.

"Yes, Master Hand."

"I summoned you here because I want to make a clarification about the list hanging on our bulletin board," Master began. "That list is not to be used as a tool to judge others or as an excuse to pick on or harass someone just because you're higher up than them. That list is designed for competitive purposes only."

"What are you getting at, Master Hand?" Falcon had the gall to ask.

"I am greatly disappointed in the display I observed yesterday," the glove sternly went on. "Some of you were actively excluding others from your group. You were shamelessly mocking your friends and talking down to them. You were treating them like somebody's kid sister or brother. That list is not a social scale—yet you're treating it as such."

He paused to allow his words to sink in.

"And do you know what I've seen on our blog? It's open season for the lower-ranked fighters. I have placed a suspension on their accounts until they remove those abusive posts and apologize. As for the fighters involved in this, such atrocious behavior ends today. Forever. This is your first and only warning. I called this tournament so different universes can meet and have fun, not tear each other to pieces. So, if I find out that you're continuing to use that list as a way to harass your fellow fighters, you will be punished severely. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Master Hand." Nobody wanted to incur the wrath of the tournament's leader.

"Your matches will commence in thirty minutes," said Master Hand. "Dismissed."

The twelve fighters got up to prepare for the day's bouts.

Douglas stopped Luigi as he was about to leave. "Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey," said Luigi.

"I feel bad about yesterday," sighed Douglas.

"I'm sure you do, because of that hangover," quipped Luigi.

"No, I mean I feel very bad," clarified Falcon. "Like—it was wrong for me to act like that."

"Yes, it was."

"Maybe I shouldn't have called you that name and said that you were a loser."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"I kinda acted like an idiot."

"You definitely acted like an idiot, and you know it."

"It was just—I was drunk and felt on top of the world and…"

"Like that's an excuse."

"I deeply regret everything," sighed Falcon.

"I know."

"Yeah, man," Fox chimed in. "You know I didn't mean all that about a pecking order. And—you're not the bottom of the food chain."

"Oh, yeah. You saw that yourself," winked Luigi.

"We swear that we'll never act superior like that again," promised Falcon, hand over his heart. "Can you ever forgive us?"

Luigi looked from one A tier to the other, taking in their hangdog faces, his mind alive with the sounds of their obnoxious shouting and drunken hooting and Falcon baiting him about showing moves and—

"We'll see," he smiled.

And with that, he turned and made a brisk exit.

Fox and Falcon exchanged glances and then shrugged. It was better than nothing.

We'll see…

We'll see how long *that* promise lasts. And trust me, it won't be long before they're back to their old selves again.

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