To the world, he was Super Macho Man, the highest ranking fighter in the World Video Boxing Association after Mr. Sandman, and one of the biggest names in the fashion industry. To his buddies by the beach and those who dealt with him on a daily basis, he was simply Macho for short, the man with the sleek ride, the money to burn, and with more than a few fawning girls tripping over themselves just to get a good look at him.
As much as he himself hated to acknowledge it, he hadn't always been known to the public as Super Macho Man. How he had acquired the moniker was not something he often reflected on, for his past before his rise to glory was of little interest to him. But, never one to resist indulging curious interviewers with one of his many success stories, he wove the tale of a twenty year old man who had only moved to Hollywood two years prior and who, even before having his image splashed over the glossy pages of Vanity Fair and GQ and Esquire, had been an awesome physical specimen. It had just so happened that one day, a modeling agent attending a beach volleyball match had discovered him and readily made an offer. Macho had undeniable potential, he had said - and so it was only fitting that he had a name to match his impressive physique, one that was bold and brash and memorable.
With that, Macho Man was born – and soon enough everyone wanted a piece of him, demanding that he model this and endorse that. It eventually came to his attention, though, that he had not been the only Macho Man known to the entertainment industry. Both to differentiate himself from "crusty, old" Randy Savage of professional wrestling fame and to assert his superiority, Macho Man had then seen it fit to add 'super' to his name. It lent the moniker a certain pizzazz - and also helped him dodge a lawsuit in the process. A detail which he never felt the need to add.
Whenever he was interviewed, Macho also enjoyed discussing how he had dabbled with acting on several occasions and nabbed a few trophies for his cameos in two highly successful films. These joined his other ribbons and well-polished plaques and statuettes, of course – his "Mr. Hollywood"s and "Best Model of the Year"s, and several Golden Globes awards (not to be confused with the Golden Globe). He kept all of them in a large glass display case directly across his bed so that they were the first things he saw every morning - after the ceiling - and among the last things he saw before shutting his eyes at night.
Any day now, he would surely receive a call or a letter informing him that he had been inducted into the Hollywood Walk of Fame for all his accomplishments, and would be immortalized through an imprint of his chin.
Despite his careers in the modeling and entertainment business, Super Macho Man was keen on exploring new avenues of popularity and showcasing his diverse talent. That interest was what had prompted him to look into boxing, after all. The sport had struck him as a great opportunity to outmuscle others and look good while doing it, and the fact that he had the strength and endurance for it was the icing on the cake. He didn't need a manager to tell him what he could or couldn't do, he had decided early on, and he had done more than well enough on his own. Having some guy – a washed-up has-been, even, like that Jerome Louis guy - follow him around like a sick puppy would be a waste of time and money and detract from his image.
What man wouldn't want to live like Super Macho Man?
The palatial beach-house he called home was the likes of a five star hotel, all marble and lacquered hardwood flooring and billowy drapes, with a dozen hired personnel keeping bushes groomed and plants watered, the outdoor and indoor pools crystal-clear, and ensuring that the patio, veranda, driveway, hallways, and every single spacious room was nothing short of spotless. Of all these tasks, the maintenance of the rooms was perhaps the easiest, for as lovely as they were, easily half of them were never used and had instead become storage places for luxurious impulse buys. He had no shortage of these valuables lining the walls and artfully positioned in the guest rooms especially, but rarely had any actual guests.
Every so often, when the maid with the cute butt would come by as part of her biweekly routine, Macho would tell her the same thing he had since he had hired her: that he needed the guest rooms to be arranged because he was "totally going to have a wicked-awesome party on the weekend and the guys were gonna stay over". The next time they would speak, however, she would either hear that the get-together had been called off due to something important coming up – the excuses ranged from a photoshoot to a match to a promotional gig. Or, he would grin and tell her "they had wrecked the place". The guest rooms never looked any different to her; however, it didn't matter much to her how he lived his life so long as she got her hefty paycheck on time. Sara, his perky make-up artist and hairstylist, more or less felt the same despite the beaming, too-white smile she greeted him with.
Today he had had to meet up with her at 7:25 AM – earlier than usual - to be able to attend a morning photoshoot – and had returned to her for touch-ups before posing for a pin-up poster at noon. He had at least been able to catch a bit of a break and soak in some righteous rays at the beach afterwards, bumping and spiking and serving a few volleyballs before having made for the tanning salon and then the gym. Then at last, after showering up and primping up, he had sat down to dinner at Osterio Mozza, offering his best smiles to the paparazzi. That is, after checking to make sure he had nothing stuck between his teeth.
It had been a long, productive day and he felt it all in his back.
Throwing himself onto his king-sized bed with a groan, Macho contemplated soaking in the scarcely used Jacuzzi he had bought years ago. But, grabbing the phone, he settled instead on calling Sasha over, his personal masseuse, for an hour-long session. The Jacuzzi wouldn't provide good company and it lacked a certain pleasure only a woman's touch could offer him.
He went into the lounge room where his massage table was set up, dimmed the lights, and unbuttoned his shirt halfway before greeting her.
Sasha was a certified massage therapist.
She was, therefore, professional, and it was the very most he could do to keep his libido in check just enough so that she didn't run off like the last masseuse. Besides, he didn't need an erotic massage; he figured he had more than enough sex appeal and vigour to make every massage a powerfully erotic experience anyway.
By now, Sasha was used to him and his quirks. He resembled a lion, she thought, with his heavy, sinewy muscles, and in the way his presence filled a room. But, here was a lion that had only as much power as one would give it, and one that would nuzzle and paw at someone like a house cat if they didn't seem impressed by his roar. While it wasn't her job to humour him when he regaled in tales of his beach volleyball tournaments or his boxing exploits, she didn't mind, understanding Macho Man wasn't the type of client to fall silent or asleep during a session. It was difficult to stifle a chuckle at him, sometimes, but fortunately he never took it the wrong way. In fact, it seemed only to encourage him.
He was quite a character, no doubt about it, and there was something almost charming sometimes about his obliviousness. Although she wasn't sure if she would say the same if she spent more than one hour at a time with him.
After working half a small bottle of oil into his broad, sun-bronzed back, Sasha began to knead his neck and shoulders in the way he loved best, digging deep into the 'sweet spots', as he called them.
"Urgh, yeah!" He groaned, "Yeah! Work it!"
Sometimes she was glad there weren't many around in his mansion in the evening to hear them.
"Well, you're feeling a little tense." She remarked, expertly grinding a knuckle into a knot around the outer edge of his right shoulder-blade. "Are you nervous at all about that match of yours tomorrow night?"
"Me, nervous? Don't make me laugh." He scoffed mirthlessly, his voice sounding a little strained. She eased up on the pressure.
"You should lighten up a little, Macho; laughter is good for you, you know."
"Have you even seen him? The dude's a total loser, babe. Fighting him would make even me look bad - - if I could look bad. Everyone else may have felt sorry for him and took it easy on him, but I'm gonna be the one to put him in his place. He won't even know what hit him."
Sasha was silent for a moment while kneading his shoulder. "I think it's really something that he has gotten so far… I don't know if he's just really determined or just some mix of crazy and talented and super lucky. Is he seventeen or eighteen? I can never remember. You would think a kid like that should be in school."
Macho stiffened. "Please. You're not still thinking about him, are you?" His tone made it sound as if she had been discussing in detail the crustiest, gnarliest case of athlete's foot she had ever seen.
"Well, if you aren't feeling nervous, I don't think I need to worry about you much, now do I?"
It had been a playful, joking remark – but the way he jutted out his chin suggested otherwise.
"How can they allow such unbalanced fights like these, though?" She pressed on, more with a measure of curiosity than shock or indignant disgust. "The WVBA, I mean. Someone can be seriously hurt."
"Whatever," He shrugged his meaty shoulders or, at least, as best he could while lying on his stomach. "The crowd wants a good show, babe, and I'm gonna give it to them." With gruff amusement, he then added, "Any kid who thinks he's good enough to go up against me is totally asking for a beating."
While Macho and Mac hadn't spoken so much as two words to each other, their antagonism sprung from more than the sheer competitiveness of the sport. The kid had made it personal, Macho thought. He hadn't been so much as a speck in Macho's universe when climbing the ranks of the Minor Circuit, but it was when the Bronxite emerged victorious as a Minor and Major circuit title-holder that Macho was forced to take notice of the fact that people were suddenly talking about Mac and marveling at Mac and wanting photos of Mac.
So what if Little Mac had some popularity?
Spraying a piece of trash gold didn't change what it was.
It irked him that the kid was enjoying this success without having done much to deserve it, too. Where were his trophies and his ribbons and his plaques? He had gotten ridiculously lucky, that was all; but the faster they rose, the faster they'd fall. After stomping Mac's ego flat tomorrow night – something which someone should have done a long time ago - people would realize they had made a mistake in looking in the kid's direction when there had been a more deserving and photogenic star in their midst all along. He hadn't decided yet whether he would forgive them when they came running back, or turn up his chin.
Sensing her client's sullenness, Sasha rescued the conversation, redirecting it. The shadow looming over Macho's brow lifted immediately and he launched into an anecdote. And never let up.
"…Yeah, so I said to him, dude, that's tubular! And it was, babe, it totally was. You should have been there!"
"Well, Macho," She interrupted gently after a while, straightening. "Our hour is up. Take your time getting up, and don't forget to drink water to help flush the toxins out of your body."
Slowly, he rolled onto his side and rest his face his palm, his other thick-muscled arm akimbo. He studied her as she packed away her things. Her long black hair, her fine-boned fingers, her petite figure flattered by a snug pair of skinny jeans and a belted shirt. Certainly sexy enough to be seen with him.
"Sasha, babe… Let's do lunch tomorrow. You n' me, eleven o' clock. You like Italian?"
She looked up at him blankly as if he had spoken an unknown language, tucking a stray dark hair behind her ear. Letting out a breath, she broke into a smile, shouldering her purse. "Sorry, Macho… but my mother's still in the hospital, remember? I have to visit her tomorrow."
A beat passed. Macho gave her a meaningful look.
"Then make it Thursday. How about it?"
Sasha froze at the doorway, just staring at him before shaking her head in amused disbelief. "I'll… think about it."
He watched her leave the room and grinned broadly, calling out after her. "What's there to think about?"
At the sound of shoes shuffling around and his front door closing, he lay back tiredly and with a sense of accomplishment, letting the conversation wash over him.
A pall-like silence soon descended over the mansion.
The maid had left hours ago, and his secretary and personal chefs were on their way out.
He hated this stillness, this quiet idleness while awake; it were times like these where he felt the cold emptiness of his living space in every bone in his body, becoming distinctly aware that it was too big a place for one man alone to live in. It ate at him and he knew that his nerves would itch and he'd cave to the urge to go on a shopping spree. Heaving a sigh, he suddenly sat up from the table in little more than his speedo, trying to figure out what to do with himself. Macho could not have been more grateful when his phone rang. But he made certain to wait two and a half rings before answering.
"Hey, man…! No, yeah, you caught me at a good time. Just got in. I was really busy today; I had, like, five photoshoots. It was grueling, man, but so worth it."
Macho moved towards the leather couch and flumped down on it, flipping on the television. He left the volume loud out of habit and it was now blasting through the room.
"Uh-huh. …Yeah." Images flickered over the screen. "Yeah, so Sasha was practically begging to go out with me today, man! I almost felt bad for her, so I said I'd squeeze her in sometime on Thursday."
Macho broke off, scowling as he caught a glimpse of Little Mac on the news. That face – it reminded him of a kid from Detroit he once knew. Jeremy Owens, the kind of sorry-looking nobody who dressed in hand-me-downs and worked at a burger joint every day after school for chump change.
He was just about to change the channel when something caught his attention.
"- -this evening, when a vicious fight broke out between seventeen-year old boxing sensation "Little Mac" and two young men, resulting in two arrests and injuries resulting in hospitalization. Reporter Shawna Sullivan was on the scene earlier this evening and joins us with the details... Shawna?"
"That's right, Cheryl; I was at the intersection of Argyle Avenue and Yucca street where a fight is said to have happened just before 6:25 PM today."
Macho leaned forward, mashing the volume on the remote.
The footage cut to a man in a well-ironed dress shirt and with slickly combed back hair. "Yeah, I saw that kid from the Bronx alright." He said with an air of self importance, chewing gum noisily. "Picked a fight with that Macho fan and it all went downhill from there. Totally bad sportsmanship, man." Chewchewchew. "Totally not cool."
Two grinning teens then appeared on-screen, bumping shoulders with each other. "They were just goin' crazy, really goin' crazy. Swears were flying and then all these others guys started getting in on it."
"Sources say that "Little Mac" was insulted and then pushed. He then struck out and broke the man's nose, which triggered a violent sequence of events. As many as fifteen others got involved. Twenty-three year old Stephen White insists that he was the victim of a vicious attack after a joke was taken the wrong way."
"I just told the guy I'm a fan of Super Macho Man, and yeah, I made fun of him a little, but it was just a joke! He went totally berserk!"
"Macho?" His friend's voice called, sounding far away as Macho kept his eyes glued to the screen, unaware of how hard he was crushing the phone in his hand.
"We are taking this incident very seriously," said a mustachioed officer with sagging jowls and hard, squinting eyes. "And we will see to it that all involved will be dealt with accordingly."
"Little Mac" was actually seen leaving the police station with his manager, Jerome Louis, just around two hours ago. He refused to comment, although his manager is said to have confirmed that Mac will not be forfeiting the match tomorrow night despite pressures. Super Macho Man was unavailable for comment at the time."
"Tensions are high with the long-anticipated match between Super Macho Man and Little Mac being held tomorrow night, which is expected draw a crowd in the hundreds, with even more watching from home. What happened here today was definitely not the fight fans were looking for. Back to you, Jonathon."
All the tension Sasha had worked to free him of twisted his muscles back into knots.
"Hey… Macho?" The voice at his ear finally snapped him back to reality, insistent and annoying like a whining mosquito. "…Dude? You still there?"
Macho slammed the phone down.