Many years before the advent of the Global Spellbreaking Alliance…
The Great War. An interesting time for spellbreaking to be sure, as John Henry Iron--a veteran champion–could have told you. Though the sport had technically existed since the Time of the Great Empires, it was only shortly before the war that a haphazard cross-over between sideshow acts and vaudeville curiosity transformed gladiatorial combat into the form of entertainment we know and love today.
Some would even say spellbreaking truly began in the Americas (though, this is up for debate), its greatest champions paralleling the grand heroes of tall tales. Indeed, there were many big names during the 'dawn' of spellbreaking. The mysterious hero, Calavera Escarlata and his ever-burning mask. Thunderbird Taylor, a powerful, earth-shaking warrior from the great prairies. Queen Morgana, a beautiful enchantress without comparison who blew open the door for lady spellbreakers. Some heroes, sadly, went unsung, and their true value to the sport was never recognized.
John Henry Iron sat somewhere between stardom and humility. Before the international leagues, spellbreaking was a loose 'wilderness' of small federations and companies, some of them more dubious than others. The southern U.S. and the nation of Texas called home to several enterprises, with many spellbreakers hopping between companies as sort of modern-day 'ronin' of the sport. John Henry, a mountain of a man with steel-sculpted muscles and a diamond smile, was one such 'wandering warrior' unbound to any federation, refusing to be tied down by contracts or forced to conform to any image other than the one he'd set out for himself. He had never sought out stardom, though he'd won his fair share of accolades by the time the Great War was in full swing.
Nobody knew where the 'Iron Titan' named J.H. came from. Most were too afraid to ask--though the man's personality suggested nothing but the most genial disposition. It was known that J.H. made his way around the States by way of the railroad, which he worked on as a freelancer. It was said his mastery of metals and alloy manipulation were so great that he could lay down whole sections of rail within minutes. Such feats earned him more admiration than scorn, but most of all, his gifts kept him fed. Between that and spellbreaking, those who followed the "Iron Titan" sensed he was a man living above his means, but for reasons of necessity, he never flaunted whatever keep he made.
Barring one exception, of course. The exception that began this humble legend, when two titans met on the battlefield...
In any universe, in any timeline, New Orleans has always been a magick city. The great magi have their theories as to why. It is said to even be home to those--it is whispered--who possess the seldom-seen glyph of ‘time.’ The city by the bayou has always been a nexus, a font of power, drawing sorcerers and magi to it like moths to a flame...an apt analogy, perhaps, as it is said the city too-often feeds on power.
It just so happened that the man and myth named J.H. Iron came through the city, which was hosting a whole slew of spellbreaking tournaments. It was March, but spring had come early--which, in the swamps, felt more like early summer. On a red streetcar traveling down palm-lined Canal Street, John Henry towered above the other passengers, who were reading newspapers (to see the latest news from the Eastern Front), or checking their watches, or otherwise hoping to find the cool shade of a tavern.
By way of fate or other forces, a sudden metallic clamor drew J.H.'s eyes--and the eyes of his passengers--to an overturned pickup truck right in the middle of the tracks. Already a crowd had formed around the overturned vehicle, and the desperate shouting of a female passenger cut through the lazy, mid-noon tranquility.
"Help! Help, I can't open the door! Please, my fiancé, he's..."
John Henry sighed and poked his head out the window. Some local boys were already trying to lift the truck, and they didn't look like they were getting far. He could tell between the breaks in the shattered window that the driver and passenger were both stuck upside down, their seatbelts the only thing keeping them upright. The red-headed woman's hair dangled in front of her face as she pounded uselessly against the door.
J.H. frowned. "Tell her to get away from the window," he yelled to the crowd.
The crowd gathered around the vehicle returned John Henry's command with suspicious eyes and slack jaws.
Again, he sighed. "Just...stay back." He concentrated, gave a low grunt, and made a quick movement with his right wrist.
Like a jack-in-the-box, the truck bolted up right off the ground, setting off screams, stumbles and general panic from everyone in the vicinity; least of all the poor lady inside the truck.
Everyone is so dramatic here," John Henry thought, as he made a turning motion with his hand--slowly, slowly--bringing the upright car steadily to the ground again. The crowd gasped, some uttered prayers and made the sign of the Goddess on their chests.
The woman threw open the passenger door, just as the wail of an oncoming ambulance announced help's arrival. Befuddled, she blew a strand of her bright red hair from out of her face and pointed to the trolley. "You! That handsome man there! He saved us!"
John Henry winced. He didn't want the attention. Still, he endured the roar and cheer that rouse up in the trolley as the rubbernecking driver set it back into motion again, thankfully taking J.H. away from any more onlookers or well-wishers.
"It's just..." he started, drowned out by the wide-eyed audience he now commanded. "People, calm down, it's just the right thing to do!"
A man with a thick, Cajun drawl patted John Henry on the shoulder. Needless to say, he was not used to anybody so boldly touching him, and though it wasn't positively received, the giant man knew there was no ill intent behind it. "Let me buy you a drink, frere."
Damn, there was no easy way out of this. So much for keeping his head low. John Henry righted himself and pulled back his overall straps. "No, let me buy you a drink."
You would have thought the man thought John Henry a god. "Non, mon ami!"
"Let me buy you a drink!" A bearded fellow, missing several teeth, said.
Oh Good Goddess, John Henry thought. Well, so much for a noontime gym session. "Tell you what, fellas--how about I buy the first round and you can all argue over the rest." He puffed out his chest, admittedly feeling a bit tickled by the adoration. "Pick the place. I'm there."
That place turned out to be a two-story tavern along Bourbon Street, with an overhanging terrace surrounded by gas lanterns. It was spooky and elegant like everything else in New Orleans, and John Henry appreciated it. He'd also eaten a few meals here already, so he was familiar with the joint.
He was also familiar with the bartender and waitress, a beautiful, petit angel named Sandra who didn't take shit from anybody. Now, the thing about John Henry was that no man on Earth had ever intimidated him--not once, but women on the other hand turned his legs to jelly. He just could never muster up the courage to speak to a pretty woman, and Sandra was the prettiest of them all.
"What can I get you, sugar?" she asked approaching the bar. She had an air of duty around her; a pleasant detachment. John Henry surmised it was from having to interact with so many unruly and impolite patrons. Thankfully, when he was around, nobody disrespect any bar staff in his presence, or stepped out of line--and if they did, then they were just stupid.
John Henry stared into his beer mug--his first drink, but not the first one bought for him. In truth, he didn't like the feeling of being drunk, and had so far passed off his mugs to other welcoming patrons when nobody was looking.
He did not make eye contact with the angel. "Nothing, ma'am. Maybe in a little bit?"
"You sure? I would recommend the hush puppies..."
John Henry gulped. Oh Goddess, she was a real business woman too! "S-sure, I'll take a round of those, ma'am." And then he fell into the trap of glancing up.
She beamed at him, and his heart took the brunt of it. She was beautiful, with tall cheekbones, a dark complexion--with just the slightest of slight gaps between her two front teeth that seemed to make her all the more uniquely beautiful when she smiled. "You sure are a shy one, aren't ya?"
Of all mercies, she walked away before J.H. could fathom what to say to a woman like that--or even say something dumb and stupid and awkward, which was usually par for the course in his experience. He returned to his beer, stewing in a mixture of admiration and his own failure to act on it.
Before he could spiral any further, however, he was once again drawn to another commotion. Seemed every few minutes in this town, something noisy and perilous occurred.
"Don't even look at my woman, you hear me, pretty boy!?"
If John Henry knew anything about men, it was that they were beasts of habit--especially when it came to acting foolish. With a bored expression, he glanced sideways at the bearded oaf towering over the playboy who'd most definitely had, in fact, been looking at the ogre's woman.
Sometimes, even when John Henry was present, people did choose to act stupid. He waited to see how long it would take before he'd need to step in and make them regret it.
The oaf turned around, circling his malcontent--a strapping, muscular, wild-eyed young man with his hair tied back in a ponytail. Not something you typically saw in New Orleans, for sure. You had to be strapping indeed to be a man and wear your hair like that, and dress like the combination between a rodeo rider...and a rodeo clown by the looks of the gent's swanky get-up too. The look on the muscular man's face was pure smug. He knew he was pretty--and John Henry likewise knew he'd faced very little repercussions or consequences in life, just by his presence alone.
Who does this rhinestone cowboy think he is, John Henry thought, taking a sip of his beer. He narrowed his eyes. Wait, don't I know that guy? His eyes traveled upward to the torn and faded spellbreaking posters hanging on the far wall. Yep, right there in the middle, striking a dynamic pose with his cowboy hat, was the idiot in question---his white vest embroidered with lightning bolts.
Hmmm. Carter the Horsebreaker? No, that ain't it. Jim the Rodeo Romeo? Hell, what was that fancy-footed whiteboy's name again?
Well, whatever his name, the handsome idiot was in deep shit and probably didn't even recognize what he was standing in either. The gent in the white cowboy boots threw back his beer and laughed in the face of the huffing behemoth breathing down his neck.
"Awww, ain't nothin' doin', brother," he said. "Just exchanging words with a pretty lady." He winked at the blonde, buxom, woman in leopard print sitting in the corner and making eyes at him. She giggled like a schoolgirl.
John Henry glanced to either side--already, he could see other eyes turning towards the troublemakers. Yep. This is going to be a problem. He glanced up at Sandra, her arms crossed and her mouth twisted to the side in dismay. She looked like she could immolate either of these two ruffians with her stare.
"You got a bouncer?" John Henry asked.
Without missing a beat, and without so much as looking back at him, she said, "I am the bouncer. She lowered her stare. "Wait. I want to see how this plays out..."
Damn! John Henry, struck with Cupid's Arrow, forced his heart to settle down, before he re-focused on the problem at hand.
The smug country boy--looking like a damn cigarette or Stetson model--shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what are you gonna do about it, hoss?" He jerked a thumb at the poster behind him. "You know who I am, don't ya? I'm the stunning sensation from the Lone Star nation, the lord of the lightning lasso, and..." he winked at the woman again, "the 'Rodeo Romeo' himself. Colt THE Bolt. And I will strike you down where you stand, partner!"
Oh Goddess, he really did call himself the 'Rodeo Romeo'. Looks like he's had some drink in him too. What a mess.
The giant man, who looked to J.H. like a biker grunt, cracked his knuckles in reply.
"What are you gonna do, hoss," Colt asked, rolling his eyes and gesturing broadly to the room. He knew he had a crowd now, and he was fixin' to impress.
Like monstrous bugs scurrying from the woodwork, a group of three or four leather-clad, bald, tattooed men gathered around their leader and the long-haired lothario.
The cowboy raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "Hell, you gonna give me a good time, is that it?"
John Henry slammed his beer down on the bar and stood, just as Sandra inched her way forward. He held his hand out to her. "I know you can," he said. "But Iet them waste my time, not yours."
She looked at him, concerned for his well-being. "You sure? These guys play with shadows, you understand?"
Dark magi. J.H. knew some of the local slang. Feeling strangely confident, John Henry turned to Sandra and held up his arm, a liquid metal creeping over his skin. "Got you covered, ma'am. Gonna go russle me a cowboy..."
No comments:
Post a Comment