Magenta

My back crashed into the window, glass shattering. My fate hung mid-air like a battered piñata. I thrust my heels downward, breaking my fall from two stories above onto soft dirt near a withered plant.

“Fare Il Grande!” The masked man leering with a gun from descending broken shards. My lungs squeezed for oxygen after losing the tug of war with gravity. That man’s heavily accented voice sounded Italian. This must all be a misunderstanding. The window above was already being sealed from the inside with the rapping of a hammer.

Well, here I am. A sandy colored mix of stucco and bricks towering over the streets. An abandoned parkway bordered by plazas of weathered wood sealed doorways and windows. A distant scratching noise warned I was not alone. A man tugging a bloody leg rounded the corner.

“Hour 32. Games almost over. You must be the last one dropped before we lose.” The man winced holding tightly to his limb.

“Good luck Rob.” The limping man looking up. A red ball hurled from overhead.

“Catch it!” the limping man yelled.

As any serious athlete would, I centered myself, tucking my elbows in like a football receiver while straining to catch the ball.

“What is this?” I cried when it landed in my arms.

“A game that we will lose. The last guy thrown down here died, his ribs puncturing his lungs. You are out of breath, but you have a chance,” a sudden breeze ruffling his shirt.

“What happened sir, how are we down here?” I asked.

“My name is Frances. You have no idea how you got down here, just like the rest of our team. They must have drugged us. Magentas." He said, pointing out the white shirt and the black label ‘Frances’.

“What is the game?”

“Calcio Storico. The ball belongs to our team as long as we have it. I expect the magenta team will be ruthless and we too will die like the fate of many others on our team.” Frances stumbled avoiding collapse.

“Calcio Storico, what is that?”

“It is a game combining martial arts and rugby. Sadistic version of that game, there is a bull that goes after only our team. The magenta team goes unnoticed for whatever reason.” Frances said.

“How long have you been down here?” I asked.

A screech echoed down the rows of wood barricaded storefronts. The bash and bustle of a raging beast in the distance.

“I am staying to the side, this dirt street goes end to end about three miles. If you can get to the opposite end, the ball won’t explode. Toss it to others in shirts with white and black. Our team. Actually, you can prevent that ball from exploding if any one of you makes it.” Frances hobbled over to the wall trying to press himself flat against it.

I hit a running stride, a launching in a pinball machine. The rumble of feet behind me. The far off corner a zig zag of unfamiliar street. I met the bulging arm of a built man in magenta ‘close lining’ me. I hit the ground for the second time today. This time the breath held tight in my lungs. The man reached down to pry the ball from my tightening grip.

“No! Don’t let it touch the ground, it will explode!” I yelled.

“Is that what they tell you now? Probably so you don’t drop the ball making more of a competition for us.” The man laughed.

“Us?” I asked.

“We paid to be here, you guys in those white shirts are the selected ones. You die at the end of this either way. If you don’t get killed playing, that is.” The man reaching his hand down to help me up. Really? My mind stuttered until grasping his hand, thrust to my feet like a good pal. Before I could say a word, his foot kicked my chest slamming me to the ground, my back to the dirt for the third time today. A persecution like the legend of Hercules.

“Good luck, Rob.” He began running in the opposite direction and towards the bull. A freight train towards livestock. The magenta man must not be daunted by the bull.

I looked to my clothes as I was getting up. A white shirt with black letters ‘Rob’ blazoned across my chest. The opposite team as the magenta men.

My shoulder was tapped from behind like a famous horror story ending. Another magenta man. He swung his arm with a knife towards my throat, slashing in dry air. I punched him in the face with hardened knuckles. Tides have turned. I am not accepting this. I am a winner even in an unfamiliar competition. Inner strength coursing through my veins. I flashed back to the limping man who warned me. “Frances” wore a white shirt labeled in Black. No, we wore. A team. Magenta vs White and Black.

I am on this unchosen team with some battled men. Nobody picks the last man. A cough exhaled from the magenta man I punched to the ground. Closing my eyes, breathing in, the world opening. The bull gained momentum in the direction of the first magenta’s finishing sprint.

Sand spread behind my increasing footsteps. A virtuous climax of a symphony. Ammonia smell in my deepening breath. The bull’s stomp louder. Pulling himself around the corner, Frances holding his now bleeding abdomen.

“Looks like this is my end.” Frances reaching in his pocket to a fold of papers and a single family photo.

“These are notes from the people forced down here like you and me. Deliver them to their families if you are able to survive.”

“I will.”

“We are forced to carry the ball wondering if it explodes or not. Even if it does explode the magenta’s will attack and punch us in the face to get a ball they know everything about. Does it explode or not? The magentas practiced years to catch and take it from us.” I took the notes and photo for my team’s families.

Frances coughed, pressing his hand against a blood covered chest. Hugging Frances. Blood staining my sullied shirt. Determined to defeat these magentas, they are murderers.

The low resonating grunt of a bull. My rage a docile ghost compared to the intimidating monster. Our glances zoomed to a focus. The ball held like a trophy by magenta man. He pivoted to position next to the bull. All of the magentas were missing blips on the bull’s radar.

The bull’s nose ran moist. He was sick. He stood on the canvas of a tent he violently tossed and crushed. Uncontrolled fight and flight. Beside the bull were six white and black shirt men from our team. The magentas had pummeled them with this monster to their advantage. Tip the bull.

“Pull the canvas!” I yelled to the injured six. Written letters to their families in my pocket.

The bull charged forward towards me. A sliding canvas beneath the bull’s hooves like a table cloth pulled beneath crystal dishes. The rage of a bull toppling. My team didn’t want to kill, though if we were going to die leaving our families…

The magenta man interrupting my thought with his yell:

“No you aren’t supposed to be able to kill the bull!” his magenta robe fluttered in the sandy wind and looked back in the direction to score. An operas last score. I leapt over the bull to obstruct him from the goal line. A flip of the light switch, pinched brows, nostrils flaring and head down, the running magenta man towards me gripping the ball.

Karma willing me to reach out my arm. A deja vu of the “close line” this man showed me. His back hit the ground like a boulder tumbling to the canyon floor.

The ball flew from his grasp into my arms. The perfect hand-off.

“Got it.” I said aloud. Running past blurs of magenta. Prey weaving amidst predators’ pursuit.

I reached our scoring end. My teams end. “You will die if you win or not," the magenta man had said. The symphony sheet music torn in two.

“Sir, sir, excuse me!” The suited young man shook my shoulder as he adjusted his ear piece.

A true dream's end.

“30 seconds and you are on stage. 2,300 people turned out. You requested the numbers, yes?”

Standing now. The young gentleman adjusted my collar for me.

“The numbers don’t matter, the belief does.” I said.

A not so distant microphone announced “It is my great privilege to invite to the stage—”

Clapping overwhelmed the background.