山
Yama.
Mountain.
“You come from mountain, no?” The voice of Sensei Abe Lincoln worms its way to the forefront over the mumbling bustle. Crowds of people mull about, united only in their disorganisation. “Mmhmm, I said it last time, Frank-San. I said Shujin Yama would conquer smoky mountain next. You think your challenge was surprise? No! Shujin Yama was merely waiting for you to grow big kōgan and ask.”
His trademark sneer continues, complete with his textbook dropping of articles of speech. The sun beats down from above, but as Lincoln tracks a slow arc across the grounds, he pays no attention to the bead of sweat forming on his brow.
His pacing stops, and behind the leery villain, the Washington Monument pokes into the sky. The massive Yama stands before it, eyes ablaze as he stares directly down the lens.
“One of these is monument to American Dream. Other is overrated piece of carved rock.” He cracks a wry, wily grin. “Shujin Yama is everything that Americans should dream of. Strong. Fast. Virile. Patriotic to fault! Yet, Frank-San, you tell him he is not worthy of Premier American Championship! Yes, Shujin Yama chose another flag, but by his own liberty! Is that not embodiment of American First Amendment? Is that not, as you say, American as apple pie?”
Moving again, Lincoln strolls to the side of his venerated beast. The lens shakes as it follows. A cough is heard, but Lincoln ignores it.
“You portray classic American mindset of ‘might equals right’ but when Shujin Yama attempts to do same against Uncle Sam, you won’t let it happen.” Lincoln makes an exaggerated scoffing sound. “Sounds more like classic American hypocrisy. And Classic Wrestling allows it! Fans of Classic Wrestling cheer and chant! U-S-A… U-S-A… like mindless robots.”
A splattering of the chant can be heard around the monument. Yama visibly tenses and the look of disgust is clear on Lincoln’s face.
“It matters not,” he says. “Chanting yokels are just like Frank-San: simpletons unable to locate own country on map. Shujin Yama is beyond their comprehension, for Shujin Yama is mountain greater than even Mt. Fuji; tower too high to climb for even King Kong! You, Frank-San, with all American people alongside you, are running head-first into force of will that you can try to bend, but it won’t ever break! No… you will.”
GONG!
“Where the heck did that come from?” a voice asks from behind the camera. Lincoln dares not respond.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps, and Shujin Yama moves to the forefront, blocking out the sensei entirely. Simultaneously, the sun above passes behind a cloud, and in the presence of the colossus, the Washington Monument is cast into shadow.
For the first time in months, the Oni of Oblivion speaks.
“Frank.” The calmness in his voice is a chilling contrast to the gleeful villainy of his associate. “Do you want to know the difference between you and I? You hoot and you holler and you beat your chest about colours whose meaning to you is born out of nothing but backwoods education and blind faith. Raised to think that way by your mother-slash-sister who has spent more time on her back than reading a damn book. You think I’m insulting your flag? Every time you speak my name you’re not insulting a piece of cloth, you’re insulting me personally. But you’re proud of your ignorance, aren’t you? Pathetic. I guess there are no heroes in this story. So screw what Mama Kong taught you, you son-of-an-ape. I’m going to teach you a whole new lesson. I’m going to flatten you once again, Frank. And when your body lays broken before me… I’m going to plant my flag into your still beating heart.”
“Say it with me, Frank-San,” Lincoln peeks into the frame, the Japanese flag waving in his hands. “I pledge allegiance… to the flag… of the United States of Yama.”
…
…
…
A brief pause follows with the two staring into the camera.
…
“We got it, no?” Lincoln asks.
“Uhh… yes,” the same voice as before replies from off-screen. The camera shakes a little.
“Give! Give! Give!” Lincoln demands, motioning towards the lens. The camera seems to move forward until it’s firmly within Lincoln’s hands, pointing up to his face from below. “You go now.”
“You said that you’d take a photo for my family after…”
“SECURITY! HE HAS A BOMB!”
The sound of scurrying fades everything away.
アメリカ
Amerika.
America.