Badasses of Songdom: Triangle Man v. Yoshimi

PHUTATORIUS
Badasses of Songdom resumes today after a hiatus of nearly three weeks. Reigning champ Triangle Man has felt a little disrespected since his controversial victory over The Wizard back in April. There's been argument in the blogosphere about whether to credit him for the win. Should a challenger's forfeit go in the books as a successful title defense? Should it not count at all?

All this is eating at T-Man's reputation — and his nerves. He wants a straightforward fight. He wants back in the ring with a solid challenger, so he can take the guy down and bring the focus back on what matters: his raw, crushing aggression. I know Triangle Man wants these things because I've got his agent calling me all day long to tell me. Really: it's the sort of thing I'd be content to hear once, maybe twice. But he won't leave me alone:

Get on the stick, Phutatorius, and get me someone who can FIGHT.

Like I haven't been trying. Like it's just the easiest thing in the world to work the phones and line up anyone, much less a true contender, to fight Triangle Man, when he's well-rested and really pissed off.

Which brings me, at Mithridates's recommendation, to Yoshimi.
More...
WHO? This is T-Man's agent again, howling at me over his cell phone.

Her name is Yoshimi.

Never heard of her. You couldn't line up Mack, Ziggy, somebody with a name?

We've been over this. Mackie's still Upstate. He's not even parole-eligible until June. And Ziggy's all sucked up into his mind right now. But Mithridates says this one's a fighter.

MITHRIDATES SAYS she's a fighter? Phutsie, look: T and I are getting tired of all these tomato-can challengers. My guy wants a taste of blood on his lip. Just a taste, and none of your people can even touch him. You keep this up, this chick comes off like Rigby did, and it's over. We'll go do the tournament circuit in Europe.

Suffice to say, then, that I've personally got a lot riding on this fight. I need Yoshimi to make this interesting. And it wouldn't break my heart, either, if by some miraculous turn of events she actually wins. Might get a couple of miserable prima donnas out of my life.

So let's get this party started. We're going steel cage here tonight at the Stambaugh Auditorium. No holds barred: anything goes until somebody says "uncle."

Redneck rings the bell, and we're started. Gotta say here, Yoshimi doesn't look like much. Japanese schoolgirl-type. Skirted, demure. Serious eyes, but not very physically imposing, that's for sure. T-Man isn't impressed, either:

"Are you lost, little girl? The Hello Kitty convention is three towns over."

Up here in the booth next to me, Mithridates groans. "Can't he do better than a Hello Kitty joke?"

Yoshimi glares at Triangle Man.

"Hey, look over there!" T-Man points. "Isn't that Pikachu, with Princess Toadstool?" Yoshimi purses her lips, keeps her eyes fixed on her opponent.

Mithridates: "This is just frickin' offensive. Did I say she's a black belt in karate?"

Triangle Man makes his move. A sudden swoop, plunging one vertex at Yoshimi's throat. But she's gone. Behind him, in fact. She taps him on the shoulder. He turns around and spits.

"She can move," I say to M'dates.

"Damn right, she can. She has to discipline her body to fight those evil machines."

"Evil machines? Where?"

"Never mind," Mithridates says. "Just watch."

Triangle Man makes another move. Yoshimi glides out of the way. T-Man runs smack into the side of the cage. He's starting to get his back up just a little bit right now.

"That's all well and good," I say, "but at some point she needs to fight him. And I don't think she's strong enough."

"She's been taking lots of vitamins," Mithridates assures me.

"I suppose every little bit helps."

Triangle Man smacks a fist into an open palm. "You can run, but you can't hide, little girl." Yoshimi doesn't answer. "Do you ever have singalongs at school? 'Cause I've got a song you might know. Jump in anytime you like. It goes a little bit like this: 'TRIANGLE MAN, TRIANGLE MAN, TRIANGLE MAN HATES YOSHIMI! THEY HAVE A FIGHT —"

THWACK!
   THWACK!
      THWACK!

I didn't even see it happen, but Yoshimi just landed three blows — one on each of T-Man's three corners, and she snapped all three clean off. Three, tiny, bloody triangles are lying hacked off on the bottom of the cage, and The Champ is just standing there: dazed, confused, six-sided now.

"Yeah! YEAH YEAH! You see that, Phutsie?" Mithridates is beside himself.

Triangle — er, Hexagon Man is trying to recover himself. He rubs a couple of his blunted corners. Still sharp enough, he thinks, to buzzsaw over this little Japanese beeyatch —

THWACK!
   THWACK!
      THWACK!
         THWACK!
            THWACK!
               THWACK!

Yoshimi again! As best I can figure it — and I'll have to check the slo-mo replay to verify this — she just dealt him three hand chops, two foot-sweeps, and a roundhouse kick. Again, all on the corners, and again, all clean hits. Snapped all six right off. Triangle Man drops to the ground. She's completely disarmed him. Turned him into a frickin' irregular dodecagon.

"OH, POW! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, BITCH?" Mithridates crows.

Yoshimi stands over her near-vanquished foe, arms poised for further action. She cocks her head, as if waiting to hear the Magic Concession Word from Triangle Man. It doesn't come.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

If I knew the Greek word for 24, I'd know what to call Triangle Man right now. But I don't, so I'm gonna have to go with 24-o-gon. I dunno. Maybe just gon-er's the right word.

For the first time tonight, Yoshimi speaks. Softly. She's barely audible, but we've got Vercingetorix down at cage-side with a parabolic mike:

"Any last words, Champ, before I turn you into a circle?"

"Un —" Triangle Man starts, then stops himself.

"Yes?" She dangles an open fist over him.

"Uncle."

THEY HAD A FIGHT. YOSHIMI WINS. YOSHIMI.

Now somebody get a broom and dustpan to scrape up the several shards of our beaten champ.

Badasses of Songdom: Triangle Man v. The Wizard

PHUTATORIUS
Hiatus is over: we're back on track, baby! What can I say? Sometimes karma smiles on you. A wealthy patron swoops down and posts Triangle Man's bail — says it's the least he can do, after T-Man made him a killing on the Bungalow Bill bout.

Turns out BoS has sprung a big secondary gambling market, notwithstanding our relatively low Internet profile. Who knew? The upshot for now is that Triangle Man is back in the swing of things. We've lined up The Wizard to take him on this week. Black Sabbath's Wizard, not L. Frank Baum's. I feel like there's potential here. The challenger's got karma. A while ago he endorsed a consumer electronics chain in New York — and from what I hear, nobody's beat them since.
More...
Big shout-out to Geezer Butler, by the way, who I hear is with us today in the crowd. Where are you, Geez? Stand up, give us a wave. That's right: love your gig, my man.

We're outdoors today — set up at the old battlefield, because at this point we're homeless. The Shriners canceled our contract. Worried about liability. Go figure. Shitty auditorium, anyway. Screw 'em. But wouldn't you know it? The weather sucks today. It's a misty morning — clouds in the sky. Of course it'll fucking rain on all of us today.

Mithridates reminds me there are families in the crowd. I should tone down the language, he says. Oh, right, Mr. Upstanding McPerfect. I don't see you doing the frickin' writeups.

All right, all right. OK. I'm sorry. I'm just in a mood today. I feel like a bad vibe has set in over the BoS series. It's poisoning the atmosphere. I've got an attitude; the crowd doesn't seem particularly interested. The Wizard isn't here yet. He's twenty minutes late, and the boo-birds are taking over. A rotten tomato just flew over my shoulder. It hit the elm tree behind me and splattered. Smells horrible. You wonder how crowds always get hold of rotten tomatoes. It's not like you can buy them rotten the day of an event. Seems to me like that's something you have to plan for, and you'd have to be loser to go to the trouble.

That's right, asshole: that was me calling you a loser. You got a problem with that? Well, bring it on, pal!

So yeah, I'm thinking that with all the bad feeling here, that tomato could have rotted right on the vine, just this morning. Pfft. Cell phone text from Geezer: WTF? WHERE IS HE? Text to Geezer: Wizard's UR guy. U tell me.

Triangle Man's here, of course. Been here since 8 a.m., and he's feeding off all the bad energy. It only makes him stronger. He's looking ripped. Word is he did nothing in his cell but sit-ups and push-ups during his week Upstate. They say Solitary can break you, but it can also focus your mind. I wouldn't want to be The Wizard right now.

And that, in a nutshell, might explain why The Wizard hasn't showed up.

I give this guy five more minutes before I shut this down. The skies could open up any minute, and this Wizard is jerking my chain. Folks bring their kids out into the cold, they're disappointed and crying. Four more minutes and I call a washout. What an unreliable stoner SOB, this guy.

Three minutes. Two . . .

I hear a tinkling bell. I don't see a tinkling bell, but I hear it. The sound is in my head. Clear as day, and loud. And suddenly, The Wizard is here. I mean, that's gotta be him, right? With the funny clothes? Long, black robes with big open, droopy sleeves. Hooded, with a beard tapering down to his knees. Can't really see his eyes. I swear this guy appeared without warning, and then — pow! — there he is, in front of me. Just walking by. The crowd just frickin' erupts.

The Wizard has arrived. Finally, I should add. But I don't, because I'm just so ecstatic he's here. I've completely forgotten the last two weeks of grief I've had over Triangle Man, the scheduling, the beef with the Shriners. All these grudges, worries, and petty preoccupations I've been carrying around: they're just gone. It's like a wash of good feeling has flooded over me and purged me of negativity. I'm filled to the brim with love, heaped over with joy. I can't even tell you how I feel right now.

I chase after him, like some silly fan-girl running down John Lennon in A Hard Day's Night. "Hey, Wizard — you rock, man. Whoo-hoo!"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't even see me. He just keeps walking, making arcane gestures with his hands. Weaving his spells. He passes through the heart of the crowd, which parts ways to accommodate him. All the people give a sigh. They're all — well, they seem happy, like I do, when The Wizard walks by. Out of the corner of my eye I see Vercingetorix turning cartwheels, and it doesn't even occur to me to laugh at him. All cynicism is gone.

Standing in The Wizard's path is Triangle Man. The clouds have gone, and the sun beams down on these two solitary figures: Triangle Man, the demon, standing stock-still, and The Wizard, who just keeps walking — right up, it seems, into T-Man's grill. Triangle Man seems worried. Just when The Wizard might have collided with him, Triangle Man steps aside. The Wizard just keeps walking, past Triangle Man, across the field and into the woods, spreading his magic.

What? That's it?

"CALL IT!" Mithridates cries out. "Triangle Man stepped aside. The Wizard wins!" The crowd roars its approval.

I'm not sure. I'm not as susceptible to spells as M'dates, V'torix, and the drooling masses. All that magic baloney wears off over time — and for the likes of me, it seems, it happens pretty quickly. The Wizard has left the field of play, and I'm not feeling quite as rapt and enthusiastic as some of the other weaker minds out here. Triangle Man's not so thrilled, either.

"Triangle Man, Triangle Man," he chants. "Triangle Man hates The Wizard. They should have a fight. Where is he?"

"You blew it, T-Man," Mithridates shouts. He has tears in his eyes. "Hooray for The Wizard! Hooray!" (Could M'dates be any more dorked out than he is right now? I've never known him to say the word "hooray.")

"Look, it's just a Jedi mind trick," I tell Mithridates. "From where I'm sitting, it's a forfeit. The Wizard left the field. He walked in — and late, I might add — then walked out. We paid him a truckload of money, and he was here for what — three minutes? He didn't even talk to anyone."

"Hey, man, whatever. Your call. I'm just SO FRICKIN' HAPPY right now. I don't care."

"Look: you make a good point. The Wizard did pacify Triangle Man. Or at least intimidate him. But the forfeit case is at least as strong. And I think that in a case like this, a tie goes to the champion. That's Triangle Man."

"Dude, have I told you? I AM SO HAPPY."

That should do it, then. Triangle Man in an uncontested barnburner, if ever there was such a thing.

The crowd roars once more and carries the indicted and victorious Triangle Man off on its shoulders.

Badasses of Songdom: SUSPENDED This Week, Until Triangle Man Posts Bail

PHUTATORIUS
I'm sorry to say that the rumors in the blogosphere are true: there will be no Badasses of Songdom fight this week. We thought long and hard about going ahead without Triangle Man: we have a pretty thick reserve of worthy combatants, after all. Mithridates proposed that I pluck two names out of my Badasses Rolodex, call up the lucky lottery winners and put 'em in a ring together. But I just didn't feel right moving forward on that. Our undefeated champion is in the lock-up, the hoosegow — he's "indisposed" — and it seems a bit cheap, a bit fraudulent, to schedule a title bout without him. I mean, we don't even have the frickin' title belt: the cops locked it away with T-Man's personal effects at the booking.

No, I've decided. We're not gonna budge on the Badasses series until (1) Triangle Man posts bail, or (2) somebody springs him.

All I can do today is tell you how we got here.
More...
Now I know some of you saw the big mess of cop cars and ambulances in the parking lot after the Rigby fight. We've had emails about it, and folks have been anxious to find out what transpired there. Well, it shouldn't surprise anyone to learn that this darned holding pattern we're in right now has everything to do with the events that took place outside the Shriners Auditorium last Thursday night.

I'll say right off the bat that one of the ambulances was, of course, taking Eleanor Rigby "to hospital" (as they say in her neck of the woods). We're legally required to keep a crew of paramedics on hand to cart off one or more fallen combatants, as necessary. That's standard operating procedure, and nothing fishy about it.

The rest of the sirens, lights, and hullabaloo had to do with some "extracurricular" business involving Triangle Man (who else?) as he went out to his car after the fight. Now I was not a firsthand eyewitness to any of this, and I'm still piecing the story together from the police reports and court transcripts from the arraignment. But as best I can figure it, some guy who calls himself the Taxman approached Triangle Man just outside the doors of the Auditorium. He flashed some kind of documentation and demanded to know what T-Man's fight purse was.

"What's it to ya?" Triangle Man said. (I'm paraphrasing.)

The Taxman said he was entitled to a 95% cut of Triangle Man's BoS earnings to date. As you can imagine, that didn't go over well. Onlookers reported that in his sudden fury Triangle Man actually hit himself in the face, Woody Hayes-style, before proceeding to deal a flurry of blows to Taxman, taking him down to the asphalt.

"THAT'S ONE FOR ME, AND NINETEEN FOR YOU," Triangle Man shouted. Some libertarians in the crowd egged him on, and it took a dozen other people to pull him off the Taxman.

Folks had cell phones: they called the police. Someone shouted for medical assistance, but the paramedics had already blown the joint with Rigby.

"IS THERE A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE?" At which point a guy named Robert answered the call — who knew, with this audience demographic, that there would actually be a doctor handy? He went over to the Taxman, who was still down, and picked him up. "HE'S DYING THERE!" somebody shouted.

"I'll do everything I can," he said, calmly. He pulled out a flask from one jacket pocket, and a cup from another. The Taxman took a drink from the cup, swallowed, cleared his throat, and spat.

"YOU MOTHER FUC —" Taxman sprang to his feet and charged Triangle Man, who was still restrained (but barely).

"Well, well, well — YOU'RE feeling fine," Doctor Robert said. Something special was in that cup. The police would later have it swabbed for testing in their forensic lab. They're thinking PCP.

Depending on the witness, Taxman actually landed between one and five blows on Triangle Man, before the latter broke free from the crowd and beat the tar out of him. In the ensuing melee Doctor Robert broke his collarbone, and about a dozen other onlookers were injured. I recognized one of them from the police file: a guy from the town where I was born. He'd spent some time at sea and was always telling stories about submarines. Hadn't seen him in years, but I'm glad he's following the blog.

Four squad cars reported to the scene, and it took six cops and four Taser discharges to subdue Triangle Man. He had totally lost it and was screaming "SURRENDER TO THE VOID! IT IS SHINING!" over and over as they dragged him to the car.

At his arraignment the next morning, the court ruled that Triangle Man was a flight risk. Apparently he had escaped from his cell several times by turning himself sideways and slipping between the bars, only to find his bid for freedom thwarted by the solid locked door to the cell block. Bail is set at $5 million. They have him in solitary, in a bricked-up cell. It didn't help that the judge owned up to be a Beatles fan. The guy nearly killed everybody on the Revolver album.

Redneck, M'dates and I are pooling our resources, calling the few influential people we know. We should know by early next week whether we can get Triangle Man out of prison and back into action (pending trial on these aggravated assault charges, of course). We'll keep you posted.

Badasses of Songdom: Triangle Man v. Eleanor Rigby

PHUTATORIUS
All right. Let's just get this one over with. Nobody on our side wanted it, but McCartney insisted on a package deal: no Bungalow Bill unless we took Eleanor Rigby, too. You drive a hard bargain, Macca. Fine. Whatever. Kill this series before it gets any kind of momentum behind it. You're the pop star.

Pfft.
More...
We didn't expect much in the way of attendance tonight — this Rigby woman isn't easy to promote — but we've had a lot of walkups, folks all on their lonesome, buying single tickets. All these lonely people plunking down hard-earned dollars to see Triangle Man kick around an old maid: where did they come from?

Mithridates and Redneck pooled their savings and shelled out for the "Let's Get Ready To Rumble" Guy: anything to give this bout a little bit of the luster it's so obviously lacking. LGRTR Guy does his bit in style — the guy's a professional — but whatever the hell intern chimpanzee they have running the lights here at the Shriners Auditorium is having the damnedest time landing his spotlight on The Challenger. To the left . . . no. Try over there. Other corner. That her? Think so.

Pale woman, middle-aged — I don't know why I'm trying: she's the definition of non-descript — bent over eating spilled rice off the floor. Carbo-loading? M'dates tells me there was a wedding in the venue earlier in the day.

Triangle Man's in the Red Corner, jacked up on Yoo-Hoo and speed, making confrontational and obscene gestures to the crowd. They just stare back at him, blank-faced and alienated; they can't be bothered even to communicate their baser emotions. Seriously, where did these people come from? T-Man has gone razor-sharp isoceles today. He's thinking bum-rush impalement. Gonna kebab this old bat, stick her clean through to the sandbags in her corner. You can read it in his eyes.

Rigby showed some foresight: she brought her own cut man. Man of the cloth, apparently. He's got a Bible with him, a pair of darning needles (darning needles? really? not forceps?) and a roll of sutures. A 2-fer-1 proposition: he can stitch her up or administer last rites, as necessary.

Over/under here is 35 seconds before KO, TKO. I'm taking the under.

National anthem, invocation from this Father Mackenzie (not that anybody was listening), the band plays "Silly Love Songs" — another contractual concession to McCartney — and they ring the bell. Triangle Man stalks across the ring with the ugliest of intentions.

"Triangle Man. Triangle Man. Triangle Man hates Eleanor Rigby."

That doesn't read all that intimidating, I know, but until you've seen him say it, you have no idea. Ten, fifteen seconds tick off. No contact. Triangle Man circles the ring. He looks confused. It's like — it's like he can't find her. Weirdest thing: she's standing there in plain sight, but T-Man keeps streaking past her. She's managed to place herself beneath his notice. A neat trick: I don't even see her half the time — my eyes are fixed on Triangle Man, and she only flashes across my field of vision as he blows by her.

Fifteen, twenty seconds. Triangle Man is beside himself. "DAMMIT, RIGBY, WHERE ARE YOU?!?" he bellows. He stabs his acute angle into the ring's canvas floor and angrily tears it to shreds.

"There goes our deposit," Mithridates sighs from behind me.

Twenty-five seconds. Rigby steps lightly aside to avoid colliding with her ranting, pacing opponent. Unfortunately, she steps into one of the tears in the floor. She sprains an ankle and cries out. Triangle Man turns toward the sound and sights his prey.

Thirty seconds. Get her! GET HER QUICK! I've got a hundred bucks riding on the over/under!

Triangle Man pauses. He actually stops, lets his raised razor-sharp point droop to the canvas. He seems . . . touched. Rigby's wearing the most pitiful face you've ever seen. It's frickin' ridiculous. What a caricature of a sad-sack personality. Who does she think she's gonna win over with that? Well, Triangle Man, apparently. He's struggling with himself. Pangs of conscience I've never seen before: he can't bring himself to move on her.

Thirty-two seconds.

Triangle Man is fighting back tears. You've got to be kidding me.

Thirty-four seconds.

"I'm sorry," Triangle Man. This leanest, meanest, most merciless and unforgiving son-of-a-polygon is apologizing to Eleanor Rigby. His stomach heaves, and he sighs. It's a dramatic over/under-straddling sigh of empathy and resignation.

Thirty-six seconds. Triangle Man shrugs, checks his watch, and finally drops his kebab move on her. Game over. They had a fight (sort of). Triangle wins. Triangle Man.

And I'm down a C-note to Vercingetorix. Pfft.

Better matchup next week, Brothers and Sisters. We promise.

Badasses of Songdom: Triangle Man v. Bungalow Bill

PHUTATORIUS
Some time ago here at FO, Triangle Man picked a fight with Universe Man. If you recall (and judging from the analytics, you won't), Triangle Man won that bout on points, in a nailbiter. That made Triangle Man undisputed champion of his own song, and he's been riding high and itching for another fight ever since. Message bricks through my window, toilet paper in the shrubbery, the whole nine yards.

So in this post I have the pleasure of announcing — only slightly under duress — Feigned Outrage's Badasses of Songdom Series. Triangle Man's opponent today? That All-American, bullet-headed Saxon mother's son of Beatles lore: Bungalow Bill.
More...
As you know, Bill's a Nimrod-the-Hunter type. Probably more nimrod than hunter, but don't underestimate him. Bill brings an elephant and blunderbuss with him to this fight . . . and a bit of chip on his shoulder after that incident with Captain Marvel. And Triangle Man has agreed to stage today's combat deep in the jungle: that is, right in Bill's comfort zone.

On the other hand, Triangle Man is a cold-blooded, hateful, feisty son of a bitch with three equally sharp corners (he's gone equilateral today), and he's been working out.

So let's get things started, shall we?

Taking a cue from Captain Marvel, Triangle Man has receded into the shadows. He has the advantage of stealth, whereas Bill is plodding around in the trees with a frickin' elephant. A surprise attack is surely in order . . . "AHA!" Triangle Man cries, swinging through the air on a vine (he hasn't perfected the Tarzan yell). But wait! There's the elephant, but where's Bill?

"Right behind you, Tiger."

A trap! Well played, Bungalow Bill! Triangle Man has to think fast. He has done his research. He knows Bill has proved susceptible to moral confusion in the past. Pinned down between the roots of a giant kapok tree, staring down the barrel of Bill's gun, Triangle Man plays his ace: "Is it not a sin, Bill, to shoot down a geometric figure in cold blood?"

Fierce-faced Bill lowers his gun. He is angry: Triangle Man challenged him to this fight, then skipped away like a rabbit. Now that he's been caught, he's trying the emotional appeal. Unfair, he decides. And hardly sporting! "MUMMY!" he shouts.

"I'm here," Bill's mother says, stepping blithely out from where she had been crouched, behind a termite's nest. "And for cryin' out loud, Billy: you call me 'mama.' I didn't raise no mummy's boy Inglishman. Now I seen the way this-here Triangle Fella been treatin' you and it ain't right." Bungalow Bill's mother glares at Triangle Man. I mean, she really glares at him. Let me put it this way: if looks could kill, it would have been Triangle Man lying at the base of the fateful kapok tree, vanquished.

But looks don't kill, do they? And so instead it's Bill, his mother, and his elephant down on the ground nursing puncture wounds, and it's Triangle Man standing over them all, wiping off his three corners with a Purell-soaked handkerchief and taunting his fallen foe in song:

Triangle Man, Triangle Man. Triangle Man hates Bungalow Bill. They have a fight. Hey, Bungalow Bill: what did you kill? Nobody. Triangle wins. TRIANGLE MAN.

See you next week.