The French Formula (LSD, #3)

12. Under Pressure

Under Pressure

Imagine you organise the European Games. You have two events coming up. There's tonight's Sumo Wrestling Tournament, and there's tomorrow's Poetry In Motion Contest. Where would you deploy your regiment of bodyguards and medical assistants? Would you pick the poetry? The E.G.O.-maniac (European Games Organization's Major Almighty Negotiator & International Armada Coordinator) decided to prepare the troops for the Sumo Suit Wrestling Tournament. They scheduled Doc and me (without backup) for the Poetry In Motion Contest. Doc enjoys a free afternoon and a free night, and I work the afternoon shift (16:00 — 24:00) at my desk at the Emergency. The Diplomat didn't book me a free ride the other day; he just switched yesterday's shift with today's free time.

It doesn't bother me. Although the afternoon is full of patients with big and small accidents, I also have time to watch the highlights of the Sumo Suit Wrestling tournament on my spiPhone. The rules are simple. Each national team consists of a mother, one of her children, and one of her parents. The mother has to be between 25 and 50 years old, her parent should be over 50, and her child under 16. The parent and the child can't be of the same gender; either grandpa and granddaughter, or grandma and grandson support mummy.

The tournament is simple too: each generation fights the other. When a team wins at least two of the three fights, they go to the next round. The competitors wear a giant suit, stuffed like a turkey and closed at the back with Velcro; it turns even a 30-kilo feather into a 300-kilo heavy Japanese wrestler. The foam helmet looks like a black Japanese wig. It's hilarious. The fights are, exactly like the Japanese originals, short and intense: you win when you throw or push your opponent out of the ring, or when you make hor fall on the ground. Thanks to the suits, nobody gets hurt. There's only one minor incident: the grandpa of on team needed to go to the bathroom, but he couldn't find his willy in time and pissed himself. Both grandpa and the suit were expelled from the competition.

Teams with a grandmother and a grandson have an important tactical advantage against teams with a grandfather and a granddaughter: the granddad behaves like a gentleman and lets a lady of his age win, while boys are full of hormones and want to show the world how strong they are in an unequal fight against a girl (who can't use her strong points like pulling hairs, hitting with high heels, or putting long nails into eyes, as those hairs are under a wig-helmet, the nails are in the gloves of the suit and the fights are barefoot).

The E.G.O.-maniac knows his bread-and-circus audience. Violence guarantees high TV ratings. Sell fighting as low-casualty entertainment, and even Nobel Peace Prize winners will watch the show. All those spectators put phenomenal pressure on the competing families. Imagine you're a 12-year-old child, having doubts about your personality and your figure, and you find yourself on TV, looking ridiculous and overweight, under pressure with 300 kilos on top of you, while your mother and grandfather shout from the side: "Come on! You can do it!" and all you can do is scream: "Let me out!" It's a terror to know what the world is about. It splits families in two.

Latvia wins the bronze medal after a 3 – 0 win against England. It's already England's third 4th place on these Games, and they are still without a medal. The tabloids put impressive pressure on the English players.

The final between Albania and Northern Ireland is decided on the third fight, the one between the mothers. The Albanian mother wins the gold medal, but the Northern Irish mother is just as happy with the silver: she takes off the suit and loses 240 kilos in five seconds.

I'm already dreaming about a full night of sleep when, at 23:55, my spiPhone reminds me to visit the Intensive Care and check on Tong Au. He's probably still in a coma, but if I don't shoot, I can't score.

When I enter the floor of the Intensive Care, I find the guard fast asleep on the ground next to his chair. The towel on his face fills the air with the sweet smells of chloroform: suddenly I'm wide awake and all alert. Silent as a cat on white socks, I move to Tong Au's room. I hear a monologue, but it's not one by Tong Au: it doesn't have his funny accent, and it's not funny either.