the world's greatest olympian

Ricky Cruz

Chapter One

Why are families like a box of chocolates?

They are mostly sweet with a few nuts.

-- The Mammoth Book of Humor

"Ugh!"

Don't start with me. You think you wouldn't groan aloud just a little bit, scaling a sandstone wall bare-gloved, a few hundred feet above sea level? You think this is easy? For your information this early Spanish-style fortress was brand spanking new. . . what. . . like. . . five hundred years ago! And no sooner do I think about the ol' fort's age, right on cue, a piece of it detaches itself.

Yep, I'm slipping!

My eyes snap downward and I see that I'm mere inches away from either making a red, white and blue smear against a rocky coastline or splattering on the adjacent promenade that follows the curve of San Juan Bay at the base of this fort.

Whoa! Suddenly my life is flashing before me. No joke - I always thought that was a myth. . .

Let me save you from the gory family secrets and get right down to specifics: One year ago I was fifteen, biting my lower lip, and holding back my desire to scream at a gauntlet of relatives that were poking, prodding, pinching and kissing me.

Oh, and don't get me going on those older relatives that I faintly recognize dredging out things I said and did way back when I was barely aware of the world around me and trying to make me account for my actions back then.

I keep reminding myself: I'm at a funeral. Be civil!

My grandmother's hawk-like glare keeps me targeted in her sights. Taking advantage of a momentary distraction provided by her endless assembly line of open armed, distant cousins - I do a McQueen and escape.

I don't know about you but this entire family gathering thing always seems surreal to me. Whether at a wedding or a holiday dinner like Christmas or now at the passing of a relative like my grand-uncle. . . it's a mixed bag of joy and sadness.

Honestly, I don't give the room holding grand-whomever a second glance. I didn't know I had a grand-uncle, never met him, don't exactly know how a "grand-uncle" rates in the family tree and it's a sure bet that the old geezer didn't know I existed, either. Exploring the rest of the funeral home seems more like time well spent.

What a contrast! Here in this wing of the funeral home it is empty and almost everything - furniture, drapes - is decorated in bone white and hospital squeaky clean. I feel like I'm in the space station from Kubrick's 2001 movie.

Ducking through the open doors of a small parlor, I loosen the tie of my off-the-rack black Sunday suit and look around. In front of a small row of empty blue chairs there is a open black marble casket framed by gray curtains. I see the chest and head of an old man with a mane of white hair and a schnoz that would make Cyrano proud. He looks just like Einstein. . . but with a bigger nose.

Real dead bodies don't scare me. They wouldn't scare you, either, if you were brought up on a steady diet of violent TV shows, slasher movies and "M" for mature video games. Now if he suddenly opens his eyes and gets up with a hankering for my brain. . . then we might have a problem.

All kidding aside, a fact suddenly dawns on me. In the other wing of this funeral home there is a parlor filled with relatives from all across the island. All mourning a man they knew or hadn't seen in years, and, at least, acting as family should during good times and bad. When the call went out they all said "Present."

But in this parlor, there's nobody to mourn this person. Not a soul. I may be the family's resident devil's spawn or "rebel without a clue" but even I'm not too cynical that this doesn't have some kind of an effect on me.

Giving the hallway a quick check, to make sure nobody is gonna catch me doing what I'm about to do, I go back to the casket, kneel, and say a quick "Holy Mary", holding my hands together just like my grandfather taught me. Then, as I'm about to leave, I walk over to the visitor's sign-in book on a polished wooden podium beside the door and write my name and address. It's the first and only signature.

Well. . . uh. . . Dr. Abner Nietzsche, at least I came to see you and paid you respects. Rest in peace -

-- Uh-oh! Speaking about resting in peace, that reminds me. Ain't I halfway up a fortress wall, holding on for dear life and losing my grip?

My enhanced reflexes kick in - no doubt encouraged by my acrophobia - and I bury my blue gloved fingers into El Morro's sandstone surface. It's enough to stop my descent but the excruciating pain coming from my nails confirms that when this is all over and I take off my gloves, my fingers will look like a manicurist's worst nightmare.

My brain finishes calculating the distance from my exact spot to the ground below and the ledge I'm trying to grab a hold of and even takes into account the speed and southeasterly direction the wind off the ocean is reaching me. Hmm, that's funny. I've never looked at my surroundings in terms of calculations, especially since math was never my strong suit. Interesting, but now is not the time to let my mind wander.

Anyway, just a few feet and another few minutes more and I finally reach one of the fort's arched and windowless openings with a majestic view of the Atlantic Ocean. Lady Luck hasn't abandoned me; no wandering sentry catches my leap over the rusted guardrail and subsequent body roll into a small dark corner, stopping behind a large information map.

It's much cooler here in these office-like white alcoves with low ceilings and interconnecting arches, and my back is ecstatic to be away from the sun's scolding glare. Deeply inhaling the strong, briny sea breeze gives me a chance to ignore my throbbing fingers and knees and relax a little.

* * *

Today was the Spanish History Club's field trip to Old San Juan and our first stop was El Morro, followed by a visit to several museums.

Once upon a time, there was a road framed on both sides by leafy trees that led right up to Fort San Felipe Del Morro's castle-like gate. Then Puerto Rico was hit by a hurricane in the eighties that knocked them all down and somebody - I'm still not clear whom - decided to eliminate them and even the road once and for all.

Urban legend says it was the governor of the time, others say it was the U.S. National Park Service Ranger-in-charge who wanted El Morro to be physically identical to the fort's originally design. For "historical accuracy", they say.

My grandfather said that the reason trees were not replanted and the road eliminated was to simply stop people from parking there. All I know is I'm cursing the idiot who came up with and implemented the idea as soon as I get off the long yellow sauna on wheels we call a school bus. The cool shade those trees offered would have been a great relief, but by now I'm cursing that idiot's third generation progeny as we walk the eighth of a mile from where the road now ends up to the main gate, while the sun mercilessly beats down on us.

Wouldn't you know it? The place is closed to visitors. The trip organizer, some of the teachers, and the parent volunteer chaperones start to play the good old blame game. Index fingers fly and stab the air as each adult is accusing the other for not checking if the fort was going to open before we left from the school.

Shaking my school uniform polo to try and air dry it against my sweaty underarms and chest, I'm thinking that I'm not too enthusiastic about boarding the rolling sauna again when I just happen to notice the park rangers posted outside seem a tad too well in shape to be. . . well. . . park rangers, and carrying way too much heat to be just guarding a National Historic site. Just the way one of them sneers at us gives me mala espina.

Before my logic can file a protest against my overriding curiosity, I'm slipping away unnoticed in the confusion of parents and students and heading across the grassy hillside towards the Santa Maria Magdalena Cemetery, a.k.a. the Old San Juan Cemetery. If El Morro is situated on the farthest tip north, Santa Maria Magdalena is just to the East and nestled about half way further down towards sea level. No one is buried there anymore because the cemetery filled up years ago.

Perched on the San Juan City Wall I'm scanning the cemetery below and around me, making sure nobody will see me. For those of you unfamiliar with Puerto Rico, just picture in your mind something like the Great Wall of China surrounding the capital city, but much, much, much smaller.

Then, with the grace of an Olympic gymnast, I swan dive off, easily making the three-story drop with just a somersault. Nestled beside the tombstone of some illustrious Puerto Rican patriot, whose name I barely recognize from grade school, I pull my red, white, and blue athlete's uniform out of my knapsack and change into it.

My plan: dive into the rough surf and swim in the direction of the Fort. I'm no Mark Spitz but I'm still strong enough to resist the deadly undercurrents that would pull a normal man out to sea. Then I'll sneak into El Morro by scaling the sea wall facing the Atlantic bare-gloved. Once inside, check the scene and get out. If nothing is going on - no harm, no foul - and I'll consider it my workout of the day.

But if something is wrong, I'm dialing 911.

* * *

Boy, do I wish I had that cell phone now. Instead, it's laughing at me safely tucked inside my knapsack back at the cemetery. Seems like that mala espina feeling was right on the money; the "park rangers" outside are just to spook away the public. In reality, the fort has been taken over by commando-types, all armed to the teeth and dressed in those khaki desert camouflage fatigues seen on TV during the Gulf War.

Closing my eyes, I breathe evenly and concentrate, using my razor sharp hearing to try and make out what they are saying on their walkie-talkies as they stride by my area.

In their curt military gobbledygook I decipher words like "demand", "deadline", and the one that sends chills down my spine: "hostages". Let me be honest: I'm way, way out of my league. A bright, colorful suit and abilities a few levels beyond a normal human don't automatically qualify me to play Die Hard. Then factor in the fact that it's daytime and the lack of hiding places - as anybody who has visited El Morro can ascertain - the place ain't exactly brimming with furniture and offices. Remember "historical accuracy"?

Waitaminit. Now that I think about it, the only place where they can keep hostages securely is in the museum! It's just across the courtyard from where I'm at, but it could be light years away for all the good it does me. There's no way I can make it there without being spotted, especially when you're dressed like a walking flag.

Nah! I'm gonna get the hell out of here and call it in. That's what I was going to do, anyway. Yeah. Leave the storming of the gates to the professionals.

Suddenly, I hear pounding footsteps, and I feel my heart sink to my butt. Did they find me? A few moments of underwear soiling terror stretch on, then I'm thanking God. No. They didn't. From what I make out something is happening at the main gate and everybody is rushing to provide backup. Leaving the courtyard in front of the museum unwatched for just a moment.

Again. . . not my problem. . . this is the perfect time to climb down and get the hell away from here. But if it's the right thing to do, why am I being assaulted by images of people tied up and being tortured? Why do I have a feeling that if I don't do something - this incident will haunt me until I die? And maybe. . . even beyond that?

"Carajo," I curse softly, and shake my head. Cautiously emerging from my hiding place, I scan for guards, crouch, and broad jump the fifteen-foot width of the courtyard. Nothing happened. So far, so good!

Slowly opening the wooden door, I'm immediately blasted by a harsh current of cold air from the museum's air conditioner. Even with my uniform's RayBan-like visor that shields me from harmful UV rays, I grant my eyes time to adjust from the sun's glare to the subtle lighting inside, all the while saying to myself this guilty conscious of mine is going to get me killed one day.




Chapter Two

Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms.

-- Groucho Marx.

"Captain!" the sergeant shouted breathlessly as he came to a halt at the ebony painted light tower door.

The immaculate form-fitting military uniform seemed painted on the beefy officer in charge. His face was hidden from view behind a white goalie-like mask. Slowly, the commander tore his gaze away from his binoculars and through the mask's large eye slits, steely penetrating blue eyes locked with the non-com. "Report!"

"Perimeter one informed me that the argument at the main gate with those teachers escalated and attracted the attention of the municipal police. Two uniforms in one patrol car are there right now."

"Have the fort's moat and foot bridge been mined?"

"Yessir!"

"Tell Perimeter One to pull back his team. Order Sentries Alpha and Beta to take positions inside the guard towers above the main doors and provide covering fire by taking out that police cruiser. It's time we make ourselves known."

"Sir! Yessir!"

"Captain to Museum One." There was an uncomfortable moment of silence on the commander's radio. "Repeat, Captain to Museum One. Do you copy?"

"Museum One. . . uh. . . here, sir," a timid sounding voice replied.

"Look alive, Private! Operation Castle Keep is going into full swing. How are the hostages?"

"Fine. . . uh. . . sir. Hostages are secure and unharmed."

"Good. We might need that extra leverage. Any problems keep the Runner Officer informed on Channel Two. Leave this channel open for important radio traffic."

"Yessir!"

* * *

"That was good, Private." I whisper right into the guard's ear. "Not exactly Oscar-worthy, but convincing enough."

My vise-like grip on his balls tightens and he yelps a little. Just in case it crossed your mind, no I'm not. Grabbing someone by the groin is the quickest way to subdue a guy. Don't believe me? Just ask anybody that has taken a self-defense class. "Now it's nap time."

I slap him hard with my open hand just across the jaw, and he falls down on the floor with all the grace of a five foot eleven, one hundred eighty pound sack of potatoes. That's right - Bitch Slap him! Forget what you see on TV and read in the comic books. With my enhanced strength, I serve a guy a knuckle sandwich across the chops and it's like getting smacked with an aluminum bat.

And in case you're wondering how I got the jump on this guy, it's easy. He hesitated as soon as I came in through the door. Believe me, it can happen to anybody. Remember, it's not every day you're raiding a historical site, babysitting a bunch of tied up hostages, then suddenly finding yourself face to face with a guy dressed in a red, white, and blue jumpsuit. No matter how many drills you practice in, you simply don't train for that.

It's that momentary disbelief, that tiny "WTF" moment, which gives me a split-second window of opportunity to employ my speed and disarm most normal people with weapons. Could it possibly backfire on me one day with someone who fires first and asks questions later? Possibly - but I'll cross that bridge if I ever get to it.

"Who are you?" the oldest ranger demands. Sweat beads form on his bald, sun burnt brow despite being in an air-conditioned room, and his face is flushed. Betcha he's a few heartbeats away from a heart attack.

"Somebody who really should know better," I say with a smile.

"Thank you. Dios mio. Thank you." That high-pitched duet came from an older female ranger and her younger co-worker. The lady is around her late forties, her black hair filled with gray streaks. The other has light brown short hair, pretty, and could easily be a mistaken for a student.

"Like I'll thank some pendejo loco dressed up in a Halloween costume. Or are you going to grab me by my balls, too." This smart-ass punk is a ranger around his early twenties. Already, I don't like him too much.

"Fine," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. "If you want I'll keep you tied up. Whatever! Just don't think it's only women who get raped in situations like this."

That shut him up but now the ladies are about to lose it. "Look, I want to get out of here," I calmly add. "Just as much as you. But you got to help. Don't you people know any access tunnels that can get us out of here?"

They did.

Located deeper inside the museum, behind an area cordoned off to the public, the tunnel was one of those things not mentioned in the visitor's guide brochures. It had a downward slope and smelled like dry urine. Barely lit, its low ceiling forced us to move with our heads bent. Lady Ranger mentioned something about it being used by Spanish officers to enter town without being seen by sentries. Walking single file - with me on point - we moved at an easy, but brisk pace on account of the old ranger.

Reaching the end, we're greeted by a padlocked rusted metal gate with the sound of the surf and bright green grass on the other side. From here I can even see that there's a stone path leading to the beach. Old Ranger shakes his key ring and winks. Then it occurs to me. What if we go out there and they have this area covered? We're sitting ducks for snipers. I put my arm on Old Ranger and shake my head.

"C'mon, c'mon! What are we waiting for?" Punk Ranger insists.

"Hey, hey, hey! Stop rushing or you'll get nap time." I shake my open hand and he gets the message.

"What's the problem?" Lady Ranger whines nervously.

"Think for a minute! These guys are pros and while it's possible they don't know everything about El Morro, I'm willing to bet they have a sentry or some alarm system keeping an eye out. I need to make sure you all get out safely, and I can't do that until I'm positive nobody has a reason to look this way."

"What are you going to do?" asks the old man.

"Give me ten minutes. By then you'll either hear gunshots or explosions, or both. That's your cue to run out that gate and not look back."

"Do you have a plan?" Cute Ranger questioned.

"Actually," I call out over my shoulder racing back the way we came, "I'm just making this up. . . "

* * *

"- as I go along."

My memory vaults to the past and it is summer again., the last time I stole that old movie quote. I was talking on my cell to one of my panas, Max, and getting a corillo together - you English only speakers would call them a "posse" - to hit the Mall and arcade. Time permitting, we might even catch a movie. It's what all young Puerto Ricans do during summer vacation, especially when you're too young to legally drive or hold a job. . . besides wishing to get laid.

The time and place to meet is set up and I'm snapping my cell shut when my grandmother knocks on my bedroom door. Reading her face, it's clearly saying, "What the hell did you do now?"

"There is a gentleman in the living room asking to see you," she says flatly.

Uh-oh, this ain't good.

Considering my long record of minor transgressions - the occasional vandalism, practical jokes of bad taste, graffiti painting. . . things my school counselor would call "adolescent growing pains". . . I leave my room expecting the worse.

When you think of a typical Puerto Rican neighborhood suburb, think two words: urban sprawl. Or if that doesn't help you: Fred Flintstone. That's right, you read correctly, Fred Flintstone. Y'see, that loudmouth patriarch of a modern stone-age family lived in an oval, white, two bedroom, one story rock house with a rock fence and a decent piece of land.

We modern cavem - uh, sorry - modern and mostly opinionated middle class Puerto Ricans live in neighborhoods of rectangular one story cement houses with a fairly decent piece of land that we rapidly build upon. We expand either upwards or sideways and secure the property with decorative iron gates on the bone white Miami blind windows and driveway entrance to avoid the inevitable trespassing from criminals, friendly neighbors, and nosey family.

I've never seen the middle aged man sitting in our modestly furnished living room before; he's a gringo with the stereotypical sandy colored blond hair, blue eyes, and clear complexion. He's sorta like a combo Devin from Knight Rider and Niles from Frasier. He's all prim and proper in his gray suit, giving me that nasty impression that he's a lawyer.

Now he's grinning, squeezing my hand and shaking my entire arm like he was pumping for water. He says his name is Dr. Robert Baker, speaking in a crisp British accent, and he's been looking forward to meeting me. Right about this point, if I had something like a spider sense it would be tingling. Knowing my grandmother is watching the whole thing, I play it as cool as ice. I nod, mumble "sure, whatever", and sit nonchalantly on our raggedy old Lazy-Boy in front of him.

"I appreciate what you did for Dr. Nietzsche, young man," Baker continues. "Normally a lawyer would do this, but the instructions on Abner's will were quite specific."

"What is going on here?" my grandmother demands.

Baker faces her and gives her the full 411 on what I did that day during the funeral, adding that old Abner was something of an eccentric with a great sense of irony. Since he had no family and very, very few friends, he placed a unique condition on his will. If and when he passed away, a considerable amount of his vast fortune would be given to the first person to pray for his soul and sign his visitor's book. Or in other words, somebody has watched Excalibur way, way too many times.

Now, that gasping sound you just heard is my grandmother. The shock of hearing somebody testifying of a selfless act committed by me and getting rewarded because of it is, for her, a religious experience akin to actually seeing Moses part the Red Sea.

"Dear Sweet Jesus," she's praising the Lord with her arms raised, "Holy. . . "

* * *

" - Shit!"

Emerging from the tunnel, back into the museum, I just caught the Runner Officer exclaiming his surprise as he discovered both the unconscious guard and the empty patch of rug signaling the lack of hostages. He's reaching for his radio when, like a red, white and blue defensive lineman, I smash into him from behind with my shoulder. My speed and strength sends him flying into the far stone wall. Lucky for him he had his helmet on because in my mad dash I let loose my true strength, smashing him hard enough to crack an unprotected skull. As it is he'll end up with just a nasty headache and the mother of all bumps.

A sad sigh escapes me. All this violence, I think - no! - I know this wasn't what Dr. Nietzsche would have wanted.





Chapter Three

 

My doctor gave me six months to live, but when I couldn't

pay the bill, he gave me six months more.

--- Walter Matthau

 

Narrator's note: Now if you're the type of person that prefers action movies or stories that are fast moving and skimpy on details, then believe me, I won't be insulted if you skip this chapter and go right on to the next one. But if you're like me and want to know every little minute detail about a story, then you're in for a whale of a tale.

And if you're the type of person that hates too much first person narrative, and tired of scenes jumping from past to present, there's even a treat for you too.

Just read on!

* * *

He couldn't believe it, even though he had it right in his hands. A monthly, tax-free, three grand from a trust fund of which half went to his grandmother.

Super, he thought as he turned and left the bank teller, placing in his right pants pocket a white envelope filled with Benjamins. The young man's mind kept repeating: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Meanwhile, another expression struggled for equal time: If it's too good to be true, then something is wrong.

Yeah, he had to admit. He was a teenage skeptic! No sooner had he reached home, he knew there was only one way to resolve this. He snatched Barker's business card off a tiny magnet that held it fastened to the refrigerator and dialed.

His timing could have been better, true. He only wrangled up the courage to ask about his dearly departed benefactor after he cashed the first check.

If Baker was bothered by his lack of etiquette, he did not show it. When he arrived, Baker simply asked the boy's grandmother permission to show him where the late doctor lived. She gave it gladly, and soon the boy was being shown around a palatial hacienda high up in the Jayuya Mountains that Robin Leach would easily showcase in his old Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous show.

As long as it didn't have a sign reading "Neverland", or "Jesus Blood" or "Jesus Juice" in Cola cans, the young man deduced, he would be safe.

He couldn't guess how many rooms the two story place had; it was so opulent and huge, it seemed to go on forever. The visitor even noticed brick red curved Spanish-style roof tiles that reminded him of the rooftops Guy Williams (or his double, actually) would sprint across in those old Zorro shows. Another observation the lad made was the amount of lush green vegetation and lack of neighboring houses. It seemed that the ever-expanding urban sprawl had not spoiled this part of the island yet.

A short flight of stairs downwards and they arrived at a stainless steel laboratory that would have put to shame many island universities, with its shiny sinks and long tables brimming with test tubes, wires and Bunsen burners.

"Is this the doctor's work space?" he asked.

"Yes," replied his tour guide. "What do you know about Abner Nietzsche?"

"A Russian doctor that coached in the summer Olympics," the boy offered.

Baker turned to him. "Abner was not Russian, as many believed. He was Lithuanian, born during the height of America's Korean War to simple farmers. Identified and classified by the State as a child prodigy while only three years old, he demonstrated enormous talent for mathematics and science.

"Before he was eighteen, he had already graduated from Moscow University with the first of his many degrees. Nietzsche's specialties were the human brain, genetics, and DNA. One colleague put it, 'If the human body was God's masterpiece, then Nietzsche collaborated'.

"Did you know he was one of the first, back in the seventies, to argue that a diet high in carbohydrates and lack of exercise would lead to the West's obesity and other serious health problems?"

The young guest shook his head.

Barker sighed. "So talented and dedicated to achieving peak human condition was he that no one at the Kremlin was surprised when he was assigned by the State to oversee the health and exercise regimens of USSR Olympic athletes. Nor were they later astonished when he vehemently spoke out against the use of steroids and other performance enhancing drugs."

"That Olympic scandal of the eighties was all I found out about him when I Googled."

"Yes, only now have many closely guarded secrets of the Soviet Union been revealed. In those 'bad old days' his outspoken views, despite his worth as a medical scientist, cost him exile; first to Siberia, and then to a medical unit at the frontlines of the Soviet-Afghan war."

"I bet that sucked," the boy added, and immediately regretted it.

If Baker heard did him, he chose to ignore the infantile attempt at humor. "This Commonwealth has certain perks. Dual citizenship is one; the ability to field your own Olympic athletes under the Puerto Rican flag is another."

"Yeah, we have our cake and eat it, too," the boy added. "You could say it's our specialty, but a fat lot of good that does. When is the last time we dominated at the Olympics? Given a choice, I would rather go to the States and study under a sports scholarship offered there.

"Besides, with the expert coaching and modern facilities, it's like you died and went to track and field heaven. It's a place where you don't have to both train and work regular jobs like the athletes here do to make ends meet. Of course, it may cost me being labeled a 'traitor' later by the sports community here like Gigi Fernandez was in tennis."

"You like track and field, don't you?"

"Yep, never been one for team sports." The boy shrugged. "The real money's in baseball and basketball, sure, but I'm too much of a loner."

"What if I told you Abner created a process that could potentially make you the greatest athlete in the world and that money, scholarships, or facilities didn't matter?"

Was he dreaming? Did he just say what he thought he said? This was something straight out of a comic book or a bad Twilight Zone or Outer Limits episode!

"I'd say thanks but no thanks." The boy shook his head, deciding to play along. "Like my grandma taught me, if it's too good to be true, then it usually has a catch."

Baker walked to a plain stone wall, pressing a TV control-like device he pulled out of his pocket. A large section retracted, and a transparent display case with a red, white, and blue one-piece tracksuit inside appeared.

In the middle of the chest area it had a white star on a navy blue field, covering the entire neck, back, and shoulders and ending in a 'V' shape just below the chest where five vertical stripes began. Red for both the arms, white for the legs and outer thighs, and red again across his stomach, crotch, and inner thighs, with navy blue gloves and calf-high boots with thick rubber soles.

"Super! Looks like something Flo Jo designed," the lad commented. "I just hope it doesn't come with a shield."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," he added with a smirk. "Just kidding."

Baker placed his hand on the glass and continued. "Taking advantage of the fall of the Berlin Wall, Abner escaped, contacted the American government, and chose refuge here. He realized how overlooked this island was scientifically. Where else in the world could he find a place that had been a testing ground for birth control pills and suffered from the embarrassing discovery decades later of high estrogen levels in poultry?

"Abner realized that a populace exposed to these unique conditions, in conjunction with the gene therapy process he discovered during his exile in Afghanistan, would help him achieve, without the use of steroids or other chemical enhancements, human body perfection."

"You're kidding, right?"

"On the contrary, I'm quite serious," Baker replied somberly. "The scientific minutiae escapes me, but suffice to say, Abner theorized that before civilization, humanity came from much sturdier stuff. We've slowly poisoned our bodies with a food supply drenched in chemicals of all kinds, while adding an ever-increasing stressful and sedentary lifestyle, helping atrophy regenerative abilities and senses that could have evolved naturally as sharp as creatures from the animal kingdom.

"Abner discovered the genetic key working on the dead and dying veterans of the war that would allow us to naturally access one hundred percent of our body's resources, but Fate took him before he was able to find the proper subject."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the youthful guest said, raising his hands. "Waitaminute! I'm sorry, but you're serious, aren't you?"

Baker's sudden silence spoke volumes.

"No way! Uh-uh! Y'hear me, no way! If. . . not… for… money," he stammered. "Mister, I'm this close to calling the cops on my cell."

"There's no need for that. If you refuse, I will personally escort you home."

"Besides, why me? Why am I suddenly so special?"

"The day after you signed that visitor's book, you were subjected to an extensive background investigation… one that also included your medical history. As luck would have it, you are a perfect match for Abner's process.

"And you were right to be skeptical - there is a catch. For Abner: It is to prove from beyond the grave that his theories were sound all along. For you, believe it or not, it's far simpler: Once you agree, all you are required is to qualify for the next summer Olympics. . . preferably the Decathlon. I will provide you with the uniform and anything else you require. After that, you train and eat properly for the rest of your life."

The young boy's mind was swirling. It was almost as if he was having an out of body experience. Was this possible? Could all this be legit? No catch other than to become Nietzsche's proof to the science community? What if a 'no' costs me that monthly check?

As if reading his thoughts, Baker gently placed his hand on his shoulder. "I know what you're thinking. This is too fantastic. It can't be real. Did you ever read about a child born in Germany back in 2004 without the myostatin gene?"

The youth's eyes widened in shock as he recalled the so-called 'super baby'. "I thought he was a natural mutation."

Baker smiled mischievously. "Don't believe everything you read. And don't worry about the fund. That was a selfless act of kindness and the reward for that will not affect any negative decision. Let me leave and allow you time to think. Take as long as you want. Call your grandmother, if you need or want to. Whatever you decide, I will abide by it. On that, you have my word."

* * *

The room Baker entered was approximately three times the size of a supply closet. It lacked windows and was completely soundproof. He nodded at the brunette wearing a white lab coat, sitting behind a desk facing a bank of screens feeding images that covered the entire house. She turned from one specific screen squarely focused on the young man in front of the uniform display case.

"I have a copy of his school records right here." She motioned with a long finger at a manila envelope. "His scholastic achievements haven't been. . . impressive, and that is putting it mildly. Shows potential but a lack of self-discipline and application. Highly imaginative but easily distracted. A classic textbook case of an underachiever."

"But the genetic process -" Baker began.

"I know where you're going," she interrupted, rubbing the bridge of her nose, where the frame of her glasses bothered her. "Yes, the process will improve on that, but that is also what I fear. As new neural pathways form and others expand, consequently he will desire more knowledge and learn faster. Not only raising his IQ, but also feeding an already skeptical mind with concrete conclusions to his suspicions. Then, everything we worked so hard for, everything we sacrificed, might well have been for nothing.

"Haven't we learned anything from the trials in Cuba, Haiti, and Dominican Republic?"

A voice emanated from a tiny gray phone speaker on the desk: "It would not have been for nothing, for we will have succeeded. My friends, I believe we have discussed this long enough. For now, it is out of our hands. Let Fate and the boy decide."

* * *

For a moment he feared it was too much for him to handle. Every scene from every cheap, cliché ridden science fiction movie he'd even seen, from goose-stepping super soldiers to grotesque disfigured mutants, played out in his mind. But the reality of enormous tickertape parades, endless trophies, interviews with celebrities, and awards also vied for his attention. It all seemed so. . . fantastic.

True, science had made enormous strides in the early 21st century. Already Koreans had proven with scientific fact that extracting DNA from a cell and replacing it with another was possible. That baby in Germany was a reported fact, so, in retrospect, could Dr. Nietzsche's process be so far fetched? Weren't test tube babies and in vitro births once considered science fiction now common place? And wasn't he adult enough to make his own decisions, take responsibility for his actions? Or was all that back talk he routinely gave his grandmother about him "not being a child" anymore only that. . . talk?

So many doubts and unanswered questions and I don't like to think!

"Well?" Baker inquired softly as he returned.

"Will I get shot with needles? I really hate those."

"No," Baker smiled, "no needles."

The boy slowly wrenched his gaze away from the colorful uniform and said, "Then, let's do it."





Chapter Four

Courage is walking naked through a cannibal village.

-- L. L. Levinson

"Today, we make our stand here." The deep baritone voice comes out of loud speakers strategically placed around El Morro. "The foundation of our patrimony built from the sweaty backs of a proud race. Undeniable proof of existence long before there was an American nation.

"Here, nestled in this Spanish fort we say to the world 'No More!' San Felipe del Morro will be our Alamo. Yet do you really care? Is the structure really important to you?

"No. Instead, the State does not claim ownership. . . it is federal property.

"A common thread. . . a dirty little secret. Many of our historical monuments, our rare natural resources, are in the stewardship of people that barely acknowledge or remember this island in their history books. Ask the Americans where Puerto Rico is located and they can't find it on a map. Ask them what our currency is and they think it is the peso.

"Adding insult to injury, tombstones marking the graves of men and women forced to die serving a country that chose them as fodder for the ultimate sacrifice litter our land. Meanwhile, they safely protected their fair-haired sons and daughters and drafted or accepted foolish volunteers to fight and die in wars for presidents they were unable to vote for.

"And what of the survivors - are they better off? No. They endure the humiliation of being herded like cattle into poorly administered facilities like the sad joke called a Veteran's Hospital. Or worse, living under the constant threat of base closures taking away rights earned at the cost of blood.

"And who are we, you ask? We are veterans trained to kill for our country, but what country? This island is not recognized as a nation and we are cursed to be nothing more than second class American citizens!

"Perhaps our actions today will inspire others to raise their heads with pride. Perhaps it will stop the constant struggle for federal handouts that serves only to pit brother against brother. Perhaps long after this is all over you will debate and ask why.

"Although you don't deserve an explanation I offered it. You wanted to know the reasons - there you have them."

"That was. . . "

"Be silent!" the commander barks at his subordinate, while flinging his bullhorn to another soldier. "That was not for show. We gave them their news byte, now radio all posts that we commence drawing first blood in five minutes!"

* * *

Dude sure knows how to give a speech. Gotta give him that and truth be told - I know where he's coming from.

Why do I know more about George Washington than Baldrioty de Castro, aside from the fact that an expressway is named after him? In many ways I am way too Americanized. Because I grew up bilingual, I'd rather see what's on cable than what's transmitted locally. I rather listen to Rock or Hip-Hop than Salsa.

I used to draw white superheroes instead of creating native ones. I mean, really, what do I have in common with a being from another planet that found his moral compass on a farm and wears a cape?

Still, I think it's safe to say that "Captain Loon" - my pet nickname for him - didn't return "The Rock" to his nearest Blockbuster, if you know what I mean. Also, for all his talk, to me, his actions makes him just another terrorist with a grudge the world's been seeing ever since September 11th.

I check my inventory, and along with the radio, I have a six inch knife, a canteen filled with water, an M-16 rifle, a 9mm pistol, ammo for both, and five grenades. Using the M-16 against somebody is out of the question. The trauma this caliber of bullet can inflict on the human body is a known fact. If I have to fire at anybody, I'm using the 9mm and praying I don't hit an artery in the leg or thigh.

Shaking my head, I chastise myself; better get used to the fact that I may be left with no other choice and that maybe more than a few people are gonna get killed. As long as it ain't me, I think I can live with it.

Opening the door of the museum, the runner's uniform on top of my own suit, I take a deep breath and stride out. Too late to whine; I had my chance to leave and I didn't take it.

Going up the concrete ramps located on the east and west of the courtyard, which lead towards the lighthouse, is out because they'd make me in an instant; my only chance is to go down the main ramp towards the castle's second level, facing the Atlantic.

Not unlike the main entrance, the main ramp cuts through an arched foyer with gated doorways on each side, and for a second I wish I could just hide inside one of the storage room-like dungeons. Then I remember the rangers who must be still be waiting for my signal and press on.

Halfway down the incline, just emerging from the foyer, I hold my breath. A few yards away, on the wooden platform used for a tourist observation post over looking the ocean, there is this humongous Gatlin gun on a revolving turret. Don't ask me how those demented G.I.s smuggled that thing here. Just goes to show how professional they are.

Speaking as an expert in RPGs like Sim City, I'll admit that Captain Loon's enterprise is a finely tuned one. The only weakness I see is that they didn't factor in something unexpected - like me. It's my only advantage and a slim one at that. My hunch is that being seasoned military vets, they can adapt and have no compunctions employing deadly force.

Then I'm struck with an inspiration. Picture me in red growing two horns, rubbing my hands together with an evil grin plastered on my face. My plan requires a good semi-hidden location, the use of grenades, a wee bit of luck, and just enough pandemonium to topple this operation like a house made of dominoes.

* * *

"Look out!"

That's all the warning the men on the turret receive before two sphere-shaped objects clang against their gun.

"Grenade!" shouts one, as they scramble for cover. Not soon after, two explosions follow, then automatic gunfire. Bullets begin ricocheting everywhere, raising small dust clouds. A case of stored ammunition explodes with the help of another grenade, and small fires break out and spread. Almost immediately, the invader's radios fill with simultaneous chatter.

"We're under attack!"

"Where?"

"Fire! Fire!"

"Who is this. . . identify yourself!"

"Look out! Over there!"

"I don't see anything!"

"I'm hit! I'm hit!"

"Runner Officer! We need the Runner Officer over here!"

"They hit the turret!"

"Who? Who?"

"Where is the attack coming from?"

"Omigod, Omigod! Help me!"

"Captain! Captain, what are your orders?"

"Sniper! Take cover, take cover!"

Meanwhile, State and Federal law enforcement, positioned strategically around El Morro and scanning the radio frequencies, realize something has gone terribly wrong inside the castle. A chopping motion from the senior agent in charge arm-relays a signal for the entire contingent of men to begin their advance.

* * *

I can't help but chuckle as I throw the radio on top of the now discarded camouflage uniform besides the still smoking M-16 and 9mm. Shooting into the air like it was a New Year's Eve celebration in government subsidized public housing, jamming the radio with fake calls, and then taking pot shots near their positions from my hiding place near the main ramp had them running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

So much for their finely tuned enterprise! I even had time to heft a grenade at the lighthouse. With everybody looking outwards, they never saw me coming from behind.

I send a silent thanks to Dr. Nietzsche. When you have the strength for throwing javelins and sixteen pounds puts for a decathlon, it is child's play to fling the much lighter grenades farther than a normal man can.

Yep! Right about now, my four little lambs heard the explosions and ran out the gate; hopefully, they didn't come across any patrols and are safe. In a few seconds. I'll be joining them.

Racing back towards the main courtyard, the corner of my eye catches a fleeting movement, and a little voice tells me to duck. Good thing I did! The heel of a boot larger than my head swishes past me and would have broke my jaw had it connected.

"So, they sent one of you. I should have guessed. You're not leaving alive, saboteur! Not after what you did, not dressed like that!"

It's Captain Loon! He's all pumped, the veins of his massive arms bulging, his uniform torn and slightly singed. Even behind that stupid mask, I know he's angry enough that he's gonna do anything, even die, to make good on that threat.

As Sam Beckett would say, Oh, boy!



Chapter Five

 

What's the definition of macho?

Jogging home from your own vasectomy.

-- The Mammoth Book of Humor

Ugh!

What? You think you won't groan aloud, after being flipped over butt first and landing on the ground real hard? Get real. You should know by now that even I'm not immune to pain. In fact, let me be totally honest with you: pain and I are not on speaking terms, right about now.

"How dare you wear those colors!" he rants while choking me.

This whole thing has a surreal air of detachment. We're surrounded by the sounds of automatic fire and explosions, but it's like he doesn't hear it. All he wants to do is tear me a new asshole because of my flag-like uniform.

"I will rip this uniform from your corpse!"

Oh, I don't think so.

I'm in full 'fight or flight' mode now and my strength is nothing to be trifled with. Snatching the index finger of his right hand, I pull it back suddenly. A snapping sound is followed by a torrent of curses and Looney lets me go. But just to be on the safe side, I place my two hands on the ground and kick him in the chest, sending him flying a few feet back and crashing into a wall as chunks of stone spew everywhere.

I'm about to sprint towards the museum when I suddenly trip and fall. Feeling a tug on my leg, I turn around to see he's grabbing my ankle! This guy's "Roid Rage" must grant him a big threshold for pain, I'll give him that. So I further reward him with two swift kicks with my free leg across the mask.

Free again, but I now accept that he's not gonna just let me escape unless I really do something about him. Running away is not an option. I square myself with my chin down and my two hands in front in the best imitation of a boxer's pose I can muster. Captain Loon does a little theater for my sake by snapping his finger back in place, then easing into a karate pose, his legs apart in a "T" stance and one hand in the form of a knife.

I don't know martial arts. Forget what you see in action movies, because not everybody is born fighting like Chuck Norris or Jackie Chan. My only advantage is the strength and speed I get from Nietzsche's process. And that's not an inexhaustible source of energy.

"At first, I wanted to know," he growls, "But now I don't care who sent you, all I want is to rip out your spleen!"

"Whatever." I shrug. "You want to be taken seriously, next time invest in Clearasil if you're afraid to show your face."

Looney leads with an angry battle cry and another roundhouse kick. I duck my head underneath and move to the side. Good thing I did, 'cause he followed up with a punch that would have knocked some teeth out. Shuffling around, I hit him under the ribs with a clenched fist.

Oh yeah, you read right. No bitch slapping this guy. He's getting the full treatment. I can't help but smile as he closes his eyes while he flinches in pain.

Then I stomp on the toes of his left boot. Yeah, yeah, it's a girly blow but it works, OK? He's hopping around on one foot and now I'm thinking . . . I'm outta here in a few. Why not try a high kick?

Big mistake! With the confidence of a man that knows exactly what he's doing, he blocks it and grabs me by the ankle again. Before I realize it, I'm being swung around like a rag doll and thrown against the far wall. As soon as I hit, I'm seeing all kinds of stars. . . even a few galaxies. . . hey!. . . did I just see Ponce DeLeon giving me the finger?

Shaking my head, I brace myself against the wall just in time to see Looney charging like a bull when I decide to pull a move I've seen in WWF. Pushing myself off the rough surface, I leap into the air feet first, letting go with my full strength.

And what's the result? My sparring partner is knocked soundly on his own butt as if he smashed against solid steel. I'll even admit I gave him a few kicks across the rib cage while he was down.

Still, before I can cry victory, he gets up again! But he's groggy now, his mask cracked, and his eyes are blinking furiously to stay focused. I must confess the guy has real cojones!

Waitaminit. . . cojones!

Just like that the proverbial light bulb turns on and I swiftly kick him in the family jewels. Now, he falls like a pana tree, and this time I don't think he'll be getting up too soon. And if he does, he'll be speaking in a high voice.

More explosions can be heard now, hurling sand and rocks, and this time I hear voices screaming: "They're charging!" "Fall back!" "We're being overrun!"

Yep! Time to make myself scarce and go out the same exit the rangers took. But one last thing before I go into the museum and escape. I write on the sand "Viva Keeko Jones" with my finger. Not as fancy or as classy as a 'Z' but it has double meaning.




Chapter Six

I've been on a calendar, but never on time.

-- Marilyn Monroe

It's nighttime when I get home. Nighttime! Oh. My. God. My grandmother is going to kill me and then go to work on me. One thing she hates more than the nudity and violence in my collection of Anime is that I get home after dark. She doesn't care that during fall season the sun quits around 5 P.M.

It took me hours of hiding from law enforcement patrols before I could safely creep back into the cemetery and retrieve my knapsack. Then it cost me around twenty-five bucks to get a taxi to drive me home. Had I waited for the AMA bus, I'd have got home by next week. My only good fortune is that the time spent allowed my body to heal from some of the more severe bruises.

Sure as rain, she's waiting by the screen door with her flabby arms across her chest as I get through the house gate. This pint sized woman with silver hair, in a flower-patterned house robe, with a stare that could freeze Mercury, might not seem much; but when she's in this mood, and if she had to go up against my hostage-taking sparring partner - my money would be on the ol' lady.

"Where were you?"

Is it my imagination or did it just get cold in here? "Uh. . . wha. . . Where?"

"Don't act stupid with me, young man! Where. Were. You?"

"Uh. . . Old San Juan?"

I know what's coming and I have to let it happen. If I duck, it'll just be worse. As I predicted, without hesitation, her right hand reaches out and grabs me by the sideburn hairs and yanks.

"Ouch!" God, I hate when she does that. "Abuela … ow! …ow! …stop! You're gonna rip out my hair."

"Sniff!" She takes a whiff of my head. "Were you at the beach? Norita called here and told me that you disappeared right after the class arrived at El Morro and nobody has seen you since."

Norita! Why. . . that. . . rat! I'll fix her! Wait until I go back to school and tell everyone she has the hots for Orlando.

"Yes, I passed by the beach but I didn't go in the water. Honest."

If past experiences taught me anything, it's best to hide a white lie under a layer of truth. I must've been pretty convincing because she suddenly lets go of me. Digging into one of my knapsack's side pockets, I retrieve a small rectangular box. It's my coup de grace.

"Here. This is for you. I wanted to save it for your birthday - that's the real reason why I snuck into Old San Juan - I guess I might as well give it to you now. Happy Birthday!"

Of course, until the taxi ride over here, I totally forgot I had bought that at the Mall three days ago. Lucky me it was still in my sack but I'm not going to tell her that.

Her eyes widen and she smiles as she removes a thin silver bracelet with the word "Abuela" engraved on it. Then she raises an eyebrow and starts to wave her crooked index finger.

"You think you can buy your way out with this - and you're almost right," she says with a smile. "I'll delay your grounding for now, but you're not off the hook. Not by a long shot.

"While you still live under my roof - no matter how old you are - you are going to respect my rules."

Oh, she's on a roll now. Her flabby underarms are waving excitedly as she talks. "That's why so many kids get into trouble today. They have no respect for their elders or anything but not you, mister, oh no, not you. I won't allow it, not while I'm alive. I already brought up five children, including your father, so don't think you can pull a fast one on me.

"Why, when I was a little girl. . . "

* * *

. . . Yadda, yadda, yadda! You don't mind if I skip to a few hours later when I was in my room, half-deaf and a little brain dead, watching television? I've heard this particular speech enough times to know how exactly it will play out. . .

. . . Nothing! Aside from a report of a small fire that forced an evacuation from the fort. . . no mention on the news, nada, zilch, nothing. I throw away the cable TV control in disgust, and follow it as it bounces on my bed.

What kinda gag order does the state government have on the local media? Sheesh! That alleged prowler dressed in a tiger suit I heard was hitting dojos across the island gets more reported sightings than I do. Was it the Feds or the cops - or both - that paid off those rangers I freed from talking?

I plop into bed with my left arm crossed over my forehead, staring at my ceiling poster of the athlete John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania. It's a simple black and white glossy of a rail thin dark-skinned marathoner running. The poster captures him in full stride with one leg bloodied and bandaged.

Why do I keep it, and who is John Stephen Akhwari?

Back in the Olympics of Mexico City, circa 1968, John came in dead last in the Olympic marathon. The winner of his race had been declared over an hour earlier. The stadium was almost empty with only a few spectators remaining. He crossed the finish line as the small crowd roared their appreciation for his unwavering dedication. Then some reporter asks him why he had not retired from the race, since he had no chance of winning.

John's response was classic. "My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race. They sent me to finish." That's what makes him, in my humble opinion, the world's greatest Olympian. He's been my inspiration ever since. Of course, the difference being. . . losing or coming in last is not an option! But I must admit, especially after today, that even with all that I can do there are no guarantees.

My dark browns pan over to the blank TV screen. Waves of regret wash over me again, and then I ask myself why should the lack of publicity bother me? I never wanted to be a corny 'super-hero' in the first place. I put on the suit and practice my track and field secretly at night to train for the Olympics.

The Olympics! That's why I consider myself not some comic book hero come to life but just an Olympian of the future.

Then my mind replays the look of relief on those hostages' faces as they overcome their fear with hope. Why did I pack my suit and take it with me anyway? What was I expecting?

I remember the enormous rush I felt saving them, taking on highly trained mercenaries mano a mano, facing the Grim Reaper straight in its empty eye sockets with just a gaudy costume and my wits, and laughing. It was cool.

My eyelids start getting heavier and heavier. Now that I'm relaxing and everything is all over, today's exertions should cost me about twelve hours of recuperative sleep at the least. Luckily, tomorrow's Saturday.

While I'm drifting away, some unanswered questions lying back in my subconscious come back and taunt me: WTF did Looney mean by "they sent you" and where did Dr. Nietzsche, a defector, get all his money? Who or what agency is behind the media blackout? And are these things related to each other in some way?

I mentally shrug: Oh well, tomorrow is another day of training. There will be time enough to get those answers.

And I don't think it would kill me if I brush up on boxing

and maybe . . . just maybe. . . add some karate moves to my exercise routine. Not necessary for the Decathlon, but they are Olympic events. Maybe even brush up on some first aid skills. . . Who knows? It might just come in handy.

Oh, by the way, Keeko Jones isn't my name. It's Pedro Reyes. Who is Keeko Jones? Oh, don't worry about it. Since you're not bilingual, you wouldn't understand the joke anyway.