Rodriguez

Centred in light, the general began his interrogation. Rumour and fact mixed easily, served in a salted stein - extra spicy with a side of bitter herb.

The general stared at the subject. His left leg danced up and down while his right stood perfectly still - poised in balance. His to and fro mustache made small maneuvers in the large scale psychological war that sent the trumpets home crying.

The beat kept the general's dancing in graceful time, "Trouncing the public image, eh, Rodriguez?"

"Towing the line of the father." Rodriguez answered dryly.
Eyebrows furrowed, the general did a kicking move with his left and dancing leg.

"Conspiracy to conspire. Murder to doubt. Over zealous zealots zoomin' out on zeal. Whose father's line are you towing, good sir?"

Rodriguez squinted beneath the harsh lights which beat alternately on him and the general, "I don't expect you to get it, general."

The general spins and fires: "Curse the day you came to this town towing tales too tall to tell. Hitched your claw to the wrong wagon this time, Rodriguez. Separated, sounding fine." He smiles and then laughs, backflipping toward Rodriguez with only the power of his left leg.

Rodriguez was an A1 rebel. He was top of his rebellion workshop certificate course, he was tops in the training missions over South America, and he was number one in the field. His coup rate was incomparable. Five coup d'etats in eight attempts in seven different countries. There had been 12 parades in his honour, and a county fair was named after him somewhere in the Austrian Alps.

Now he was being interrogated by his own general.

"There's more prime rib dinner where that came from." Rodriguez hissed. The general's face was within a foot of his own. Only the shatter proof glass that protected him kept Rodriguez from the hot breath of the angry general. A small patch of fog unfurled on the bullet proof window.

Rodriguez had dealt with mutiny before. Despite his experience, he knew that General Jorge would be his most dangerous challenger. He was young, arrogant and possessed an unrivaled dexterity, despite the obvious paralysis which gripped fifty percent of his body. And Jorge knew Rodriguez all too well. They had completed three coups together, the last an ugly battle where Jorge lost power over half his body, saving Rodriguez from death.

Now, his debt paid to the leader, the general felt it was time to take the mantle. No one can lead forever. Besides, Rodriguez had become too concerned with his chairs. Lumbar support does not befit a rebel leader.

General Jorge looked at Rodriguez and saw him recline. He scowled: "Team tiger tam-shoot, the real mai tai fry guy is on the super sly. By and by."

The old code hit Rodriguez like a blind carrier pigeon - high and out of the blue. His nose raised, shaking his head slightly. "Perhaps the real round is in the dog pound, doing the slidin' sound."

The general raised Rodriguez from his chair by turning off the gravity in his interrogation chamber. This was an innovation developed by Rodriguez for the greater good of the rebel cause. Now, weightless and under the gun (forged from his own meddle), Rodriguez needed swift action.

For a man whose entire right side was paralyzed, the general had some major moves. But Rodriguez had been a rebel for many years - and though on the downside of his career, he still could kick some serious ass.

Floating, Rodriguez did a triple spin swift sow cow and finished with a two foot kick to the pane of glass that separated him and the general. In one astonishing move, Rodriguez had returned to two of his paramounts: freedom and gravity.

He lunged at the general and grasped at his good arm.

The general's left leg stopped dancing. He began an ancient dance with his old brother in arms. A colossal struggle of will and body - clashing at close range and with the highest of consequences.

Kicking at Rodriguez, Jorge made good on his age-old promise. Finishing his finishing maneuver, Rodriguez was sent flying to the ground beneath the interrogation chamber.

He looked up at the general, "I haven’t seen that move with the groove since that fight at the Louvre. You were the liberation litegator, the rebel’s rebel. You could cause an uprising in a society of monks and nuns. You could rain on the parade of any world leader. But I’m telling you now - you’ll never hunt me."

The general smiled, looking down at Rodriguez, helpless as a helper, hopeless as a hoper - dreaming away a better day. Crowned, castled and castrated, sliced like an English cucumber - real thin and coated with skin.

And then, as the tension raised and the silence mounted like a bowling ball swinging toward the king-pin .... Smash and it was over. The lights turned off the illusions - castle bells ringing out shots of spectator stationery, signed with a seal.

Rodriguez stood and looked about. It was over and he was alone again. He looked around at the chamber. Turning towards the locked entrance, he sat down on the floor and planned his escape.

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