Jean-Marc, he liked to play with fire.
We went to Cercle Central in Rue Frochot, north of the Seine and not so far from the Louvre. This happened on La nuit des monstres, the Night of the Monsters. Jean-Marc was deep into his drink and much deeper still into his paycheck, but I was there to ensure my friend ran out of neither one. He was a member of the Cercle, and I was his guest, but in truth, I was his chaperone. Still, we had finished the bottle of wine I had bought for us to share.
“Zybanos will be the victor,” he said to me, apropos of nothing, as the dealer swept Jean Marc’s chips away. We were the only ones in the poker room. So, the dealer watched the television as much as he watched the cards. It would have been quite easy for Jean Marc to cheat, if he had not been thinking too much about those monsters himself.
I looked at the screen as well. How we have been trained to accept this new world order! Zybanos, the two-headed dragon-beast from the depths of space, should instill terror in the hearts of every man, woman, and child. It is an unnatural nightmare of mythology possessed of fangs and rage. But because it fights for us, we cheer for it. It protects tour Eiffel, we say, so it must be good.
Forgive me, but if Zybanos did not have Gallamaxus and his blades with which to contend, would Zybanos care if Paris were burning?
The battle began more than 300km from Paris at la Manche, where the defense turrets on the shore were ill prepared for the magnitude of their combined fury. Analysts tell us that Zybanos was on our side of la Manche all along, prepared to protect us, but if that is so, why was the Ground Army so eager to place those weapons?
Of course, Zybanos gave no consideration to those turrets. When Gallamaxus—as hideous a creature in red as Zybanos is one in green—appeared on the coastline, Zybanos promptly stepped over those turrets and engulfed Gallamaxus in the flames it breathed. The turrets opened fire in support, and for a time, Gallamaxus was driven back. Yet the resilience of these horrors from space is unfathomable, and Gallamaxus returned to exchange blows with Zybanos. It was with regret we all watched the two monstrous giants throw one another into the monastery there.
Mont-Saint-Michel shall never be the same.
But what is 300km to such towering combatants? Their fight came inland at a mighty speed. Autroutes closed with cars abandoned. The destruction was as bombs dropped on our lands again, destroying parks and châteaus and vineyards as if they were the playthings of children. At times, Gallamaxus seemed to flee the conflict, only to have Zybanos give chase.
Anyone could see that Gallamaxus was leading Zybanos by two noses toward the city.
The force field generators outside Versailles gave them pause, it is true. But I think only as a novelty. And as they were now waging their war a mere 20km from the city, BFMTV abandoned their normal news formats and began to broadcast live coverage of the madness.
This is what we were watching when Jean Marc made his claim that Zybanos would emerge the winner.
“What is victory?” I asked as we watched the two-headed would-be Victor of Versailles crash unimpressively into the section of the palace called the Gallery of Mirrors. The broadcast displayed many tourists, said to be Americans who had resisted evacuation, fleeing the scene, some through the holes in the building. Gallamaxus stepped on a pair of them with glee. Au revoir, les touristes.
Zybanos regained its feet, and the great gout of flame it spewed from its mouth to singe Gallamaxus boiled the waters of the Grand Canal. Behind these gigantic foes, the Fountain of Latona was shattered beyond repair. Eh. I have always thought Versailles was nothing more than a tourist trap, anyway.
“I will wager—” Jean Marc took a large swallow of wine, then paused to count his remaining money. “—70 euros that Zybanos forces Gallamaxus to flee.”
The card dealer was reaching for his wallet, but I quickly waved him off. If I took this wager, I could return the money to Jean Marc if he lost. The dealer, he would not be so generous.
“I will take your bet,” I said. “I would like to be wrong, but look.”
Zybanos fell into another force field generator. The electrical sparks were impressive.
“You will see who bows their head first—Gallamaxus or your Zybanos. Twice for that one.” I grinned, and as I did, the picture suddenly vanished from the television. The camera operators in Versailles had been hit by debris, we would learn later on, but for the moment, there was no coverage of the brawl.
“Change the channel,” I commanded the dealer. He retrieved a remote control and moved up one number to 16, CNews, which was showing a different battle altogether: two monsters, Blastikutter and the one I had heard called Mateau-klak—Hammerklak—were quite effectively crushing the flaming one, Incinerus. They fought in the street like hoodlums.
“This is Hong Kong,” the dealer said as if we could not read the captions.
“Oui, but this is not,” I said, gesturing around us to encompass the poker room, the Cercle, and the city. “We do not care about Hong Kong. Find the fight where Zybanos will lose, s’il vous plaît.”
“Incinerus will be the victor,” Jean Marc said, but the dealer, he was faster than I. His euros were on the table, and before I could stop him, Jean Marc had thrown his own on top of the dealer’s and finished his glass. Now he was out of wine and out of money.
“You are stupid,” I said, watching Incinerus flee from the chasing monsters from beneath the earth. “You have risked all that you still have.”
“This is true,” Jean Marc said, his eyes on the fight, “but as you have said many times before, I like to play with fire.”
An hour later, with the news reports proclaiming Zybanos had successfully driven Gallamaxus from the planet, we toasted both of his winning bets, and Jean Marc paid for the new bottle.
