Arena
The concrete under the solid rubber tires on the Sumo's lift truck feels as smooth as his resolve. His movements are slow and deliberate; everything he does has a purpose. The speed control arm feels as though it was made for the massive palm of his hand. The steering wheel spins circles within circles as he maneuvers around turns so tight that it's like he's turning in upon himself. He makes a sharp right turn and then he's applying pressure to the speed arm. Increasing his rate of travel as he moves down the center aisle of the arena, his RF beeps and his eyes are diverted momentarily; he reads the glowing rack location. The orange characters jump frantically, dancing at the Crown's tremendous rate of speed. He focuses on the familiar letters and numbers; it becomes second nature. A sharp left, the control arm pressed firmly forward, full power through the turn and down the center of the next aisle. His destination slips up to greet him and the Crown slows to a standstill in less time than it takes him to jump from the dead man's pedal and take the two steps to face the pallet of merchandise. He picks up his scanner. He aims the gun in his hand as he scans the address into the RF. The reassuring beep is its only response. Almost immediately the screen glows back "6 cases". He tosses the now useless scangun back onto the dash of the lift.
The ancient Sumo Wrestler lowers his great mass at the knees. His marbled skin reflects the morbid halogen lights shining high above his shaven head. He reaches out to grasp the brown cardboard case of merchandise that is now his only thought. His wide plams rest firmly on the sides of the case as his iron-like fingers, the muscle pressure being applied especially to the tips, hold and then raise the case. He twists his huge mass at the waist, moving the case until it is almost over his pallet, then...CRASH! The case slips from the Sumo's trusted grasp, the iron fingers bending to almost the breaking point as too much pressure is forced upon them. His huge display of strength and courage is not enough to stop the pull of gravity. The sickening thud as the case drops to the cocrete floor, its cardboard corner bending under the weight of the fall, makes the Sumo's face cringe in disgust. A slow release of air escapes his lips.
Then from the Sumo's left comes the challenge.
"You BUTCHER!" a verbal gauntlet thrown with passion.
The Sumo begins to raise his huge hulk and turn toward the offending insult.
"BUUUUUUUTCCCCCCCCHER!" delivered guttural, long, and low. The word feels like the razor edge of a box cutter sliceing into the Sumo's skin. Before the sound has finished leaving the offenders lips, the Sumo has twisted his massive bulk to face him. The whiner's teeth are bared as the Sumo's piercing stare focuses on his eyes. Slowly the Sumo draws a breath.
He speaks slowly with his eyes never leaving the offenders pitiful face.
"Don't be jealous" deep and resonate with a conviction that no one could ever match.
The assailant stares into the Sumo's eyes as he slowly moves away, his lift making only the slightest trailing whine.
The Sumo bends back again to the dropped case; his mind swirling with options to lessen his grievance. Most rest on the assailant's eventual remorse. As if that would stop the the inevitable retribution that would grow, just as his hot blood now grows to flush his face. The dropped case is deposited on his pallet and the rest of the pick is completed. He straightens and turns to survey his arena; his last encounter still lingering a bitter taste in his mouth. How much longer can I continue with this harsh game? He thinks as he mounts his beast. Somewhere in the clouded regions of his mind he hears the faint beep of the RF, delivering his next stop, his next moment of opportunity.