The night of the lifting dead

No one else noticed. I and my colleagues were in the reserved seat for the press, making bets on who would take the gold home; looking at the contestants parading and taking stances. Failing or succeeding. The people cheered and waved flags. Blues and reds were the colours that danced the most on the first rows.

I was kin on the Rumanian. He was bigger than the favourite: some Chinese defector from the Mao regime. Now lifting weights for the stars and bars flag, instead of training with rice sacks. Or so I had been told by the blond on my left. A bonbon from France I’d for sure want to eat with my Caesar’s. All that meat in the right places. I could almost feel the wind his thick lashes made every time he blinked… Bummer, he is straight.

Yeah, right. I was kin on the Rumanian because my penis was the one thinking. The Chinese defector had more probabilities given his stats. He had won two golds as a young athlete before coming to the big ones. But the Rumanian looked big and dangerous.

I can see the black shorts and the white t-shirt slightly soiled with something that isn’t sweat neither the dirt from dusty benches. This is an American bear of black eyes and black hair. Someone whose ancestors flet the Nazi trials by pretending to be normal citizens… Betting on his name: Heydreich.

Most people do not remember individual smells. What they remember is the feeling. I might not be as good as a sommelier but I can distinguish a few. At home, my mother would ask me to investigate if the contents of some pot or jar had gone bad by using my nose. I’m quite good at knowing if meat has started rotting before it even smells to others.

This guy smelled. He had that off and slightly fungish… Ticklish feeling on the back of my nose of rotting meat. He did his stance, pushed up his weight and held the weight. One, two, ten seconds more of what they are supposed to. We (the Americans tough I’m technically Canadian) wave and stomp and cheer.

Next, it was the usual American. A bit red and a bit slightly too dark haired to be blond. The smell stuck to his soles like an unfed dog. When he stared at us, his eyes were white. Halle (my somehow Russian female version), commented the guy looked stoned. She wished it for the Russians to win a medal. I simply wished it was that way for the sake of our lives. The people watching seem to be about to pour over the rows of seats.

Here he comes. The ex Chinese. He is the worst of them all. His eyes are already white. He takes the powder and grabs the referee. His hands go to the lower of his pants. Up goes the guy like a dumbbell. The whole audience quiet. You could listen to an egg crack and sizzle in here. We watch how the athlete lifts the man. We listen to the crack of his back. Saliva oozes from the lifting dead. He lifts the dead human and cracks the skull with his knee. We should be running but we don’t. We are glued to our seats. Watching and waiting.

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