King of the Fighting Street: Megamix Alpha Zero XIII
Copyright© 2026 by FozzieBare
Seven Minutes
The bar was seven minutes away from demolition.
None of the men and very few women inside knew it was about to happen.
Most of them were staring at the ninja amongst them.
Which is really, quite opposite to what ninjas generally prefer.
But that was ok. Fumiko Takahashi was very used to it. There was a time where ninjas were supposed to be quiet, hidden, and deadly. She was still deadly, but wearing a ninja outfit in a country and western bar was bound to raise uncomfortable questions. Especially because this ninja outfit had apparently been modified for easy access to a variety of hidden weaponry and gear that ninjas were known to carry. It also exposed more skin that the outfit was supposed to conceal. And most female ninjas, or kunoichi, had a habit of binding their chests to prevent themselves from becoming unbalanced during acrobatic. Fumiko never did. First of all, she hated bindings. They hurt. She was voluptuous enough that trying to strap them down would take a binding that would end up looking like she was a mummy, not a ninja. And usually, when she stretched or really did anything that might test the binding, it was liable to burst. One time she had used a metal clip to try to prevent the bindings from bursting ... It hadn’t worked. Not only had her chest broken free of the bindings, the metal clip basically exploded, parts of it embedding itself in a wall. After that last incident, the masters had given into fate.
Fumiko hadn’t dressed this way to impress someone, scare someone, or even titillate. She had just forgotten to change into her casual clothing after checking into the hotel. She had spent the flight into the airport hidden inside a drink cart. It was rather restful.
But she was not to be kept waiting much longer. The bar’s door slammed open with such force it left a dent in the wall, bounced off back into the person who had walked through it, and then back into the wall.
At that point, the hinges had decided they had found a worthy end, and the door collapsed to the floor.
The man who very carefully walked through, gingerly stepping around the broken door was physically built like someone who had been voted “Most likely to CRUSH the Photographer after being mistaken for a brick wall”, three years running.
Fumiko laughed.
“Same old Ivan. Still knows how to make an entrance. And an exit. Or an entrance by making an exit where previously there wasn’t one. An ex-exit...”
Her eyes crossed as she tried to figure out where her train of thought had decided to do a 360 fakie to nose grab.
Then they re-crossed at the image of a train doing skateboarding tricks.
Ivan the Terribad.
The world’s most dangerous Russian Wrestler ever.
To come out of Abilene, Texas.
Oh, he was still the most dangerous wrestler ever. It was the part about coming from Abilene that usually caused people to question their sanity. Or Ivan’s sanity.
Fumiko considered.
It was one thing to accidentally open a door so hard it decided to become an ex-door, but really, most things weren’t Ivan-proof. Those that were usually were nailed down, or somehow built to resist a natural disaster. People like that were normal in Fumiko’s life.
Today, it was the mental image of a seven foot, 410 pound, all muscle monster carved out of solid granite walking into a bar while wearing a furry hat, furred combat laced boots, and furry trunks. And ... not much else.
Then again, Fumiko thought, looking at her strategically altered ninja outfit, she really had no standing to question other people’s fashion choices.
She didn’t know if Ivan was his original name. She never asked. It was probably a sore subject. But Ivan had watched one too many Russian Wrestling videos and decided that since Russian Wrestling was #1 and the best, he would be the best Russian Wrestler ever. Not only in strength and skill, but also, whenever someone said the phrase “Russian Wrestling”, he wanted the onlooker to think of him. So, he played the part.
He wasn’t able to pull off EVERYTHING, mind you. There were not many Russian Bears in Texas.
Well, there might have been some, she considered. But she never had installed Grindr on her phone, so she couldn’t confirm that fact.
No, she was referring to the ursine type of bears.
So, Ivan made do. By wrestling bulls instead.
Apparently they were very confused after a large man used them to practice suplexes.
Fumiko had doubted that, until she visited Ivan’s ranch.
He had laughed, that hearty Russian-ized Texan laugh, and led her out to the training area. Three bulls saw him coming, and took off for the hills.
But it was safe to say that Ivan had made an entrance. An entrance through the entrance, which was now an ex-entrance.
Fumiko quickly shook her head. She was not getting distracted again. She promised. She really meant it too.
Ivan walked to the bar.
“Sorry about door. It is not strong like Russian Winter. I always forget. Put on Ivan’s bar tab. Also? Double Vodka. Straight. And a Shiner Bock to wash it down. And some of those beer nuts if you have them. Spasibo.”
The bartender had seen a lot of things in his years tending bar. Well, some things he had seen only once or twice, and things that he had seen more often than most. Which was why he always knew where the nearest phone was, and had memorized the local police department’s phone number for when a brawl broke out. Not to break up the fight, that was dangerous. Just to make sure that everyone involved was able to sleep it off afterwards, and no one pulled a knife, a gun, a hand taser, or even once, a rubber chicken.
He still wondered if the rubber chicken was loaded.
But he had never experienced a SEVEN FOOT, FOUR HUNDRED TEN POUND genetic crossover between a solid wall, a Texan, and a Russian, who apparently thought “No shirt, no Service” was a suggestion.
So, he got the man his double vodka. Even made it from the stuff on the premium shelf, not the swill he served regulars. Hit the tap for a fresh Shiner Bock, and left it in front of him, and even slid a full bowl of beer nuts that one of the other barsitters had been eating from. The regular didn’t complain.
Ivan lifted the shot glass up, saluted the bar and said.
“Das Vidanya, y’all”
Then he slammed the vodka down in one slug.
Then he shook for three seconds.
A couple gasps of breath as the vodka hit his system.
Then he smiled.
“Da! Is very good! I like!”
Then he spotted Fumiko.
“Ah! Tovarisch Takahashi! Come! Come. Sit at bar with Ivan! I have news! New Tournament!”
Fumiko looked at the bar.
“I think the bar is full, big guy!”
A couple regulars immediately shifted over, or made plans to flee the area.
Ivan waved them off.
“Do not worry, new friends. I make room for my friend Fumiko. She can sit on Ivan’s shoulder. Plenty of room there!”
Fumiko shrugged, climbed up on to the table, and leapt into the air.
Two somersaults with a full twist later, she landed on Ivan’s shoulder with one perfectly balanced foot.
The full twist had been showing off, true. But, it was fun. Ninja skills had to be useful for SOMETHING, sometimes.
Ivan chuckled, and reached up with one meaty palm, and carefully lowered Fumiko until she was sitting on Ivan’s shoulder ... Not as comfortable as a barstool, but the view was much better.
She kept looking at the premium top shelf liquor.
Not planning to steal it mind you. But usually these things had a rhythm, and her master taught her to be ready when the worst happened. Or the best happened. Or the best worst thing happened.
They spent the next couple minutes chatting. Apparently Ivan had received an invitation to an Ultimate Tournament, with prizes beyond imagining to the winner. When he had got the invite, Ivan had sent back a polite RSVP, saying he would be there with a plus-one.
Then realized he didn’t have a plus-one to bring. So he thought of his tovarisch Fumiko. She always made Ivan laugh.
Fumiko was very glad to be Ivan’s plus-one. Apparently, the masters at the super-Hidden Temple on the hidden campus on top of the tallest skyscraper in Kyoto thought the Ultimate Tournament’s prize might be a scroll with a long forgotten martial arts technique, lost since the Tokugawa-era. Either that, or a pillow book belonging to the Shogun’s favorite geisha. Either way, they wanted it, by means fair or foul.
Mostly foul, but they wouldn’t turn down fair.
It was just the principle of the thing.
But it was a fun two and a half minutes.
Three minutes and thirty seconds were left in the bar’s long life.
And the instigator was rapidly approaching.
It was someone who had more liquor in him than unpickled brain cells. He considered himself a tough guy. He won more fights than he lost. And he had gotten into many fights. For many reasons.
Most of them very stupid, very contrived, and very drunk-reasoned.
Like when someone asked if he could close the window, he was tired of dodging the draft from the cracked window.
He took that to mean that the speaker was accusing him of draft-dodging in Vietnam.
Why?
No one figured that out. He was born well after that conflict had ended.
That had been a four-police car special. Pepper Spray was involved. People coughed for weeks. But they didn’t stop coming to the bar.
One restaurant critic who had wanted a beer after a long day later wrote that the spicy kick to the bar’s food was a challenge to his palate, but that it was a needed but controversial challenge to the idea that bar food had to be simple and mostly disgusting.
“Hey, you. What’s with the getup?”
Ivan looked at him.
“Is traditional. I am a very traditional man. Traditions are important, da?”
The drunk was flummoxed. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he wasn’t expecting that. He continued to ignore his survival impulse.
“No, I mean, yes, I mean ... that doesn’t matter. What’s with the getup? Are you some kinda Commie or something?”
Ivan froze.
Fumiko sighed.