Fight Club a la Mode Parisienne, by AmZ. "A wrestling match? Are you out of your mind, Sergeant?" roared Javert, rising from his desk and almost tipping over his chair. The youth shrugged and dragged the tip of his boot across the squeaky-clean floor, smearing it with clay. His expression was half-way between piteous and cunning. "Well, the boys just thought that it would be an interesting diversion, that's all. We've all been working hard for months, and the authorities allocated some funds for us to have a night's amusement. The men of the neighboring stations agreed to cover our territory for tonight. Of course, if you don't think you can handle the pressure..." Inspector Javert barely suppressed a growl. "Why, you insolent brat!" he exclaimed, clutching the edge of the table with bloodless fingers. "I've been handling pressure back when you still pissed in a chamber pot! I simply do not wish to participate in such a juvenile affair." "Oh, but why not?" asked the young sergeant, almost pouting. "We all heard so much from the older officers about your... prowess," he almost purred, smiling coquettishly. "They all insisted you could wipe the floor with any of us without breaking a sweat! They said..." "Flattering me won't do any good, Sergeant," cut off Javert resolutely. "As the Good Book says, 'When I became a man, I put away childish things.'" Javert felt his right hand cramp up, as it usually did at times of stress. He wished he could stretch a bit. Stretching would calm him, but doing so in front of a sergeant would be undignified. He contented himself by glaring at the young man. Glaring always made him feel better. The sergeant sighed. He had foreseen this. Monsieur L'Inspector was an insufferable man. But he was only a man, and he had weaknesses. The sergeant decided to play his trump card. He sighed theatrically, saluted and headed towards the exit. Halfway there, he paused and dropped casually in Javert's direction: "I suspected you would be impossible to convince... Still, I had to try. We were all hoping you wouldn't mind giving it a shot... After all, who wouldn't want to win a paid week-long vacation?" he said, laying his hand on the doorknob. Javert slowly raised his head. Sergeant's words rushed through his head like a whirlwind and wreaked some serious havoc. All that could be discerned in the rubble of Javert's thoughts were these words: 'vacation', 'week', 'opportunity', and 'Valjean'. "Hold on, hold on, Sergeant," murmured Javert rushing to the sergeant's side and gripping his sleeve firmly. "Who arranged for this silly event to have such an appealing prize?" The sergeant beamed. "Why, our prefect Monsieur Gisquet, who else?" Upon saying that, the sergeant pried his arm out of Javert's grasp, saluted, and stepped out fully convinced of Javert's participation. After all, how could Javert resist something that was endorsed by his direct superior? Once the door behind the sergeant closed, Javert was left to deal with the situation on his own. Truth be told, he was tremendously excited. His head was spinning full circle. If the authorities approved of this competition, then... then... Hoo boy, then! Javert threw back his head and cackled like a senile old crone. "Valjean, I hope you're prepared," he thought gleefully. So animated he was by this development that he paced his office back and forth for twenty minutes, rubbing his palms together, mumbling to himself like a maniac, and occasionally colliding with furniture. ... During a smoking - well, in this case snorting - break, Javert peeked into the entry list for the match. He frowned at the placement of his name. As a senior officer, he was entered straight away into the second round. Javert felt irritated. "I'm not so old yet - I don't need their bloody concessions!" he murmured, crossing his name from the second round and writing it in at the bottom of the list. Still, he was content to notice that there were only about 20 people signed up, and that more than half were rookies. Javert grinned a big feral grin. Oh yes, this was perfect. He'll have a full week to concentrate on finding Valjean's overly muscled arse and dragging it back to Toulon, where it belonged. All he had to do was to wrestle to the floor a few officers from his station. Piece of cake. ... By 9 o'clock the old "confession booth," an affectionately dubbed interrogation chamber, was finally cleansed of its unappetizing contents, including but not limited to pincers of various length, chairs with leather straps, blood-encrusted rags, ropes, etc. The chamber was then transformed into a type of wrestling arena: mats were strewn about the room and a few rag-stuffed body bags formed barriers between the ring and the audience. Men were running to and fro gathering chairs for the senior officers. A betting pool was established. Javert was pleasantly surprised when he learned that some of the older officers, even those who were themselves participating, placed considerable sums on his, Javert's, potential victory. "Nice to know someone still has confidence in poor old me," reflected Javert, surveying the ongoing preparations. By ten in the evening, policemen packed the confession booth, smoking, arguing, making bets, and stretching. There was a steady rumble of conversation, punctuated by hoarse laughter and clapping of hands. A few kerosene lamps did little to illuminate the room and the men's wild shadows darted about like medieval demons. Unabashed rookies strutted like peacocks, showing off their physique. The older men chuckled at them from the corners. Everyone had their reasons for signing up to fight: some were out to just have a little fun; others considered the fight a good reconditioning; still others had their eyes set on a particular colleague, who displeased them in some way or another. Indeed, what better way to regain someone's respect than to beat them to a pulp? Javert looked the crowd over with a disdainful eye. Combatants-to-be traded insults, preened, stretched, and generally behaved like wild orangutans at Jardins des Plantes. Javert himself stood somewhat aloof from the main body of the participants. After all, he was here on business. Get in, beat up a few people, get out. So he leaned against the chipped plaster wall and bent one knee, waiting for the signal. The first round was to begin in 5 minutes. An hour earlier Javert exchanged his usual formal wear for a loose poet's shirt and canvas trousers. As prescribed by the rules of the fight, he was barefoot. Javert's head was also bare; his dark elbow-length hair, which he usually pinned to the back of head and hid under his hat, was tied back loosely with a black ribbon. If anyone saw him right now, they'd think him a vagrant bard: all he lacked was a guitar or a flute. With his coat and hat gone, Javert felt somewhat self-conscious. It didn't help that his tall, lean frame attracted unwholesome interest from a few rookies. Against his will, Javert caught the gaze of a particularly attentive blond spy. The lad's hungry eyes were openly appraising the Inspector's figure. Javert calmly glanced over the youth, then turned his eyes away with a yawn. The rookie looked offended. "Sorry, kid," mentally addressed him Javert. "But you're not nearly as charming as you think." At exactly 10 o'clock, the match was opened by the old Major himself. The aged policeman was decked out in his old National Guard uniform, that Javert remembered seeing on him once or twice before, when they were called on to keep order at military parades. "Gents of Rue de Pontoise!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Welcome to the all- station wrestling match!" *hoots, whistles, applause* "I know most of you are eager to begin right away, but we have to go a few rules before we start." "First of all, no weapons are allowed no the premises. If any imbecile brought his pistol inside, let him step out and lay it in his locker. No cold weapons either, so extract all of your blades from your pockets and place them also into your lockers." "Secondly, I remind you that we are not in Olympia and that the fighting will not be in the Greco-Roman tradition. You are permitted holds on the opponent below the waist. However, do try to be cautious and not to abuse your privilege. Gratuitous pawing will not be tolerated. Jacque, I am addressing you above all others!" The crowd erupted in laughter. Even the somber Inspector chuckled softly and shook his head. The blond spy, the same one that has been gawking at Javert, rolled his blue eyes and folded his arms across his chest. "Thirdly, kicks and punches are absolutely prohibited. Anyone attempting to pull some fancy Oriental stunt will be disqualified." "Fourthly, this year we decided to forego the score system altogether." *booing* "Oh, shut yer traps! You have only yourselves to blame. Last year there was not so much fighting as arguing over points; this is petty and unworthy of gentlemen. So this year, - I SAID SHUT UP, YOU THERE, IN THE BACK!! - this year we the judges are basing our decisions on pins and on pins only! A pin, as you know, is where the shoulders are held down to the mat for one second. All matches are to last five minutes. If by the end of that time no clear winner is established, the judges will rule the winner. The rulings are uncontestable. *booing, shouts of "Unfair!"* "Yes, uncontestable! Anyone who is not happy with this can cross his name off the list and get back to his duties. Well?" The men were silent. No one felt like leaving the warm building and patrolling the dark, foggy streets. "I thought so. In that case, let us begin!" *BANG!!* The gong signaled the start of the first round. >> Tell me quickly what's the story...