"Senhor," said the Brazz, "you will have the honor of meeting me, Flaviano Diaz, in the local cockpit, daiqui a oito dias, or your carcass will grace the window of the local emporio."

He bowed and left. That was when I looked at his card.

It said: Flaviano Diaz, Capoeira Instructor, Redbelt, First Degree.

I stood barefoot and barechested in the dusty yard behind the motel, sweatin' under a Saturday noontime sun hot as an episode of Siouxie Sexcrime. What a hell of a way to be spendin' my free time, practicin' for an engagement that was like as not gonna result in my own bloody death by evisceration. But I had no one to blame except my own fool self, and as my daddy always said, "Son, there is no point in beatin' up on yourself if you can beat on someone else." And that was what I fully intended to do, or die tryin'.

I lifted another five-pound bag of flour from the crateful I had borryed from the commissary. I walked somewhat awkwardly over to the shade cast by the scrawny pin oak that was the motel's sole foliage. Hangin' over a branch from a

rope was a sling of plastic netting, just at head-height. I took out the empty slashed flour bag that was inside the ripped net and substituted the full one. When I walked off a few paces, I left a trail of white footprints leadin' from the pile of flour on the ground.

Facin' the suspended flour sack, I went all cat-like, tryin' to will the tension and doubt from my body and mind. I moved in on the enemy, fakin' and feintin', dippin' and glidin'. When I felt I had that dumb ol' flour sack completely befuddled, I pivoted and launched a high arcin' perfect kick at it.

Sunlight flashed off a crescent of glass as it razored through the bag and nettin', spillin' flour like a cloud of construction silicrobes.

Someone whistled behind me. I turned. It was Benzene Bill.

"I'm glad you wasn't wearing those when we tangled before," he said.

Bill's words flashed me back to Marseilles, when we had been involved in the big Mediterranean cleanup. He was new to the team then and seemed to have taken an instant dislikin' to me, probably cuz I was the only one his size. I got sick of his endless hasslin' of me and decided to settle things once and for all. In the city, I found an academy that taught savate, or "ler box fransay," as they call it otherwise. With appropriate trope conditionin', I was soon qualified to kick the wings off a fly in flight. Shortly thereafter, I put Bill down once and for all. Bill, being a lazy bully, never upped the stakes by goin' in for his own conditionin'.

Later, when we were stationed on the Thai-Kampuchean border doin' jungle-biome restoration at the site of some old refugee camps, I took the chance to study a little at a monastery, under the monks what taught Thai kick-boxin'.

I had thought I possessed some pretty slick moves. But that was before I had seen the tapes of various capoeira masters.

Capoeira was Brazz hand and kick-boxin'. The moves had an African basis, salted with Bahian tropico-funk. Sometimes it looked almost like innocent dancin'. Until the capoerista rocketed his opponent with a heel upside the jaw.

Me 'n' Flaviano Diaz in the cockpit was gonna be an interestin' match. I hoped I would survive to appreciate it in my old age.

Now I looked down at my moddies that Bill was rasterin'.

My spurs.

I had visited the bodyshop the mornin' after the mess at Parts Unknown, reckonin' I had no time to waste. The proprietor was a gerry who musta been born a good hundred years ago. I listened close when he spoke, figurin' to benefit from his experience.

''Believe me, I know these Brazilians. They share the Argentinian fascination with the knife. Your man will chose a superalloy steel pair of spurs, most likely the Wilkinson'or Gilette. Those are fine spurs, but too heavy. They invariably slow one down. Now these"-he took down a slim case, opened it, and revealed two transparent scimitars nestled on black velvet-"are superior in every way. Bioglass by Corn-

ing. They hold just as sharp an edge as superalloy, but are featherlight. Hard to focus on, too. Moreover, they provide superior bonding at the bone interface. We will grow the glass right into your tibia."

The old man paused. "Oh, by the way, the law requires me to remind you that these are sold strictly for decorative purposes. Now, if you agree to that condition, shall I begin the installation?"

What could I say? I took 'em. I also let the guy talk me into a pair of musky scent-glands, located right at my wrist pulse-points. He said it would make me feel more macho and attract more women. I didn't have the heart to tell him that was how I had gotten into this jam in the first place.

Archin' my soles, I jerked the spurs up and down a hair, showin' off for Bill.

"Yeah, pretty neat," Bill agreed. "However, the outlaw line still has Diaz favored over you at three-to-two. I plan to make some hefty eft off your loss, sucker." Bill started laughing. "See you in the pit tonight."

He left before I could contradict him. But I wasn't sure if he wasn't right.

I was gettin' another flour bag set when Geraldine came into the yard. I pretended not to see her.

"Lew," she said, "please, don't do it. You know DDI will protect you from Diaz. There's no need to risk your life with something illegal like this."

"You say somethin', Geraldine?"

"Yes, I said something, you damn stubborn pig's asshole. I said don't throw your life away for your stupid pride."

"Sorry, Geraldine, I can't rightly hear what you're sayin', for some reason or other."

"Oh, go to hell, you ignorant shitkicker!"

Flour filled the air as my foot thumped back to the earth.

"When you see me whippin' that spic's butt, Geraldine, you will feel different about things."

She just glared at me, then stormed away. At the door of the motel, she stopped and yelled out, "And those scent-glands make you smell like a wet ox!"

I quit practicin' after that. With supporters like Bill and Geraldine, the spirit had gone plumb out of me. Standin' one-footed and lifting my ankle to my knee, I used a bandana to wipe off first my left spur, then my right.

At suppertime I stoked up by eatin' a big steak, a pound of pasta, and a whole apple pie, chased with a dose of Digestaid. By fight time my stomach would be empty, and my body would have all that protein and carbs to burn. Then I turned in for a little nap, sleepin' surprisin'ly easy, considerin' what I faced. When the alarm woke me, I got up and showered. I put on my ostrich-skin boots, which I had had to slit up the back to accomodate the spurs. With my jeans tugged down over 'em, they didn't look so bad. Then, without sayin' goodbye to anyone, I took a one-man fuel-cell utility vehicle into the city to keep my appointment. I didn't feel like travelin' with the others. Let them show up on their own, if they were comin' at all, I figured, after all the crap they had given me.

The cockpit was located in an old warehouse in the Camspanic barrio. The abandoned look of the place was

somewhat belied by the quantity of cars parked in the neighborhood. I added mine to the ranks and went inside.

There were rickety bleachers up to the shadowy rafters, and they were all packed with a restive crowd jacked up on Sensalert. At their focus was an ankle-high wooden ring about as big as a backyard swimmin' pool. It was filled with sand. Two guys were rakin' some blood under, so I figured a match had just ended.

I found the referee, a blonde with pinfeathers where her eyebrows should have been and told her who I was. In a minute she had rounded up Diaz from out of the crowd and brought him over to me. Sure enough, I could see he had gone for the Wilkinson blades.