Gregson contemplated his belly; his instinct was fed by food and now he had to lose weight. He would make the cut for the International Jujitsu Competition.
At Muscles and Thongs, he prepared his body.
“Positions,” Jackson shouted. “Karen, show him the torpedo.” The middle-aged mother rushed him again. Gregson moved out of the way like a dancer and swept her off her feet. She giggled when he landed on top of her.
“I give up; I give up,” she laughed.
“You’ve progressed faster than any of my pupils,” Jackson said. “Where does your power come from?”
“From my desire to solve crime,” Gregson said.
In the following weeks, Gregson got an apartment on the beach and practiced meditation from his lawn chair. The ocean waves were hypnotic.
“Another umbrella drink, sir?”
“Yes,” Gregson said.
He sipped his drink and watched the babes tanning. He was larger than life under the sun. He didn’t need to enter tournaments and catch bank robbers.
Ice water splashed on top of his head. “You’re in training; alcohol is forbidden,” Liz screamed.
“Oh no,” Gregson complained.
“Let’s go for a run big fellow.”
Gregson got out of his meditative chair and chased her. He walked off his jog and then shared his knowledge with her back at his apartment.
Gregson made his way to the main entrance of the Japanese owned bank in his robe. It was a natural state for him.
The tournament was in full swing; Samurai swords were slicing melons; Jackson punched a table full of bricks; and Gregson walked to the hotdog stand. “What’s the record here?”
“The wecord for what? The cook demanded.
“The weenie record; I can eat any man under the table.”
“Ohhh, you think so?” The cook challenged. “My son is Sumo. Nobody beat him.”
A man-child walked out of the back room wearing a gee. His gut looked like it was designed for cow parts.
“He beat you. You bet money?”
Gregson put his money down.