RUPERT MURDOCH'S INVOLVEMENT WITH PROfessional boxing is one of the more interesting sagas of world sporting history. The story began in the mid 00s when News Corporation tried to acquire a collection of the world's most important boxing institutions. Wary of what Murdoch had done to baseball (the term "sports rationalisation" still chilled many purists) the [federation] responded by saying it would ban boxers who signed with News, even tried to remove pay TV cameras from headline fights. Murdoch came back with a fierce upper-cut: he organised his own boxing circuit, the so-called SuperLeague, and pressured the US Government into supporting him. Then he embarked on a costly boxer buying scheme. He eventually won the war, but not before abandoning the American markets to a partisan [federation] force. He didn't really care, because the rest of the world was his. That's why he preferred staging his major bouts off-shore. Naturally, SuperBoxing was a "rationalised" form of the original, with significant departures. Rules and etiquette were relaxed, techniques streamlined, the whole spectacle given a gladiator feel. There were token attempts to introduce elements of kung fu and Thai kick-boxing, mainly to woo Asian audiences. Did Murdoch consider the cultural ramifications of these measures? Probably not, although his long-term strategists definitely did. They knew, at least in some intuitive way, that the Asianisation of American boxing would give it more than global reach. Just as the governments which risked pogromic wrath to import immigrants into their countries wanetd more than a coffee-coloured people. Their's was the dream of all secret societies since time began, an elemental shift deeper than any market force. The miracle of alchemy. SPEAKING of alchemy, how do you transform a 85kg lightweight like Cas Croon into a Tysonian SuperBulk? The answer: fly a plane-load of the best hands and minds in the plastic surgery industry to Antarctica, enroll them in the project, then circulate a joke that Rupert will kill them all if word of the scam got out. Croon's penthouse became a temporary cosmetic surgery. Most of the surgery was cosmetic too, with organic latex strapped over his skin and ceramic plates inserted into select portions of his anatomy (such as the bridge of his nose). Minute electrodes linked to Croon's central nervous system gave the false muscles flex; "explosive" fibres supplied the punch. Croon's skin was dyed, his glorious Afro lopped and the Maori tattoo morphed into Tyson's trademark black panther. The bullet holes in his stomach were left as is, however, because they were true to character. When Croon had been sutured into place the surgeons and technicians stepped back and appraised their work. The chief surgeon opened a flick knife and opened Croon's right cheek. "There, it's done," she said. A woman with blue hair and in a Prada suit turned to the camera and said, "Minus 32 degrees outside, but inside the Don King international airport the atmosphere is anything but frigid. Super bad boy Mike Tyson touched down in his trademark black jet about ten minutes ago; he's expected to clear customs any minute..." All of a sudden the shout went up, "It's him!" and a herd of journalists stampeded into a doorstop. Tyson strolled out into a hail of camera flash, held up two bird fingers as a V-for-victory salute, said, "I've said it before but today's it's appropriate: absolute darkness in the house!" "Mr Tyson," the blue-haired reporter said, "the African-American Freedom and Dignity Alliance has just come out in support of Matt Egan. They describe him as the true Negro warrior rising up against the corrupt silverback..." Tyson shoved the journalist to the floor and snapped her microphone like a bone. "Laydees and gentlemen, I got a new name for that shonk honky Matt Egan," he said. "Puss E. Get it, pussy?" WATCHING a replay of the commotion on hotel TV, Croon turned to his minders with a decidedly pale expression. "I'm not facing that!" "Get it, pussy?" one of the minders sneered. MEEN E had his own interviews to do: a two-hour armchair spiel with The New York Times about the celebrity turned outlaw turned celebrity outlaw; a Das Spiegel piece probing his views on ecstasy and the prison rehabilitation system; an Entertainment Tonight hook-up in which he was coerced into ad libbing a rap about yoking the Tyson joker. Then there was the training regime. E spent four hours in the gym every day for six weeks, popped steroids every other meal, led the cameras on the occasional sub-zero jog. He was promised a year off his sentence for every pound of muscle gained. For every pound of fat he failed to clear, the penalty was six strokes of the ratan. Of course, Croon didn't care for these incentives; he knew it was a short-term assignment, another recon mission into the heart of the enemy camp. His main concern was the force behind Tyson's gloves. So he went to the gym every day for six weeks, ingested the 'roids rather than puking them, developed his tae kwon do. And gradually, triumphantly, he became more brutal. Rupert Murdoch's foray into corporate detention is one of the more deplorable episodes of law enforcement history. The term "prison rationalisation" still chills many humanitarians... ANTARCTIC long-termers know all about claustrophobia: it's from all that darkness and indoor living. For Croon the problem was intensified by being in the middle of a media fishbowl. It got so bad one night he spent three hours peeling off the Meen E mask before wimpering into bed. He put on some New Age music and tried to meditate. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew the music had ended. He turned over in bed, noticed that there were words scribbled in faint pencil on the bedhead, and also on the wall beside him: a name, the same name, repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small - Magda Maria; here and there varied to Mary Magda, and then to Mary Magdelaine. In vapid listlessness he leant his head against the window, and continued spelling over Magda Maria - Mary Magda - Mary Magdelaine, till his eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres - the air swarmed with Marys; and rousing himself to dispel the obtrusive name, he stood up to meditate in the bath. He suddenly heard, over the predictable gusting wind and the driving of the snow, what sounded like a tree branch tapping on the window. He knew there were no trees in Antarctica, but the noise continued, and it annoyed him so much he resolved to silence it if possible. He tried to open the window, realised sleepishly it was hermetically sealed. "I must stop it, nevertheless!" he muttered, knocking his knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch: instead of which, his fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand. The intense horror of nightmare came over him; he tried to draw back his arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed. "Let me in - let me in!" "Who are you?" he asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage himself. "Mary Magdelaine," it replied shiveringly (why did he think of Mary Magdelaine? He had read Magda Maria 20 times for Magdelaine), "I'm come home. I'd lost my way on the ice." As it spoke, he discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window - terror made him cruel; and finding it useless shaking the creature off, he pulled its wrist on the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes; still it wailed "Let me in!" and maintained in tenacious gripe, almost maddening him with fear. "How can I!" he said at length. "Let me go, if you want me to let you in!" The fingers relaxed, he snatched his through the hole, rolled an Illustrated Sports magazine to plug the hole, and stopped his ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. He seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour, yet, the instant he listened, again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! "Begone!" he shouted, "I'll never let you in, not if you beg for 20 years." "It's 20 years," moaned the voice, "20 years, I've been a waif for 20 years!" Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the magazine moved as if thrust forward. He tried to jump up, but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright. Hasty footsteps in the passageway outside; the door was thrust open; torchlight sprayed around like mace. Croon sat up sweating in bed. Realising he wasn't wearing his mask, he quickly buried his head under the covers, said, "Oh, only a dream!" "Dreaming of Tyson," a guard said. THAT dream scared the shit out of Croon. Not so much the little girl and gothic imagery, that was standard in his dreams; it was his chilling reaction. Her limp white wrist in his hands, his teeth gnashed as he sliced open her veins; her screams still echoed in his ears. Literally. It was only a dream, but the raw brutality of his actions terrified him. So the next "morning" he went for a long jog in the cold to let off some steam, barred the media, even convinced Murdoch security to give him some space. They fitted him with a tracking device to make sure he didn't go AWOL in the interior. He set off toward some low hills rising to the south, the themometer pushing -10C. Though he set off with the Rocky theme playing in his head, no Walkman could detract from the anxiety mounting in his soul. When the tune culminated right next to a cairn of building refuse he resisted the temptation to climb up and thrust his fists into the air, triumphant: he'd lost all faith in this case. He stopped, looked back at the twinkling lights of the hotel, and decided he was going to do a runner. Tuggerah was 93 kilometres away, too far for even an athlete like Croon to trudge; but there were disued survey quarters only six kilometres south-east, and he was sure their radio link would still be working. He could be there by nightfall, he could ditch his costume and phone Flora to come pick him up. Flora's proximity suddenly dawned on him with almost physical force, along with a stirring of out-of-character desire. Fuck, he thought, I'd do anything to see her. The feeling was so strong he began jogging towards the survey quarters, but then his rational mind got up with its attendant concerns: like How are you going to explain your altered identity to Flora, when she's in love with a man named Julian?; How are you going to get out of Antarctica without the valid papers? and most importantly What about the CIA? That last one stalled him. A desertion like this would ruin his career. All this indecision was academic, however, for presently his tracking device began bleeping and his muscles seized up. He tried to lift his leg, thrash at the air, scream out in horror; it was like screaming in a nightmare. He'd been crippled. Murdoch! A gust of wind came up and knocked him to the ground. The bleeper bleeped up an octave. Staring at the distant hills, hoping he'd be recovered before he freezed, he saw what looked like two people scurrying across the ice: agile, receding silhouettes. One of them was singing in a foreign tongue which sounded so beautiful it actually warmed his blood, then one of them laughed heartily and they were gone. Faded like the Ben Kenobi apparition in The Empire Strikes Back. Then guards loomed over him, and now the laughter was at his expense. "Typical nigger!" one of them said, prodding him with an electric rod. RUPERT Murdoch called it a boxing tournament, but it was actually a variety of entertainments rolled into one. Practically everyone with a global degree of influence, media savvy or sex appeal was there. The other peasants could watch it on digital TV. Meen E noticed Brad Pitt and Drew Barrymore in the crowd as he was escorted to the ring; Henry Kissenger and Boris Yeltsin were exchanging currency. When he finally got to the ring Croon surveyed a stadium glittering with camera flash, while beyond steamed wall windows fireworks were flowering in the sunless day. Presently the lights dimmed and guests caught sight of an aurora australis. The hushed awe which ensued enabled the MC, an extremely jittery Mohammad Ali, to say, “Ladies and gentlemen, free people of the world, the day of reckoning has come. Now brother will destroy brother! In the red corner, recently freed from prison after mudering three men, the Super BadBoy, the Darkinator, Satan Incarnate... Mike Tyson!E Boos from the celebrity crowd (mainly because two of those three murdered men were celebrities). Tyson shoved his fist into the air, twirled around, showed off his black panther tattoo. “In the white corner, once the most feared man on the backstreets of America, his mind now sculpted by months of drug therapy into a Model Citizen... or so they say. Making his debut on the international Super League circuit, the Invincible, the Lyrical, the Pathological... Meen E!E Tyson spat his mouthguard on to the canvas and said, “More like Queen B. Get it? get it?E The bells were rung, the referee backed off, and Tyson rushed forward swinging around like a Tasmanian Devil. Croon copped three blows to the head before the bells had stopped ringing (or maybe they were ringing in his head). He retreated to the ropes, threw back a few punches, concentrated mainly on maintaining his defences. It wasn’t part of his contract to win, merely to survive at least five rounds. In fact, a dramatic knock-out was preferred because of its media appeal, especially if it led to brain damage. Croon didn’t want to lose any grey matter, and after several minutes of relentless pounding he began to grow concerned. Fuck this, he thought, I’m getting hurt here. “Fight me, pussy,ETyson said, “fucking pussy.E Swelling with an uncontrollable rage, Meen E shoved Tyson back, climbed on to the ropes and did a wrestling [jump]. The move was technically illegal and caught Tyson by surprise, with the two of them collapsing to the canvas. The referee rushed in to seperate them but Meen pushed him away, straddled the rapist’s chest and pummeled him from above. More rage swelled through him, with a savagery which was worrying. Croon felt his entire body surging with hatred, his muscles actually expanding with it. He was doing an Incredible Hulk! His fists burst through his gloves, then Croon looked down and saw little razor blades burst from the synthetic skin. No! he screamed. And try as he might to stop his razored fists, try as he did to stand up and flee this dastardly scene, Meen E whacked Tyson in the gut and then in the side of the head. Blood spurt all over him, and Tyson hollered in pain. Dimly aware of the confusion around him, his body like it was acting under remote control, Meen E punched Tyson all over and said, “Feel this, pussy?E There were several hundred people in the chamber, gathered at rock and other tables or else sprawled on furs on the floor; laughter and talk and spices from 16 ethnic dishes filled the air. Mustafa explained the tribe were developing an indigenous cuisine, although the concept of penquin kebabs and roast seal still repelled many inhabitants. “The herbivore/omnivore split is shaping up as one of the bigger political issues in this place,EMustafa said, finding them a plastic table in the middle of the room. “Herbivores claim the only way humanity can complete its ascendancy over animal consciousness is to become fully vegetarian. There are others who say eating meat brings about divine communion with animal spirits and actually bridges the sub and superhuman kingdoms. Each to their own, I say. But if only cuisine was our main problem.E Mustafa clapped his hand, and a young man wearing a pink dyed fur appeared to take his order: the speciality of the house gruel and reconstituted milk. “We don’t have any cows here,EMustafa conceded. “Unless you count the seals,EMeen E said. His memory revived by amphetamine and DHC, looking around the place and especially at the ceiling, Meen remembered his assignment at Tuggerah and his dreams of the native Utopia. Suddenly everything made sense. “Wait, I’ve been here before,Ehe blurted, and his accent was Australian. “Smash the state! smash the state! And I thought I was just out of my mind.E But with all insights, this one was followed by a hazard: he was a fake Julian then, and now he was a real Meen E. The realisation sickened him. He picked up the table and flung it across the room. “Restrain him!EMustafa said, and before he could do anything there were six guys on him, not exactly He-Men but strong enough for the job. “Man, it’s not fair,EMeen said. “What are you fucking doing to me?E “He’s having another identity complex,EMustafa said. Then a woman squirted juice into his neck, he sagged into the Muslim’s arms... his own arms. Jet streams crystallised in a crystal sky, naked children tobogganing in the virgin snow...