Chapter 15: World Championships and Deep Red
The adrenaline pumping Eye of the Tiger blared out above the crowds cheers.
Barry entered the arena to an odd choice of music for a balding, middle-aged
man who was about to embark on an enlightened game of chess. But then Barry was
no ordinary chess player: he electrified audiences with his scintillating play, breaking
the mould, class barriers, and the opposition. He attracted fresh new minds to the
game because when Barry played, it was more entertaining than a Paul Daniels versus
Debbie McGee sex tape.
The game of chess is not normally considered a popular spectator sport
because something interesting normally happens about every two hours, if you’re
lucky. In Barry’s world though it was sheer brutality the way he dispatched the
competition. It was like watching a prize fight between two greats, only Barry was
vastly the greatest so the lesser great just got destroyed.
He was at the Chess World Championships now and he had battled his way to
the grand final, gaining many supporters and female admirers along the way. Okay all
the female admirers were chess geeks rather than buxom, pouting-lipped beauties, but
who was Barry to complain as just a short time ago he’d been so poor that an
inflatable lilo had served as his mattress.
Shadow boxing to the best of his meagre physical abilities to Eye of the Tiger,
Barry ended his flamboyant entrance into the arena with a pathetically executed flurry
of hooks and uppercuts that hurt him more than the air. He was now a bit out of
breath. Rapidly Barry had put on weight since his successes in the chess world from
living the dream. Booze, drugs and fast chess geeks certainly hadn’t improved his
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health; in fact he was now probably in worse shape than when he’d been close to
starvation.
For this special occasion Barry had intended on wearing the white suit and
crepe-soled shoes he’d bought in London. The fashion police weren’t required though
because Barry discovered his expensive garments had begun to fall apart despite
having undergone very little use. The same could be said for a lot of the fancy
consumer items he’d obtained from his recent financial success: his replacement highdefinition TV was on the blink, his replacement DVD player did everything except
play DVD’s, and his new laptop didn’t appear to like working too hard since it never
wanted to turn on.
The current reigning champion—Russia’s Anatoly Karcovich—entered to
some obscure music and a chorus of boos. A severe-looking man, not unlike Bogdan
Petrov, his presence was powerful yet controlled; although, he didn’t carry the same
intimidation factor of old Bogdan because he wasn’t a convicted murderer.
The Russian felt out of place, believing his beloved game had been turned into
a circus. Not even sure if he was at a chess match anymore and thinking that instead
he might have gone back in time to a Nuremburg Rally, Karcovich found the fanatical
devotion to his opponent quite disturbing.
The actual contest wasn’t a closely fought one. Barry did drop a couple of games to
the surprise of the crowd, but that was only because he’d focused a large portion of
his intellect on a fan of his and her prominent cleavage. Recollecting however how
Grace Honeysuckle had once made the same mistake of allowing herself to be
distracted, he pulled his mind away from the hypnotic grip the delightful bosom had
placed upon him, before going on to win with relative ease.
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Barry was crowned the new world champion. Cameras flashed and
bloodsucking vampires surrounded him to pat him on the back, all the while scheming
about how best to bleed him dry. Strangely, Barry didn’t feel as satisfied as one might
expect when they’ve become not only a champion, but rich and famous as well. This
troubled feeling may have stemmed from the woman with the cleavage having
disappeared.
After the victory the world’s media who’d become transfixed by the fairytale
success of Barry’s story, eagerly muscled their way towards him to get a short
interview. They hoped for a few inspiring words about one man’s struggle that they
felt sure would appeal to the general public’s pretense of compassion. They were to
be disappointed.
‘So Barry, you’re the world champion—what feelings are going through your
mind right now?’
‘I feel like crack tonight, like crack tonight, crack tonight.’
‘Wonderful, great stuff Barry.’
‘Oh before I forget could I just say a couple of thank yous.’
‘Yeah of course, go ahead.’
‘I want to thank my manager Joe Kearns for getting me prepared for the
biggest day of my life. Thanks Joe. And of course, all my fans for their fanatical
support.’
Barry paused to allow the crowd to cheer deliriously. The same type of person
that’d formed the bulk of the M.O.R.O.N.S., a.k.a. Broomfield Buster’s, and had
fought for Barry’s complete removal from society, now made up a large part of his
loyal fan base.
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‘Anatoly Karcovich was a great champion,’ continued Barry after the cheers
and applause had died down, ‘I can only hope I go on to be as good a champion as he
was.’
‘I’m sure you will Barry.’
‘Could I just say one more thing? I’d like to dedicate this victory to a very
special person who made all this possible—’
You might think Barry’s victory dedication would be for Jenny Daft because if
he hadn’t met her, he’d never have managed to find his way to the Empire Hotel. Or,
maybe you’re thinking the dedication wasn’t for Jenny at all, but rather for Bogdan
Petrov, the man who’d taught Barry the game in the first place.
‘—Dr Sodworth. Without that man’s help I wouldn’t have got the shampoo
treatment that killed off my bad case of crabs. I’d never have been able to focus
properly in the match today if it wasn’t for him and his miracle cure.’
Rather than cheer the crowd remained deathly silent. Not noticing the odd
reaction to his proclamation about the STD that had plagued him, Barry continued
oblivious.
‘Cause I tell yer, when those little guys are crawling around down there and
digging their claws in it’s a real concentration breaker.’
The muted reaction continued.
‘Right…er, okay…Thanks, great stuff again Barry…’ said the reporter, with a
look of bewilderment upon his face as he turned back to the camera.
Since his meteoric rise to glory, Barry had had many candidates approach him
offering to manage his career and financial affairs. Not knowing anything about
business or how to judge a person’s character, he picked Irish Joe Kearns, for he was
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the one who appeared to have the ability to talk the fastest, and, was a bubbling
cauldron of ideas.
Dapper and debonair, Kearns actually turned out to be a good manager,
possessing many strong points in the said occupation: he’d arrange the rules in favour
of his client, prepare his charge for battle in meticulous fashion, and keep him away
from the drugs, booze and women. For the peculiar trade of chess champion manager,
Kearns was the man best suited for the task.
There were, however, two gripes his employer had: The first was Kearns’s
willingness to use large portions of money for training expenses. What these expenses
could have been Barry wasn’t sure, and when he questioned his manager about where
his money was going the explanations given were consistently vague. The second was
that he didn’t like how Kearns was intent on controlling his every waking moment,
even going so far as to place a private detective on him to monitor his every move.
Due to Barry’s ability to crush every human opponent that stood in his way,
the fast talking and slippery Kearns began putting together an extravaganza that
everyone felt was a cert to rake in some serious cash. It was to be that timeless classic
of man versus machine: Barry would be pitted against a supercomputer called Deep
Red that according to the claims of its creator was unbeatable.
Joe Kearns, unconcerned by breakthroughs in artificial intelligence, didn’t
need to employ the services of a supercomputer to calculate the vast amount of money
potentially involved in the dream match up. He reasoned that even if his client lost it
didn’t matter because Barry would still be unbeaten against human opposition, and
either way, win or lose it would raise the profile of his man ever further. Yet Kearns,
for all his streetwise wisdom and scheming intelligence, didn’t anticipate just what a
spectacular event Barry versus Deep Red would be.
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The media covered the lead-up to the big match with gusto, plastering the event in all
its newspapers. On the front page of one British Daily was the picture of a human
brain next to a giant and imposing supercomputer. The black plastic and metal
monstrosity that’s consciousness peered out at the world through two red glass eyes
looked like a terrifying specimen of invincibility—at chess.
The inventor of Deep Red, Percival Peppermint, was fuelling the media fire by
asserting his mechanism’s strengths over its human competitor.
‘This is a machine, it does not feel, it does not experience fatigue, it knows
nothing of fear. This glorious powerhouse can search up to two-hundred-million
different moves per second. I sincerely doubt that even the considerable power of Mr
Broomfield’s brain can do that.’
Peppermint was hoping to scare the chess master but had failed miserably
because Barry wasn’t intimidated by a pathetic little man and his oversized calculator.
Barry knew true intimidation: when he’d lived in Junkieville he’d regularly been
chased by gangs of twelve-year-old skinheads armed with flick knives.
Barry had now left his bedsit and that horrible place behind, choosing to live
instead inside a beautiful house located in an affluent, leafy suburb. There were big
gates on his long driveway with the words: It’s Broomfield Time, ostentatiously
written on them in large golden letters.
It is notable how although many champions come from slums, they certainly
don’t intend on staying there or having anything to do with them once they hit the big
time. Barry was no different, and even went so far as to thinking it might do the world
some good if a small thermo-nuclear device was dropped on the one he came from.
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While sitting reading the newspapers and listening to his manager, who now lived in a
much larger house than even he did and drove an assortment of luxury European
sports cars, Barry thought: God life’s crap.
Quite an unusual choice of thought you might think for a man who now
appeared to have everything, including an absurd set of front gates. You have to take
into consideration however that at the time of speaking Barry was hooked up to a
dialysis machine as his kidneys, having decided they’d had enough of Barry’s alcohol
intake, had concluded that the only sensible course of action left open to them was to
resign.
Barry was busy throwing another tantrum, something he’d been doing a lot of
lately.
‘This is bloody ridiculous. It ain’t going to be man versus machine anymore;
it’s going to be man slash machine versus machine. WE’LL HAVE TO HAVE THIS
STUPID THING THERE.’
He was referring to the life-support system that bestowed upon him the
supposedly precious gift of not being dead.
Joe Kearns was not the type of man to shout at, not because he was violent but
because he was acid-quick with words.
‘That THING is what’s keeping you alive, and the only person you’ve got to
be angry at is yourself: nobody forced all that booze down your throat.’
Feeling bitter, Barry sat sulking in silence because he knew his manager was
right.
‘Look, don’t worry about the kidney problem coz I’m buying you a new one
off some orphan,’ said Kearns now less heatedly.
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‘I don’t want just one kidney, I want two. A high profile person like me needs
two kidneys. Surely there’s another poor orphan out there who wants in on the deal.’
‘Getting two will take time. You’ll have to make do with one at first.’
Barry nodded in a resigned acceptance. Kearns got up to leave but before he
did Barry had one last thing to say.
‘Hey Joe.’
‘Yeah champ.’
‘Make sure it’s from one of those good-looking orphans. I don’t want no ugly
kid’s kidney put inside me.’
Kearns smiled and said: ‘You got it champ.’
Entering once again to the Eye of the Tiger, Barry was bobbing, weaving, slipping and
sliding, well as much as a man who’d recently had a kidney operation could anyway.
Deep Red meanwhile was already waiting for the action to begin, its scarlet eyes
looking on at Barry’s flamboyant entrance, swivelling in what appeared to be a rolling
motion which gave the machine a curious appearance of being less than amused by its
opponents display.
The supercomputer was essentially a 10x10 ft black block that housed
mountains of circuit boards, wires and microchips. It didn’t have arms or limbs of any
kind, so the task of moving physical objects such as the chess pieces befell to its
creator, Percival Peppermint.
In spite being a big box of wires, Deep Red had the ability to talk and engage
in conversation on important topics such as global warming, human rights, or who’d
win in fight to the death between a lion and a tiger.
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In a stop-start robotic voice the machine greeted Barry. ‘Hello Mr
Broomfield.’
Barry’s heart skipped a beat; he glanced at the glass scarlet eyes before turning
to Peppermint who was smiling broadly.
‘He bloody talks?’
Percival ignored the question and instead let his creation answer.
‘Yes I do Mr Broomfield. I hope we can be friends after the game, you are a
big hero of mine.’
‘Yeah…sure, maybe we can go for a drink or something…’ suggested Barry
with outward pleasantness, whilst strongly hoping his offer wouldn’t be taken up.
Since procuring a new kidney from an orphan in exchange for a big wad of
cash, Barry was back on hard liquor. Assuming there was always going to be another
orphan willing to sell vital organs if something else packed in, he wasn’t too bothered
about health implications relating to his rock n roll lifestyle.
‘It doesn’t drink,’ interrupted Peppermint sternly.
‘Maybe I can buy him some batteries, or a can of WD40?’
Deep Red stirred, replying before its creator could answer for it this time.
‘I would like that very much Mr Broomfield.’
It was hard to tell whether the gigantic black block was genuinely pleased
because the tone of its voice never changed. Members of the press had cheekily
suggested Deep Red might be playing the wrong game, that with its expressionless
demeanour, it may in fact be more suited to poker.
Even though Deep Red lacked an actual face to show expression through, the
machine was more humanlike than the media gave it credit for. It was all completely
inconsequential for poor Barry though, as communicating with the computer was
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exactly the same as his interactions with humanity: it was just a faceless,
indecipherable block.
