Spider From Mars

Sheen grabs the back of my head and pulls down. He's stronger than I thought. If he takes me to the ground, I'm done.

I slip from his grasp, lock his right arm with an old Aikido move, drive him into the wall. The girls scream but don't interfere. Sheen's smiling through the sweat. His bleached teeth look ready for ripping. Bruce Lee said that biting was an effective combat option, to be used in tight situations. As I put more pressure on Sheen's arm, his head pressed against the wall, I see he's weighing that option. For me to finish this I need to adjust, and that might give Sheen the opening he needs. So we stand there, straining, sweating.

"Is that all you got, bro?" Sheen asks.

"It's enough for now."

"Dude, don't bring a dog leash to a tiger fight."

Sheen's left elbow smashes into my ribs. Agreeing to fight naked means no protection, and the sudden pain loosens my hold. Sheen swiftly spins and strikes my sternum with a stiff palm. I stagger back, block two punches to my head, drop, throw a quick fist to Sheen's solar plexus then grab his balls and squeeze.

Most guys would buckle. Sheen simply laughs.

"Bro, if you wanted to blow me, we didn't need this foreplay."

Sheen's cupped hands slam my ears. The ringing dizzies me. I think I hear applause but am not sure. Sheen pushes me to the floor with his foot and stands over me.

"Winning!" he yells. The girls jump around. I hold my ears and look up. Sheen's cock is growing near my face.

"I think we have a new Sober Valley Ranch girl," he says. "Let's see how you look in lingerie."

For all the media moral scolds (the New York Times, that paragon of adult responsibility, most especially), I think Charlie Sheen knows exactly what he's doing. Or has a basic idea. He's a Hollywood kid; PR courses through his tiger blood. In a rigid corporate environment where everyone must behave themselves, Sheen's outbursts and lifestyle burn bright. There are as many who envy him as revile him, a guy who says whatever he likes, tells his boss to fuck off (flirting with ethnic slurs), lives with porn stars, and makes a shitload of money. That it's all about him is consistent with our celebrity-worship culture. Sheen understands this, which is why he's currently the most famous face in America.

Muammar Gaddafi knows about celebrity culture, too. Since 1981, when US media outlets deemed him The World's Most Dangerous Man, Gaddafi played the role with Ian Fleming flourish. Over time, Gaddafi drifted back into the imperial fold, making peace with his scriptwriters and publicists. After 9/11, Gaddafi became a Terror War ally. He had matured by accepting his place in the global power arrangement.

I'm sure he suffered Saddam-like shock when it suddenly turned to shit, and like Saddam had no hesitation butchering those who challenged his rule. His bombing of Libyan civilians not only surpassed Ronald Reagan's body count in 1986, it showed that Gaddafi finally approached his original billing. Unlike Charlie Sheen, whose career is far from over, Gaddafi faces the final act. It was a long run and served its purpose. The lingering problem is cleansing the stage of so much blood.