“Hell is negotiable,” the American president said. “We could always fix a deal.”
“Then why do you want to meet God?” King Dick asked. “You’re not even good at chess.”
“You want to know why?” the American president said, smirking. “Imagine I knew God personally. Oh, boy we could do some business.”
Suddenly the host of the event interrupted the conversation, tapping his microphone, and the three world leaders straightened in their chairs.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the host announced. “I’m proud to present the man who never lost a chess game!” he waved his hands in the air and the crowd hailed. “The man who is about to play against one hundred and thirty world leaders at the same time – and promises he will win.”
The crowd was going crazy.
“The man who’d played with God himself and won,” the host continued. “Russia’s most proud son, the Chessmaster himself.”
And there, the Chessmaster appeared from behind the red curtains. To the three leaders’ surprise, the Chessmaster looked like nothing they had expected.
Prologue Part Two
World Chess Championship, Moscow, Russia
The Chessmaster was an old man. Partially bald in the head with flapping white hair sticking to its side, uncombed and stiff, even worse than Einstein’s. He had a small forehead, small eyes, but a long bridge of a nose. He was beardless, but had an unusual mustache. A handlebar mustache that stretched sideways and curved upward like an eagle ready to take off.
He didn’t laugh, but he looked funny somehow. He looked childish, and as if he had a short attention span. In fact, he didn’t pay any attention to the audience. His eyes were focused on the chessboards he was about to raid with his unmatchable talents.
But one thing really stood out. The Chessmaster didn’t wear normal clothes. Not even weird ones. He wore the silver armor of a knight, just like his favorite chess piece.
Chin up, he strode toward his first opponent, the American president, and nodded his head, implying he wanted the president to make the first move.
The president was infatuated with the Chessmaster, though he never expected him to look the way he did, and moved his pawn two blocks ahead.
The Chessmaster stared at the pawn with an expressionless face, then slightly raised his head to meet the president’s eyes.
“In how many moves do you want to lose?” the Chessmaster said in a cold voice that was as gray as cold souls. Appearances aside, this wasn’t a man to make fun of.
“I don’t want to lose,” the president said. “I want to win.”
“Who do you think you are?” The Chessmaster leaned over, hands behind his back. “Rocky Balboa in a Hollywood movie where you beat the Russian champion in the end?”
The crowd, mostly Europeans and Russians, laughed.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” the president said, “but I want to win.”
“Fine with me.” The Chessmaster shrugged his shoulders. “If you want to win, drink one of the vodka shots next to the chessboard.”
The president hadn’t noticed the tiny vodka glasses lined up next to the chessboard. Seven glasses on each side. Seven for him. Seven for his opponent.
“It’s a Russian custom,” the Chessmaster said. “Make a chess move and take a vodka drink.”
“What’s the point?” The president asked.
“Each vodka shot will make you dizzier and compromise your judgment, so it gets harder to play along.”
“I see,” the president considered. “If I do it, then I will have a chance to win?”
“A chance, yes,” the Chessmaster said, “but I never lose.”
The American president gulped the vodka. It was bitter, and it hammered his head so hard his cheeks reddened and his spine tingled.
The Chessmaster laughed at him. “This is going to be fun,” he addressed the hundred and thirty world leaders. “Now each of you has to drink after his chess move. That’s the rule. Let’s see what happens first. Will you get drunk before you lose the game, or lose the game before you get drunk?”
And so the Chessmaster began to play against each leader, one after the other. It only took him a glance at the chessboard to make his move, while it took each opponent no less than an hour to pick his next move.
The crowd bit their nails with excitement, though most of the game was in utter silence.
It seemed that the Chessmaster was keen on playing the Pope’s representative, an Italian man who represented the Vatican. He’d replaced the Pope because the Pope didn’t drink vodka, and none of them previously knew of the drinking rule while playing chess. Though the New York Times had claimed the Pope refused to play because God had told him not to, being angry at the Chessmaster beating him earlier.
Who believed newspapers anyways?