August 12, 2012; 05:03.29 GMT — The crew of the space shuttle Ronald Reagan discover a strange electromagnetic spot on the surface of the sun. This sunspot is directly in line with the Earth. August 14, 2012; 02:39.39 GMT — Two days after the discovery of the strange sunspot, a strong pulse of electromagnetic radiation bursts forth from the sun and showers the earth. Pandemonium grips the planet. August 14, 2012; 15:12.50 GMT — It is quickly discovered that, while the widespread panic has caused millions of deaths across the globe, the electromagnetic pulse did no physical damage to any lifeform on the planet. However, this pulse has apparently altered all electric currents on the planet, rendering all electronic technological devices entirely useless, including televisions, computer, and other forms of communication. This damage is found to be irreparable. August 14, 2012; 15:17.37 GMT — Mankind gets really, really bored. July 9, 2022; 13:58.03 GMT — Ten years after the great tragedy, Mankind has moved on to other forms of entertainment.

* * *

"Tricksters," Doug explained. "They’re kind of like clowns for grownups."

The Tricksters split into two groups. One group went over to the Jones’ side of the arena, but too far to the right for Bobby to see them. The other group went to the bleachers across the way. Unable to see the closer group for all the heads in the way, Bobby watched the group across the arena. One of the three Tricksters was carrying a bag slung over his shoulder, from this bag he produced a long rope-like object and handed it to the other two who then stretched the rope out between them. The first Trickster then placed himself at the center of the rope, and pulled it back. The rope, or whatever it was proved to be quite elastic. Holding the rope tight with one hand, the trickster removed another object from his bag, positioned the object, then launched it into the stands. People in the crowd immediately began fighting over the prize.

"Cool!" Bobby said, clapping his hands excitedly.

"Yeah," Doug "They use their launchers to send prizes and stuff into the crowd."

Bobby watched as the Tricksters prepared another round and fired. Another minor melee developed over the prize. Two more rounds were fired into the crowd with similar results, but on the fourth launch Bobby found out why the painted men were called Tricksters. The prize went into the crowd as usual and everyone surged after it, but no sooner had the melee began than puff of red smoke appeared and everyone began scattering away from the area. One man staggered away clutching his throat. He dropped to his knees, then collapsed face first. The Tricksters’ laughed and exchanged high fives, the crowd soon joining them in their laughter. Even after the red cloud dissipated, that section of the stands remained empty.

"They’re getting closer!" Doug exclaimed, pointing to the Tricksters on their side of the stands.

"You guys let me do the catching if one comes our way," Paul said sternly.

"And miss out on the fun, hell no," Doug replied.

Bobby watched as the Tricksters launched several prizes into the stands to his left before he witnessed the first trick on this side of the arena. A woman seated several rows down managed to catch one of the bundles and keep it from the rest of the crowd. However, as soon as she tried to open the package there was a sharp explosion. The woman shrieked as she stared down at the bloody stumps that had been her hands.

The Tricksters and the crowd roared with laughter.

Now the Tricksters were moving closer. They were almost directly in front of the Jones’ when a man five seats down caught a package which turned out to contain a poisonous snake. His features swelled and became black only seconds after the snake’s fangs sank into his wrists, he fell dead less than a minute later.

The Tricksters drew back their launcher and deposited the prize. Bobby’s heart jumped as he realized the launcher was aimed directly at him. As the grinning, fanged clown released the launcher, Bobby found himself thinking of Halloween — Trick or Treat?

As the bundle hurdled toward them, everybody in the area stood in preparation for a catch. A man directly in front reached up and almost managed to grab the prize in midair, only to have it bounce off his hands. Paul lunged across the seats, knocking Bobby and Nina back into the people behind them. Bobby was too busy recovering from his fall to see the catch, but when he got back to the seat, his father was opening the bundle. A flood of mixed emotions surged forth. Part of Bobby was anxious to see the prize, but another part of his expected the bundle to open up to reveal a poisonous snake, a poisonous gas bomb, or an explosive devise. However, when the layers of heavy paper were removed, the bundle turned out to be a tee shirt. Paul held the shirt out so the kids could see it. It depicted a muscular man with several scars wielding a gore splattered chainsaw.

"It’s a Slayer shirt!" Bobby cried out.

"And he signed in blood," Paul said, indicating the signature just below the figure. Paul handed the shirt to Bobby.

"How come he get’s the shirt?" Doug whined.

"It’s too small for you," Paul said.

Bobby quickly shucked the shirt he was wearing, and put on the new autographed shirt. He then turned and thrust stuck his tongue out at Doug.

"Dickhead," Doug muttered.

Nina giggled.

"Are you ready for The Blood Brother’s special event!?" the Crier called out, drawing their attention back to the arena. "Are you ready for the Juggernaut!?"

The crowd roared their approval as the Tricksters, the medics, and the girls hurried back out the gate leaving only the warriors, the Crier, and the blonde in the top hat.

Bobby was no Bloodfest guru like Doug, but he was sure he knew all the events. However, this one evaded him. "What’s the Juggernaut?" Bobby asked.

"It’s the special event, stupid," Doug snapped. "Now shut up so I can listen to the Crier."

Then Bobby remembered. The winners of the skirmishes fight as a team in some sort of special attraction in order to claim the prize money. Usually there’s some sort of wild beast involved, a bear or something. Once, Bobby heard they used a large pack of wild boars and not a single warrior survived.

While Bobby was watching the Tricksters, a crew had assembled a series of scaffolds in the arena. The first tier was a frail-looking metal contraption made up of four long metal planks that were situated in a square about five feet off the ground. The planks, which were about fifty feet long and only two feet wide, were held up by a pair of weak-looking supports in each corner. Situated inside and five feet above the first tier, was a metal platform held aloft by four strong supports. A a large box was situated in the center of the platform.

The Crier turned to the combatants, "Are the warriors ready?"

The men cried out loudly, shaking their weapons in the air. The audience took up their cry and began stamping the bleachers again. Bobby and Paul stamped vigorously, but Doug would not be outdone, standing up and jumping up and down with both feet.

Nina giggled.

After a couple minutes, the Crier held out his arms for silence. He waited for the cheering to die down to a rumble before continuing. "Now these seven fine warriors will . . ." the Crier paused, then began scratching his smooth scalp. "Wait a minute! Wait just a damn minute! I said seven warriors, didn’t I!?"

"Oh, cool!" Doug exclaimed, "I’ve heard of them doing this."

"Doing what?" Bobby asked, but Doug didn’t bother to answer.

"Let me see!" the Crier said, then he turned to the warriors and counted aloud. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . ." The cryer paused, grinned cruelly, then added, ". . . eight! We have one too many warriors! Gentlemen, rules are rules and there must be seven of you for the next round! You must decide among yourselves which one of you does not belong! This man must be killed before we can proceed!"

The crowd voiced their approval, then began shouting the names of the warriors, trying to sway the decision of the group.

Before this declaration, the warriors had gathered in a tight group, but now they began to spread out. Bobby couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see them begin pointing fingers at each other as they argued over who should be killed. One of the warriors, a stocky man with a battleaxe, tried to decide the issue with a quick rush on another warrior who turned his back on him, but the second warrior turned and brought his trident up before the man could reach him. After this, the decision quickly developed into a yelling match. The finger pointing continued until it was obvious they had narrowed it down to three men. The tall black man with the double headed spear was one of those being indicated, probably because his second round victory had been such a joke. The second man was armed with a pair of leather gloves equipped with six inch claws. He was obviously being considered due to a nasty leg wound which severely hindered his mobility. However, the warrior was receiving the most gestures was the man who had killed Cecil. His injuries were by far the most severe of the group.

Finally the group appeared to reach their decision. They began circling the man who had killed Cecil. It was obvious this man wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He brought his strange hoe-weapon up and braced it under his arm so he could wield it one-handed. He began turning about as the warriors cautiously advanced. Finally, a man armed with a large nail-studded club tried to rush him from behind. But the crowd cheered, giving warning. The man with the hoe spun around, dropping to one knee and swinging low as he did. The blade slammed into the man’s knee and sent him falling. Dropping his club, he managed to withdraw before the bladed hoe could come back around, but he was instantly speared in the chest by the man wielding the trident. The decision was made.

The crowd roared in delight at this splendid twist.

"Now there are seven!" the Crier called out.

The crowd cheered again, and while they did, the blonde arranged the warriors into a wide circle around the Crier.

"Allow me to introduce your champion bloodfest warriors!" The cryer motioned to the man with the trident. The man approached and stood beside the cryer, he was tall and well-built, his face unshaven and rough looking. Before today this man was nothing but an alcoholic rowdy named Sam Wheaton, but today he was a true hero. "Hailing from Matador, Texas, I give you Sinister Sam!" The crowd cheered.

Sinister Sam returned to his spot and the cryer motioned to the man next to him. A short wiry man armed with a dagger and a short whip which he’d already proven to be a very handy instrument for ridding his opponents of their weapons.

"Hailing from Amarillo, Texas, I give you Slash!" The bloodfest warrior known as Slash, also known as the part-time mechanic and full-time crack junky, Jason Runnels, waved to the cheering crowd before he returned to his place.

The next man up was the tall black man.

"Hailing from Eldorado, Oklahoma, I give you Brother Death!" Steve Suchet, the elementary school janitor turned bloodfest warrior returned the crowds cheers by shaking his spear at the audience and crying out.

The next man up was the man with the battleaxe. He was a stocky hispanic man with a nasty scar along his cheek.

"Hailing from Fort Stockton, Texas, I give you The Headhunter!" Julio Sanchez, the unemployed truckdriver turned Bloodfest warrior, bellowed loudly.

Next up was the man who had killed Cecil. Quickly becoming a crowd favorite, the cheering began as soon as he stepped forward.

"Hailing from Brownfield, Texas, I give you The Reaper!" Holding his weapon high the petty-thief turned bloodfest warrior, Roger Lollard, yelled at the top of his lungs.

The next warrior was a tall, lanky man armed with a pair of hatchets. A pair of minor wounds, one across his chest and another across his forehead, gave the man a tough appearance, but didn’t hinder him in the least.

"Hailing from Artesia, New Mexico, I give you Hell Hound!" The divorced shoe salesman turned Bloodfest warrior, Michael Rucker, laid back his head and howled, then followed up by rapidly thrashing his hatchets in the air as if they were a pair of drumsticks.

The last warrior was the man armed with the clawed gloves. He limped forward and stood by the Crier.

"Hailing from Buffalo, Oklahoma, I give you The Claw!" Recently paroled child molester, Claude Shiver, struck a pose with his claws outstretched, then returned to his place in the circle.

"And these are your six champion . . ." the Crier paused. "Did I say six!?

The warriors held their breath.

"Just kidding!" The Crier said with a grin, causing the crowd to burst out in laughter.

The warriors relaxed somewhat.

"I give you the seven champions of The Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show!"

While the crowd cheered, a tall slender girl with enormous breasts — quite obviously implants — in a thong trotted through one of the side gates pushing a large wheelbarrow ahead of her. Her gait had a purposeful bounce, making her melons bounce as she entered the circle. She brought the wheelbarrow to a stop beside the cryer.

"Now, gentleman," the Crier said, addressing the warriors, "step forward and deposit your weapons into Lydia’s wheelbarrow."

Hesitant at first, the warriors finally stepped forward and placed their arms in the wheelbarrow then stepped away. Once the last weapon was deposited, Lydia took her wheelbarrow and bounced her way back out the side gate.

"You will find suitable weapons in the box on the platform above!" the cryer said, with a fluid motion toward the box resting on the second tier. He then pointed to the wall opposite the main gate. "Your starting positions are against the North Wall! Go there!"

While the men made their way to the wall, the cryer turned and started toward the side gate opposite the one Lydia had entered and exited. Strolling leisurely, by the time he was at the gate, the warriors were already in place, shifting to and fro nervously.

The Crier turned about, drew his pistol, and aimed it skyward, "I give you . . . The Juggernaut!" He fired the gun, then strolled out of the arena.

The doors of the main gate opened and the Juggernaut thundered into the arena. The Juggernaut was a two and a half ton Angus bull, decked out in a combination of plate and chain armor. The custom armor served three purposes, the first was defensive. Thick metal plates protected the bulls back, sides and his neck, while his head was protected by a customized metal helmet, while the rest of his body was protected by a layer of chainmail. Only the bull’s underbelly and its eyes were unprotected. The second purpose of the armor was offensive. Naturally hornless, the bull was given what nature didn’t intend for him to have, a pair of long, edged as well as pointed, horns. As if that weren’t enough, short blades were also added to the bull’s shoulders and flanks. The third purpose of the armor was cosmetic. The wicked steel helmet was shaped into a demonic mask, and elaborate carvings ran all along the plate armor.

As soon as the pistol went off, the warriors made for the platform. Seeing them from across the arena, The Juggernaut immediately charged. First it ran at Hell Hound, who was in the lead. Hell Hound was able to jump aside, and the bull quickly found another target. This time he gave Brother Death a run, but missed his mark. Next he aimed at The Claw, who, due to his injured leg, was bringing up the rear. Still running wide open, The Juggernaut lowered his head and bore down on The Claw. At the last moment, The Claw managed to step aside, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the blades along the beast’s side. Ripping into him with two and a half tons of force, the blades completely severed his arm just below the shoulder and tore into his rib cage. The Claw feel to his knees and stared at the dark blood as it poured out of the mortal wound in his side. He didn’t even see the Juggernaught when it came around and slammed into his back, its bladed horns almost cutting him completely in two. His body pinwheeled high into the air, spilling guts and gore.

The crowd cheered.

While the Juggernaut was busy with his first victim, the other six combatants made it to the makeshift structure and began climbing. Sinister Sam and The Headhunter were already on the first tier and Brother Death was in the process of hoisting himself up when the Juggernaut returned. The remaining three warriors scrambled in different directions as the bull charged in, chasing Slash a few feet before setting his sights for a new target. The crowd gasped as the bull bore down on The Reaper. This time when its quarry sidestepped, the bull turned with him. The Reaper ran for the structure with the Juggernaut right behind him. Sinister Sam and The Headhunter were now on the second tier, trying to get into the box, which, of course, was proving quite difficult to open. Brother Death heard The Reaper call out and stopped his attempt to get to the second tier. He quickly lay down and grabbed The Reaper’s outstretched hand as he ran under the tier. It might have worked if The Reaper had two hands in order to help Brother Death lift him. As it was, The Reaper was only part of the way up when the Juggernaut crashed into his legs. Brother Death was unable to let go in time, and the impact jerked him off the second tier, taking down the long metal plank he was laying on as he fell.

Suddenly the crowd cheered as Sinister Sam and The Headhunter managed to open the box. Inside, they found fourteen identical daggers. These daggers were thick, heavy and edgeless, their fifteen inches tapering to a point specially made to pierce armor. The two warriors each took a pair of knives, and Slash, who had climbed to the second tier while the Juggernaut was busy with Brother Death and The Reaper, was tossed a second pair.

Below, The Juggernaut turned about and bore down on The Reaper, who was laying on the ground, unable to rise due to his mangled left leg. Despite being possible mortal enemies moments ago, the current situation bred comradery. Hell Hound ran at the bull, shouting and waving his hands in order to turn it beast’s attention from The Reaper. It worked, The Juggernaut turned and ran after Hell Hound, who made for a portion of the first tier that was still standing.

While the beast was distracted, Brother Death made it to his feet and was tossed a pair of daggers. Another pair was tossed in the general vacinity of The Reaper, but he was currently more interested in crawling under the fallen tier than any offensive action.

With the Juggernaut hot on his heels, Hell Hound grasped the metal plank and quickly pulled himself up, escaping a fate similar to The Reaper’s by a only a few inches. He was quickly given his pair of daggers.

The Juggernaut then ran at Brother Death. The tall black man stood still as the beast charged, stepping aside at the last moment, while thrusting one of his daggers into the beast’s side. Despite thrusting as hard as he could, the blade only entered halfway before the bull’s momentum tore it out of Brother Death’s hand. Not only this, but the warrior failed to get his hand out of the way of the blade on the bull’s rear flank. His right forearm was cut to the bone and would have been severed had he been just a tad slower.

However, blood had been drawn and the crowd came to their feet.

The bull then turned its attention to The Reaper, who had almost made it under the fallen plank. He saw the beast coming and reached for one of the daggers, determined to go down fighting. But the Juggernaut hit him before he could grab it. Keeping its head low, the bull rolled the warrior in front of him. The bladed horns gouged, cut, and pierced until there was very little of Roger Lollard, a.k.a. The Reaper, that was recognizable as human.

The Juggernaut then turned on Brother Death, who was the last warrior not on one of the tiers. This time, however, the warriors had a plan. Brother Death led the bull under the second tier, where Slash was waiting to spring into action. Jumping from the tier to the bull’s back, Slash reached up and grasped the grove in the armor that separated the helmet from the body and hung on for dear life. Losing one weapon in the jump, Slash grabbed his remaining dagger and plunged it downward, aiming for the gap in the armor. His blow was short by two inches, but it still drove through the plate armor several inches before it stopped. Maddened by the pain, the bull began spinning and kicking, trying to throw its unwanted rider. But, using his dagger as a saddlehorn and Brother Death’s dagger as support for his left foot, Slash proved hard to throw. After several turns the bull took off at a dead run toward Brother Death, this enabled Slash to with draw his blade and stab again, this time finding his mark and burying the blade to its hilt. The bull bellowed and forgot all about Brother Death. It ran wildly under the teirs, knocking down another section of the first tier before slamming into the heavy supports of the second. The Hell Hound, who was looking over the edge of the second tier fell to the ground, and Slash finally lost his grip and slid from The Juggernaut’s back, catching one of the blade’s on the bull’s rear flank in the small of his back as he fell.

The enraged bull turned about, trampled over what remained of Slash then ran after Hell Hound. The warrior tried to sidestep the mad bull, but a toss of the beast’s head caused one of its deadly horns to catch him in the neck and he too fell to the ground dead.

Still on their feet, the crowd roared and applauded at the double kill.

Headhunter made it to the second tier, then helped Brother Death up. The two of them then joined Sinister Sam on much more stable second tier.

Below, The Juggernaut trotted the circumference of the arena, then returned to the structure, where he stopped, tilted his head back and bellowed. Red froth was now coming from his nose and mouth. His last wound was mortal; it was only a matter of time.

Up in the box overlooking the arena, the referee saw the Crier give him the signal. He carefully aimed his rifle at the bull, playing the crosshairs across the bull’s body. With the show all but over, there was no sense in dragging it out and boring the audience. He pulled the trigger, and rifle bucked in his hands. The steel tipped bullet had no trouble penetrating the Juggernaut’s armor. Still, it took three more shots before the beast staggered to its knees, and still two more to drop the bull entirely.

Atop their lofty perch, the three surviving warriors held their arms high and received the loud admiration of the crowd.

A crew of men, some dressed in dark overalls some in white, came in through the main gate, they were followed by an ancient-looking flatbed truck and a large forklift. As soon as the warriors were down from the structure, a group of men in coveralls began disassembling the platform and loading it onto the truck, while another group helped position the dead bull unto the forklift. The men in white once again tended to the injured and hauled off the dead.

In order to entertain the crowd while the work was going on, a the eighteen women stepped out of the side gates and began parading around the arena. This time they each held a large sign over above their head. Always on the lookout for a new way to make money, the Blood Brothers’ charged local companies to have their ads displayed on these signs during this, the longest break in the show. For a little extra the girl supporting the sign would go topless, and for a little more than that the girl would go stark naked. None of the local business owners had opted for this bonus. However, they didn’t keep the girls in their thongs out of any sense of decency, but because they figured such eye candy would draw the audience’s attention somewhere other than the signs.

Seeing an ad for Jolly Molly’s Tamales, Bobby began to realize just how hungry he was. The ham and cheese sandwich he ate in the car during the drive here just wasn’t cutting it.

"Hey, dad, can I get something to eat?"

"Sure, what do you want?" Paul asked.

Bobby paused, thought about it for a couple seconds. "Nachos. Yeah, I want nachos."

"Do you want anything?" Paul asked.

"Nah, we’re fine," Doug replied, answering for both he and Nina.

Paul began scanning the crowd for a vendor, but Bobby saw one first. A grinning Trickster wearing a sign that read, Beer, Hotdogs, Nachos, and SURPRISES!

"Hey, dad," Bobby said, tugging on his father’s sleeve. "Never mind."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I can wait until we get back home."

"What about something to drink?"

"Nah."

In the arena, the truck, forklift, and the workers and the medics were gone and the girls were making their way back out the side gates. Only the Crier and the three champions remained.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the Crier called out. With a grand gesture he motioned to the three warriors, "I give your bloodfest champions of the Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show!"

The crowd cheered once again. Wanting to share as little of the spotlight as possible, the three warriors all stepped away from each other before they began strutting and posing for the crowd. The Crier also took a step away, giving them their room. For several minutes the cheering continued before the Crier stepped up and spoke briefly to each man. After this, they began jogging toward the main gate, where they would be presented with a considerable amount of cash. The Blood Brothers’ were no fools. They knew it was the warriors who brought the audience, but it was the rich rewards that brought the warriors. The losers of the bloodfests lost their lives, but the winners were rewarded handsomely.

"Your warriors have done a fine job today!" the Crier called out. "But I know the real reason you’re here! You’re here to see the Blood Brothers’ own fine stock of bloodfest warriors.

The crowd cheered.

"I’m sure you’ve heard of a certain warrior named . . ." dramatic pause ". . . Slayer!"

The crowd roared.

"But there’s one more combat before we move on to the Blood Brothers’ own warriors," The Crier paused and scanned the crowd with his eyes.

"Oh, cool!" Doug exclaimed.

Having lost his program, Bobby had no idea what was going on. "What!? What is it!?"

With a grand gesture to the main gate, the Crier called out, "The Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show presents The Human Torch!"

The gates opened and a pair of men dressed in loincloths stepped into the arena and started toward the center of the arena. Lydia bounced along behind them with her wheelbarrow.

"Yes!" Bobby cried out.

The Human Torch was one of the most popular types of combat in a bloodfest for two reasons. First and foremost because of its violent nature. The combats involving local bloodfest warriors had a higher percentage of fatalities than those involving professionals; the simple reason was, professional warriors were expensive to train and equip, while local warriors came with their own weapons and provided their own training. However, while the skirmish championship was the most violent event, the Human torch was the most violent single combat. Generally in a one on one skirmish, one man would live and the other would die. It was the number of combats in a championship that made the body count so high. However, when a bloodfest featured a Human Torch combat, it was very common for both warriors to die in the fight. The second reason The Human Torch combat was so popular was the awkwardness of the fight, which inevitably became a deadly game of tag. The crowd found this quite humorous.

The men stepped up and the Crier positioned himself between the two, taking one of their hands in each of his. Raising his right hand he called out, "Hailing from Tulia, Texas, I give you Matthew Coleman." The cryer then raised his left hand and called out, "Hailing from Hereford, Texas, I give you Jim Rollins."

Since The Human Torch required little training, the Combatants in The Human Torch weren’t given the respect of a true bloodfest warrior. For one thing, they weren’t given a bloodfest name and were announced by their real name. Nonetheless, it was still a great honor to take part in a Human Torch combat.

The Crier released their hands and produced a coin from his pocket. "Matthew," he called out, "please call the coin in the air."

The Crier tossed the coin into the air. It spun as it traveled upward, a flicker of light winking at Bobby every time its polished surface reflected the sun overhead. It slowed, then hung lazily for a split second before starting back down, still steadily winking its brilliant eye.

"Heads!"

The coin landed on the sand of the arena.

"Heads it is!" The cryer called out. "And what will it be, Matthew! Match or blade!?"

Several in the crowd began shouting their favorite choice. Doug, for one, came to his feet and began yelling "blade" at the top of his lungs. Bobby really had no preference, but, feeling left out, he took up his brothers chant for the blade.

"Match!" Matthew called out, and the crowd cheered.

"Dumbass," Doug said as he sat back down. "I would have picked the blade."

"Yeah, me too," Bobby agreed.

"Oh, shut up," Doug said. "You don’t know a damn thing about The Human Torch."

"Do to."

"Do not."

"Do to."

"Do not." Doug reached across Nina and popped Bobby on the head. "Now shut up or else."

Bobby crossed his arms, stuck out his lip, and waited for Doug to turn away before whispering, "Do to."

Nina giggled.

Matthew stepped aside while Jim was prepared for the combat. Lydia took a large bucket and paint brush and coated Jim from head to toe with a thick molasses-like substance. Once she was finished, she took a pair of shackles separated by two feet of chain and clasped them around Jim’s ankles, then she removed a machete, the blade, from the wheelbarrow and handed it to Jim. The thick substance was a highly flammable gel, a close relative of napalm. It was impossible to put out by ordinary means.

Once Jim was ready, the Crier reached into his pocket and withdrew a book of matches. He handed these to Matthew.

While Jim and Matthew stared each other down, The Crier and Lydia started toward the main gate.

The Human Torch was a simple combat. One man, the Match, tried to light a match and set the other ablaze. The other man, the Blade, tried to hack his opponent to death. The Blade couldn’t run at full speed due to the shackles, but the Match was also hindered in that if he ran all out while on the attack, the wind would blow his match out. At first the advantage lies with the Match since he can hurl matches at his slow moving opponent in the slim chance that one stays lit while in the air. However, there are only a dozen matches in the box and if he runs out, the referee steps in and uses a Bullet to decide the combat in favor of the Blade.

Once they reached the gate, Lydia kept going, but the Crier turned around and drew his pistol.

As soon as the shot rang out, Jim surged after Matthew. Matthew quickly produced a match from his book and began trying to light it while he ran. Concentrating on getting his first match lit, Matthew almost became one of the quickest losers of the Human Torch in Blood Brothers’ history. He didn’t realize a man in shackles could run so fast. Jim swung his blade, but Matthew saw him coming in time and bolted, dropping his first match in the process. The crowd cheered and laughed as Jim loped along after Matthew, then, suddenly Matthew had a match lit. Cupping his hand to keep off the wind, he turned about and the chaser became the chasee. When Matthew was only a few feet behind Jim he tossed the match, it went out almost as soon as it left his hand.

"What an idiot," Doug proclaimed. "If he’d held on a little longer he would’ve had him."

Now Jim was chasing Matthew again. This time Matthew didn’t bother trying to light a match until he was ahead of Jim by several steps. The flame flickered, and Matthew turned around, reversing the chase once more. Finding this slapstick violence to die for, the crowd was absolutely beside themselves. This time Matthew chased Jim until he was within arms length. However, just before he threw the match, Jim lashed out with a blind swing. It was just enough to make Matthew remove his cupped hand and the match went out.

"Now he got too close!" Doug cried out.

This time Matthew’s first match broke and his next one went out almost as soon as he lit it, but when his sixth match lit he turned and set out after Jim. Once again the match missed its mark.

Matthew turned to flee, but Jim didn’t follow. Instead, seriously fatigued from running with shackles on his feet, the Blade stooped with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. Matthew stopped and turned about. He slowly walked toward Jim, lighting his match when he was within twenty feet. When he was within ten feet Jim faked a lunge in his direction, causing him to throw the match early. Jim gave chase, but was quickly outdistanced. Once again Matthew turned about, slowly approached, then lit his match. When he was within fifteen feet of Jim, Matthew turned the match on its end, letting the flame climb up the stem so that more of the wood was on fire, giving a better chance of staying lit. Then he cupped his hand protectively over the fire and darted in. Jim had to dive to one side to avoid the tiny flame. He crashed to the ground, and tried to bounce back on his feet, but became tangled in his shackles’ chain. Matthew stepped in and tossed another match, Jim rolled on the ground and the match fell harmlessly to the sand. Jim came to his feet at the same time Matthew got his ninth match lit. This time Jim didn’t run — he barreled in. Matthew tossed the match, but his franticness caused him to throw it too hard — the wind put the flame out even before it left his hand. Matthew turned to flee, but this time he’d waited too long. Missing splitting his head into by a couple inches, the machete lopped off Matthew’s right ear before burying into his shoulder. Matthew stumbled and fell, but managed to get a match out of the book.

Jim stood over Matthew. He drew back the machete.

Matthew quickly lit the match.

The machete came down.

Matthew held up his left arm to ward of the blow.

Matthew’s hand, severed from his arm high up on the wrist, fell to the sand, the matchbook still grasped firmly.

Jim smiled as he drew back for a final swing. His smile instantly changed when he saw Matthew lunge toward him with the lit match in his right hand. The flame touched his leg.

Jim screeched as flames leaped high into the air. Matthew tried to get to his feet, but Jim collapsed on top of him. Still screaming, Jim tried to use the machete to cut Matthew’s throat, but only managed several defensive cuts along Matthew’s right forearm and chest. Matthew, however, was unable to get out from under his flaming opponent. The thick gelatine covering Jim poured like liquid fire down onto Matthew and soon they were both writhing and screaming in agony.

The crowd howled in delight.

After giving the crowd a few minutes to enjoy the agonized screams, the Crier stepped back through the main gate. By the time he made it to the center of the arena Jim’s screams had ceased and Matthew’s had dwindled to a pitiful whimper. The fire had died down, but not gone out. And even if it had, their charred bodies would be too hot to handle. Jim and Matthew would remain in the arena until the show was over.

"How about that double kill!" The Crier called out with his hands spread wide.

The crowd came to their feet and cheered enthusiastically.

While the Crier was announcing the next event, Bobby felt a tingle below and realized that, while he didn’t have to pee right now, he would have to before long. A dilemma. He knew he could hold it, but he would hate to be stuck crossing his legs and biting his lower lip when the final event hit the arena. He didn’t want to be the least bit uncomfortable for Slayer’s match.

"Daddy, I need to go to the bathroom," Bobby whispered.

"Huh?"

"I need to go pee."

"Now, you remember what I told you before we left, there’s no restrooms here."

"Yes there is. I saw a bunch of those little yellow buildings by the entrance."

"Those weren’t restrooms."

"Yes, they were. I saw the little boy and girl stickers on their doors. You can go with me if you want to, but I really gotta go bad." Actually there was no urgency, but he certainly hid this in his pleading voice.

Paul’s eyebrows became knitted. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Bobby knew these were his father’s worried signs, but he couldn’t understand why a simple trip to the bathroom would bother his dad so much.

"We can go out to the car," Paul suggested. "You can pee in the parking lot."

Then they would surely miss part of the show. This was out of the question. "No, I think I can hold it," Bobby replied.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Paul turned back to the arena, but Bobby was curious about what had worried his father so. He leaned back in his seat where he could see the multicolored streamers marking the entrance to the stadium. Sure enough, there were several portable restrooms all lined up in a row. It was too far away for Bobby to make out the details, but he knew these were restrooms.

Unable to solve the mystery of his father’s sudden concern, Bobby turned back to the arena.

The Blood Brothers’ were always on the lookout for a way to profit from human depravity. What Bobby hadn’t noticed on his way into the stadium was the voyeurism booths situated behind the restrooms, where, for a small fee, a person could sit in a booth directly behind the portable bathrooms, viewing the activities therein through a pair of tiny peepholes.

"This ain’t right!" Doug yelled, looking down at the program. "There’s only going to be one Cat Fight! The Blood Brothers are supposed to be famous for their Cat Fights!"

The man behind them leaned forward and said. "I heard they’ve had a bad run lately. A couple of their top girls got hurt real bad in Abilene last month and their best replacement was killed a couple weeks ago in Big Spring."

"Well, what do they expect!?" Doug exclaimed. "We pay good money to see a real bloodfest, and every real bloodfest has at least three or four Cat Fights!"

"I’d like to see little more action myself, son, but wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first."

In the arena, the Crier had just finished announcing the upcoming combat, the Cat Fight. He motioned to the main gate and in strolled a pair of shapely women. These woman were adorned in a strange combination of nudity and armor that was much more functional than it appeared. The peculiar black leather armor covered every place where major blood vessels ran close to the surface — wrists, neck, and inside of the elbows and knees. The girls also wore a small decorated mask to protect their eyes. On their hands, they wore their weapons. Tight fitting gloves with a tiny razor blades set into the fingertips. These razors were the perfect size for dicing into the skin with shallow, clean cuts that would bleed tremendously, but do little serious damage.

"Ah, yes! Two beautiful women, to fight it out for your pleasure!" the Crier called out as the women stepped up to him.

HOME

CONTENTS