Considering their line of business, it was always shocking how the Cat Fight warriors’  bodies seemed to be in relatively good shape, even their skin.  This was mostly an illusion of distance.  Up close, one could make out a jigsaw puzzle of literally thousands of small scars all over their bodies, but these scars weren’t near as noticeable as they should have been.  The reason was, these girls physical appearance was much more important than their martial prowess.   Medics were assigned to the Cat Fight girls who specialized in suturing lacerations so that very little scar was formed.  The Blood Brothers also employed  an experienced plastic surgeon to travel with the show.  The women’s appearance was of utmost importance.

            The warriors positioned themselves on each side of the Crier.

            First he turned to the woman on his right.  A tall, slender redhead, she was a newcomer and a veteran of only two fights.  As a result she was missing two of the main features of most Cat Fight warriors — the web of tiny scars all over he body, and the breast job — her chest was relatively flat.

            “I present to you Luscious Lisa Legs!”

            The crowd had never heard of the girl and was not impressed with her boobs — the cheering was only halfhearted.  The warrior waved both hands in the air enthusiastically as if her fans in the crowd numbered in the thousands.

            The Crier turned to the second warrior.  A tanned, shapely brunette, whose scars, bruises, and boobs testified to he veteran status.

            “I present to you Venus Vixen!”  The cryer called out with considerably more aplomb than his first announcement.

            The crowd came to their feet, cheering and stomping — they had certainly heard of V. V..  She was the most famous Cat Fight warrior in the Blood Brothers’ stable and one of the most famous in the country. 

            However, V.V. wasn’t one-hundred percent today.  Over the last two months The Blood Brothers’ Traveling Combat Show had suffered a streak of bad luck concerning their Cat Fight warriors.  It started back in Nacogdoches, when Nelly Knockers, a rising Cat Fight star, was found dead in her trailer.  While high on heroine, Nelly had committed suicide, ironically, by slitting her wrists. A week later another girl was seriously injured and forced into retirement and another girl was killed out of the arena — the Blood Brothers’ arena, anyway — when she entered a local bloodfest and lost.  The show arrived in Abilene already low on warriors, and left short another when V. V.’s opponent died shortly after their match.  Two weeks later V. V. and the other remaining veteran, Alexis, had a rough time in their combats with a pair of newcomers.  Alexis’ opponent was none other than Luscious Lisa Legs, who didn’t win the fight by the conventional method of bleeding her opponent down.  Instead, she doubled her fist and broke Alexis’ nose.  V. V. also had problems with her unconventional opponent, she came out ahead, but the match spilled over into a backstage knife fight that left the newcomer dead and V. V. seriously wounded.  Still recovering from her wounds, V. V. was in no shape to fight, but the show must go on.  Lisa had been warned, though.  Like most bloodfest competitions, the Cat Fight had no rules — it was preferred that no bruising blows, like kicks or punches, be used, but it wasn’t illegal.  However, if Lisa used her fists on V. V. during this combat, she had been told the referee decide the match.

            As soon as the Crier started walking toward the main gate, the two women crouched low and began sizing each other up, and as soon as the shot rang out, they flew into each other.  The blood began flowing immediately as V. V. delivered a rapid secession slashing attacks.  Cutting into Lisa’s left upper thigh, stomach, and right shoulder.  Lacking in experience, but not in speed, Lisa returned the favor with a slash on V. V.’s right forearm and one across her left breast that sent the crowd to its feet.

            The warriors stalked each other once again before Lisa lunged forward.  Her blow was warded off, but V. V.’s counter attack wasn’t — her left arm shot out, making three bloody lacerations on Lisa’s right cheek.  Seconds later, V. V. went on the attack but only managed to trade a pair of blows, both upper arm wounds. 

            For several minutes the fight continued back and forth with neither getting much of an advantage.  Both combatants were now covered head to toe in blood, and the blood loss was beginning to show, especially with V. V..  In fact, the knife wound under her right armpit, which was cover by her armor, had opened.  Despite the painkillers, her side was on fire.

            V. V. half-stumbled, half-lunged at Lisa in an attack.  Lisa dodged the blow, then slashed into V. V.’s left side.  She tried to follow up with a slash to her other side but only managed an open handed slap.  However, the blow was planted perfectly on V. V.’s knife wound.  V. V. dropped to one knee, received a slash across the face, then fell to the sandy arena floor.

            The crowd cheer and the main gate opened to allow the Crier to reenter, but V. V. wasn’t through.  Thinking the blow to her wound was intentional, she was enraged.  He fury giving her newfound strength, she lashed out with her legs, sweeping Lisa off her feet.  V. V. lunged at her fallen opponent, jumping on top of her before she couldrise.  Balling her fists tight, she delivered several blows to Lisa’s face.  Then she did something that was unheard of, she reached behind Lisa’s neck and cut the leather strap holding her neckguard in place. 

            Above the arena, the referee looked for the signal, but received none.

            Standing in the open gate, the Crier anxiously watched as the events unfolded.  He didn’t want to lose yet another girl, but it was out of his hands.  One thing was for sure, he certainly wasn’t going to give the order to shoot V. V..  She was too valuable. 

            But Lisa wasn’t through just yet.  She blocked V. V.’s deadly blow with one hand, and delivered a series of powerful blows to the veteran’s side with her other.  And this time she was intentionally aiming at the knife wound.

            Seeing Lisa was using her fists, the referee glanced once again at the Crier, but no sign was given.  After all, fair is fair, and V. V. had asked for it.

            V. V. rolled off Lisa and curled into a fetal position.  Lisa rose to her knees and held her hands high.

            The crowd cheered halfheartedly.  Even some boos could be heard here and there.  They had been anxious to see V. V. tear this upstart’s throat out, and, not only had they been denied their gory ending, but this upstart had actually defeated the crowd favorite.

            But the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm didn’t change the Crier’s smile or his approach in the least.  “How about that Cat Fight!?” he called out.

            The dutiful crowd’s volume intensified considerably.

            While the Crier spoke, several men in white came into the arena.  They popped pills into the girls mouths and helped the warriors out of the arena.  Venus Vixen was carried out on a stretcher.

            Once the girls were gone, the Crier opened his arms wide and bellowed, “And now, The Blood Brothers’ Traveling Combat Show proudly brings you . . . The Grand Melee!”

            The crowd came to feet once again as five professional bloodfest warriors stepped into the ring.  The men were clothed and equipped much different than the women.  Their heavy plate and chainmail armor bore a closer resemblance to that of the Juggernaut than the women’s thin leather strips.  Their massive iron weapons bore no semblance at all to the women’s simple clawed gloves and very little semblance to the makeshift equipment of the local warriors who had come before — the lowly  amateurs. 

            Arms and armor weren’t the only differences between these five ironclad warriors and the warriors who came before them.  Despite the wild cheers of the crowd, the demeanor of these men was one of somber sincerity.  Unlike the local warriors, these men weren’t here for a one time experience — the arena was their way of life.  And unlike the Cat Fight warriors, great care was not taken to see that they lived to see the next match — the arena was also their way of death.  These were the real modern gladiators.

            The crowd was on their feet yelling at the top of their lungs while the stern warriors made their way into the arena.  Their enthusiasm didn’t dissipate in the least when the men reached the center of the arena and formed a circle around the Crier. 

            “How come there’s five of them!?”  Bobby asked, having to yell over the crowd.

            Neither of them knowing the answer, Paul ignored the question and Doug shot back a quick insult.  “If you’d shut up and listen, you’d probably find out!”

            “I think they’re supposed to do a free-for-all instead of a couple of one-on-one matches.” The man in the seat behind them chimed.  “Maybe they’re trying to make up for the half-ass Cat Fight.”

            “Is Slayer going to be in the free-for-all!”  Bobby chimed in excitedly.

            “Of course not, stupid!”  Doug shot back, “Do you see him out there!?”

            “They always save Slayer for the closing match,” the man added. “The grand finale.”

            In the arena, the Crier motioned to the first warrior.  “Standing six foot, three inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and fifty-seven pounds, veteran of ten matches including seven wins, two of which were kills, I give you Dominator!”  As was tradition, much more information was provided about the real Bloodfest warriors’ experience.  However,  their place of origin was not given for fear it would take from the mystery surrounding these titans.

            Dominator lifted a cletched fist into the air and the crowd cheered.

            The spiked flail slung over Dominator’s shoulder was so heavy that most men couldn’t lift it from the ground, but, though it took both hands, Dominator could wield amazing ease.  Dominator’s armor was painted a deep midnight blue.  His helmet was shaped like an evil, grinning gargoyle.  Under the helmet, however, the Dominator wasn’t even cracking a smile.  Less than a week ago he’d had his knee completely reconstructed.  He was supposed to have at least month to recover.  But with Bone Crusher out with a slipped disc, Sledge with both his arms in a cast, and the Brothers’ demanding five warriors for today’s free-for-all, here he was, in the arena.  It wasn’t his fault the pampered Cat Fighters couldn’t handle their job.

            Once the cheering died down, the Crier motioned to the next warrior.  “Standing six foot, two inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and forty-one pounds, the veteran of three matches, including two wins, including one kill, I give you The Beast!”

            Despite the fact hardly a soul had heard of this new warrior, the crowd cheer enthusiastically.

            The Beast’s weapon was a deadly warpick, spiked on both ends, and, like the other weapons, it was extremely large and heavy.  His armor was painted a dark grey, and his helmet was shaped like a snarling werewolf.  Over his shoulders, he wore a heavy fur cloak.  The Beast was the new guy, and, like most newcomers in the clannish behind scenes lives of the bloodfest warriors, he was instantly made an outcast.

            “Standing six foot, seven inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and eighty-one pounds, the veteran of twelve matches, including eight wins, three of which were kills, I give you The Executioner!”

            The Executioner’s weapon was a two-handed axe.  Even heavier than his opponents’ weapons, his axe was almost impossible to wield in a fight.  However, the Executioner’s complaints always fell on deaf ears — there was no way they were going to let him trade in his axe, it fit his persona too well.  His solid black armor was smooth and sleek, the helmet resembling a executioner’s hood.  As a form of compensation for his unwieldy weapon, the Executioner’s armor was thicker and made up of more plate that chain.  This was no consolation to the man in the armor, however.  He had signed up for ten matches, that was all.  Ten matches and he would collect his money and retire.  But at the end of the tenth match, they told him one more match.  Then, at the end of the eleventh, they told him the same thing, ditto for the twelfth .  Now it was his thirteenth match.  Unlucky thirteen.  The Blood Brother’s had once again promised him this would be his last match.  He feared this time they would be right.

            The crowd kicked it up a notch when the Crier motioned to the next warrior.

            “Standing six foot, three inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and fifty three pounds, the veteran of nine matches, all of which were wins and all of which were kills.”  At this, the crowd shrieked with joy. ”I give you Dark Spawn!”

            Dark Spawn’s weapon was a two handed maul — a maul which had crushed the helmets of all nine of his opponents.  His armor was deep crimson, and his helmet shaped like a demon.  Every once and a while a bloodfest warrior came along who reveledso much in the gore, the brutality, and the popularity it brought on, that they believed they must finish every fight with a kill.  Such warriors become marked men by the more knowledgeable veterans of the arena and sometimes even by the owners of the show — gore and brutality are the bread and butter of traveling Bloodfest shows, but too many deaths in the arena in too short of a time can cause a shortage of manpower.  However, Dark Spawn’s popularity had risen to the point that the Blood Brothers’ weren’t about to have him killed.  And as far as the other warriors were concerned, he had become quite good at watching his ownback.  Dark Spawn would never admit to being  afraid of anything, but today he was feeling a twinge of anticipation about the upcoming match.  He didn’t believe for an instant this match was to make up for the chicks’ poor showing.  If the Blood Brothers’ had him killed outside of the ring it would mar their reputation, so they were going to have him killed in the ring.  He knew Dominator and Executioner had it out for him, but if they tried to gang up on him today, they would be in for a surprise.

            The crowd’s volume picked right back up for the next armored man, another popular warrior.

            “Standing six foot, two inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and seventy-seven pounds, the veteran of twenty-six matches, including twenty-three wins, I give you Hellion!”

            Hellion’s weapon was a two-handed axe similar to the executioner’s, but not quite as bulky.  His armor was painted bright red, and his helmet was shaped to appear as if flames were rising from his face.  Unlike the other warriors, his mask only covered the upper portion of his face, so the audience see his hideously scarred cheeks and lower jaw.  Hellion was one of the few men ever to survive being lit in a Human Torch match.  Because of this terrible experience, his entire body was a mass of scar tissue.  And Hellion’s unique beginnings weren’t the only oddity about this veteran bloodfest warrior — the omission of kills from his stats wasn’t a mistake on the Crier’s part.  The man who lit Hellion died with a machete wedged into his skull, but this was the last man to meet his death at Hellion’s hands.  After his fateful brush with death, Hellion found himself unable to gain employment due to his severe handicap.  However, he was still physically strong.  With nowhere else to turn, he joined The Blood Brothers’ show, but secretly promised himself he would never take another human life.  Normally a bloodfest warrior who refuses to kill is considered an even larger liability than one who kills needlessly.  Several notable traveling shows had lost their reputations when word got around that they had gone soft, or, worse yet, were staging deaths.  However, despite the fact he failed to bring the desired gory deaths to the arena, the crowd instantly loved Hellion because of his interesting background, not to mention his brutally disfigured face, which many found was grotesque enough.  Like Dark Spawn, Hellion was simply too popular for anyone to touch outside of the ring.  Unlike Dark Spawn, Hellion was a true veteran.  He was second only to Slayer in number of matches and number of wins.

            With the introduction of the last of the five warriors, the Crier made his way toward the main gate.  As before, he stopped in the gate, produced his pistol, fired into the air, then withdrew from the arena as the match began.

            The match began slowly, as none of the five combatants wanted to be the first to attack for fear they’d let their guard down against another opponent.  Even Dark Spawn, who was normally a madman in the arena, was reserved and cautious.  For three long minutes, the warriors stalked around in a circle, making no more than the occasional feint in an effort to draw an opponent into making the first move. 

            It was The Beast who finally broke the stalemate.  Deciding that due to his cumbersome weapon, Executioner was the obvious weak link, the Beast charged in with his warpick held high.  Executioner deflected the blow with the shaft of his axe, then gave his weapon a quick twist that sent the axe slamming into The Beast’s head.  The quick blow didn’t have enough power to penetrate the iron helmet, but it was enough to send The Beast staggering backwards.  Taking advantage, Dominator lashed out with his heavy flail, hitting The Beast in the upper left shoulder. 

            The loud sound of metal on metal rang out.  The crowd howled.

            Dark Spawn swung his maul in a wide arc, trying to catch Dominator before he could go on the defensive.  But Dominator proved to be quite agile in his heavy armor, jumping out of the way of Dark Spawn’s blow, then deflecting a quick blow from Hellion’s axe.

            Meanwhile, Executioner decided it was time to finish the newcomer.  He heaved his axe to his shoulder, then let fly with a powerful overhand swing.  But Dominator’s blow hadn’t been as serious as it had sounded — inside his armor, The Beast was hardly scratched.  The heavy blow was sidestepped, the axe burying its blade deep in the sandy arena floor.  The Beast swung his warpick, burying the tip in Executioner’s upper arm.   The pick was roughly jerked free, then raised high for a second blow, but Executioner countered with a simple trick that had saved his life more than once in the arena — he released the handle of his heavy axe, doubled up his gauntleted fist, and punched The Beast square in the face.

            While Executioner and The Beast were squared off, Dark Spawn found himself caught between Hellion and Dominator.  Perhaps he was right and there was a plot to rub him out in this match.  Old Burn-face was the biggest threat, so he paid particular attention to him.  However, this inevitably left him open one too many times for Dominator.  A powerful blow to his back, followed by a glancing blow to his head sent him face first into the sand.

            Despite what Dark Spawn might have thought, there was no special purpose to this match.  The fact he ended up between the two fighters was simply the way the dice fell.  So when Dominator stepped in to deliver to finish him, Hellion saw an opening and lashed out.  His axe buried deep into Dominator’s leg, just three inches above his reconstructed knee. 

            The crowd roared as the Dominator went down.

            Hellion then turned on Dark Spawn, who was trying to rise from the ground.  He swung his axe low and was rewarded with another loud clash of metal on metal.  However, the blade hit at such an angle that it glanced off the armor.  Dark Spawn fell back to the ground, tried to rise again, and once again was met with a powerful, yet glancing blow.

            “Stay down!” he heard Hellion growl.

            But Dark Spawn didn’t stay down.  The next blow pierced his armor near the shoulder — painful, but not deadly.

            Barely ten feet away, The Beast seemed to be getting the upper hand in his fight with Executioner.  He had landed two more blows since the first.  Neither of these blows had pierced Executioner’s thick armor, but it was obvious that it was a matter of time before Executioner was out of the match.  With his wounded arm, Executioner could barely lift his weapon.

            While there was no conspiracy against Dark Spawn, there was a coalition at work in the arena.  In fear of being ganged up on, the two outsiders, Dark Spawn and The Beast had struck a bargain, and now that bargain was about to pay dividends.  The Beast saw his partner in trouble and broke off his engagement with Executioner, and came at Hellion from behind with an overhanded blow aimed at the top of his opponent’s head. But, in the last moment, the wily veteran either saw an errant shadow, heard the gasp of the crowd, or sprouted eyes in the back of his head.  He stepped aside and the blow missed his head, but still buried deep into his right shoulder.  So deep, in fact, that The Beast was unable to pull it free.  Hellion switched his grip on his axe, and in an amazing feat of strength and agility spun around swinging his weapon one-handed with his left hand.  The blow was as unexpected as it was sudden, catching The Beast in the side of the head with the flat side of the axe, knocking him out cold.

            The unwritten honor system among Bloodfest warriors was that once a warrior suffered an injury that severely hindered his mobility or his ability to wield his weapon, it was time for the injured person to take a fall.  The victorious warrior would then show mercy and the loser would live to fight another day.  This wouldn’t be the case with Dark Spawn.  There was little doubt that he would smash in the skulls of every man present before he left the arena.

            Hellion glanced at Executioner and nodded. 

            Executioner nodded back.

            Sensing the drama of the moment, the crowd became awkwardly silent.

            Dark Spawn regained his feet and took a step away, as Hellion and Executioner stalked forward.  It was two on one from here on out and he knew it.  However, he was in much better shape than either of his opponents.  Executioner’s injured left arm was weak — he was hardly able to lift his heavy axe.  Hellion’s wound was much more severe — the warpick was still buried in his shoulder and his right arm hung limp at his side, but the powerful veteran still seemed to be the biggest threat.  He wielded his lighter axe with his off hand with more ease than Executioner with his hand and a half.

            Dark Spawn rushed forward, swinging his maul over his head.  Hellion dodged the blow and delivered one of his own, which caught Dark Spawn in the side but didn’t have enough on it to pierce the armor.  Executioner tried to move in and lend a hand, but was immediately put on the defensive.  However, the distraction was enough to give Hellion an opening.  Swinging as hard as he could with his one hand, catching Dark Spawn in the chest.  Armor was pierced, but not far enough to make the blow fatal or even match ending.  However, Dark Spawn went down once again.

            Hellion hoisted his Axe to his shoulder, in preparation for a downward swing at one of Dark Spawn’s legs.  Dark Spawn rolled to his back.  His hand shot out, sending a spray of sand into Hellion’s eyes.

            Dark Spawn came to his feet, then rushed at Executioner, putting him on the defensive before rushing back to finish his blinded opponent.  Unable to rub his eyes due to his gauntlets and his visor, Hellion could only see blurs.  He saw a large mass of crimson coming his way and swung as hard as he could.  The blows landed at the same time.  Dark Spawn’s armor was pierced, but not fatally.  Hellion was struck in the side of his chest, the armor bending and tearing before the powerful maul — ribs were broke and jagged edges of metal tore into his body.  Hellion collapsed to his knees.   Hurt, but not stopped, Dark Spawn hefted his maul for the finishing blow.  It took every once of strength and every bit of will Hellion could muster for his final act — he hurled his axe to the Executioner.

            The blow caved in Hellion’s helmet.  Blood mixed with a healthy amount grey matter spewed forth.

            Executioner dropped his axe, and caught the other.  He found it considerably lighter, and stormed in before Dark Spawn could react.  Dark Spawn was struck in the upper chest, sending him reeling to the ground.  He struggled to rise, but found he could barely make it to his hands and knees.  Blood was pouring through the opening in the front of his armor.  He wondered if the wound was fatal.

            The crowd began to chant.  “Kill, kill, kill . . .”

            The chant wasn’t normally the custom professional combats, but it was today.

            Dark Spawn was on his hands and knees, his head down, causing a gap between his helmet and his body armor to appear.  Executioner needed no more encouragement.  With a sickening thud, Dark Spawn’s head was severed from his body.  Still in it’s hellish helmet, the head plopped to the sandy ground, rolling so that the demonic eyes gazed skyward like Lucifer longing for a rematch.

            Despite the pain in his shoulder, Executioner held Hellion’s axe high over his head.  With two more warriors dead, and another seriously wounded, there was no way he was going to be allowed to retire after this match.  On the brighter side, it appeared as if he’d won his argument for a new weapon.

            “He’s next isn’t he!?”  Bobby asked before Hellion’s head had even hit the ground.  “Slayer’s next isn’t he!?”

            A warm fatherly feeling washing over him, Paul smiled and put his arm around his son.  “Yes, he is.”

* * *

            Behind the main gates stood a tall man in heavy black armor.  His polished armor reflected the sunlight from above, and his scarlet cape caught the breeze and billowed out behind him.  A modified chainsaw was clamped tight in his right hand.  Tucked into his belt was a pair of swords, their blades curved wickedly in a style that was gothic yet somehow oriental as well.  His belt was also equipped with a long dagger and a spiked mace hanging from a hook.  Three more daggers of various sizes and styles were present about his body, one strapped to each leg, and one strapped to his left forearm.  And these were just the noticeable weapons.  Dedicated fans knew there were also several hidden weapons about his body — at least four more knives, several barbed throwing spikes, and a garrotte made of piano wire, just to name a few.  Like the Juggernaut, even his armor served as a weapon.  From spiked knuckles to bladed elbow and knee guards, hardly an inch of steel could be found that wasn’t edged or pointed.

            On the other side of the gates, the Crier could be heard announcing his name.

            The crowd roared to an all new height.

            Slayer slumped his armored head and sobbed.  “Don’t wanna go,” he said, his voice the cumbersome rhythm of the mentally retarded.

            “Aw hell,” one of the two scantily clad women standing next to the gate said, “Arthur!  He’s doing it again!”

            “Don’t wanna go!”  Slayer declared.  He tried to toss his chainsaw to the ground, but, since it was welded into his gauntlet, it went nowhere.

            A bald man in a white jumpsuit, Doctor Arthur Simmons, came out of one of the small trailers near the gate.  He was removing a rubber strap from around his upper arm from where he’d been self-administering medication.  “Did someone call?” he asked, his eyes wide and glossy.

            “Slayer’s trying to back out on us again!”  The girl said.

            The other girl turned toward the closed gate, heard what was being said inside the arena, then turned back, her eyes wide and panicked.  “We’ve only got a few seconds!”

            “Shit!” Arthur shook his head with a quick jerk, trying to clear the oncoming drug-induced fog.  He turned to Slayer, who was slinging his arm violently, trying to lose the chainsaw.  “We’ve been through this before.  You’ve got to go on.”

            “No No No No!!!” Slayer shouted, still flinging his arm like a child trying to sling off  unwanted goop. 

            The first girl quickly made her way over to the big man and, stepping as close as she dared, she tried another form of persuasion.  “Raymond,” she said softly, calling Slayer by his real name.  “If you’re good today in the ring, I’ll do that thing you like when you get back.”

            “No!” Slayer shouted, and he lunged at her.  For a man of three-hundred plus pounds, wearing over a hundred pounds of metal, he could move amazingly fast.  He gave her a hard shove, sending the girl toppling backwards.

            “Bastard!” she cried out as she scrambled to her feet.  Her heart was hammering in her chest.  She was scared, but she was also aware that considering the fact his entire body was covered with blades, the big man had taken great care to shove her without injuring her.

            Arthur turned to the second girl.  “Tera, See if you can get Johnny’s attention!  Let him know he needs to stall.”

            Tera quickly climbed up a set of rungs to the side of the gate and tried to motion the Crier.  She turned back to Arthur.  “He doesn’t see me!”

            A series of boos and hisses erupted from the crowd as Slayer’s opponent entered from one of the side gates.

            “Shit!” Arthur exclaimed.  And things were going from bad to worse.  The dope he’d shot up his arm was really beginning to kick in.  The world around him was beginning to appear mushy and thick.  “Damn it, Raymond!  You’ve got to go in there!”  Raymond yelled, completely unaware that he was pointing at the row of trailer houses rather than the arena.

            Slayer, however, knew what he meant.  “No!  Don’t wanna go today!  Not going today!”

            “If you don’t go in there, no more goodies,” Arthur slurred.

            Slayer paused.  This was a catch.  One of the ways the Blood Brothers were able to keep their prize warrior in line was that the good doctor had caused him to become addicted to just about every drug under the sun.  If Slayer acted up, they just took away his goodies.  But this time, Slayer’s mind was made up.  “Nuh-uh, don’t want no goodies!  Don’t want no saw!  Don’t want to go in there!  Ain’t gonna go in there!”

            “You got to.” Arthur said slowly, his entire body now swaying.  His clouded mind searched for the right words.  He had to gather his thoughts, but they were so jumbled.  Through this fog, he managed to since enough of what was going on to become angry at himself — why couldn’t he have waited until after the show, or at least until he was sure Slayer wasn’t going to act up?

            “No! No! No! No!” Slayer cried out, once again slinging his arm in an effort to drop the chainsaw.

            “Last time, old boy,” Arthur said dreamily.  “Once more into the breach.  One more for the old Gipper.”

            “You said no more last time!  You lied!”

            The fog parted somewhat and Arthur saw his chance. “This one’s for real, though.  No baloney.  This is the last one.”

            “You’re a liar!”

            “I wouldn’t shit you, man.  You’re my favorite turd.”

            At the top of the wall, the chick called out, “Oh, hell, they’re announcing him!” 

            The crowd roared and began stomping their feet on the bleachers.

            “Look,” Arthur said, “You can go in there and kill away like a good little boy, then you’ll get your goodies and won’t ever have to do this again.  Or you’ll be in big trouble and never get to see your goodies again and you still have to do this again next week . . . and the week after than and the week after that and the . . .”

            “You promise.”  Slayer said, still sobbing and sniffling, but not throwing a tantrum anymore.  This was a good sign.

            “Oh, sure, yeah.” 

            “You said you promise last time.  You lied.”

            “Yeah, but this time I cross my heart.”  Arthur slurred, he’d say anything right now to get the big lug into the arena.

            “And hope to die?” Slayer asked.

            “And hope you die,” Arthur said in a quick yet slurred voice, changing one word in the phrase on a whim. Not that his word made any real difference on his conscience — Dr. Arthur Simmons certainly wasn’t above lying — the word was simply added in order to please his own warped sense of humor.

            Slayer didn’t notice the changed word.  It might have made a difference if he had.  However, he now fully believed that this would be his last fight, despite the fact the same promise had been made just about every other fight over the last year.  He took a deep breath, his chest hitching with sobs.  The chick he’d knocked down cautiously approached.  He solemnly held his right arm out to her and she gave the chainsaw’s cord a series of quick jerks until it buzzed to life.

            The main gate swung open and Slayer stepped out into the arena, flanked by a pair of scantily clad women.  The women were carrying small baskets filled with rose pedals, which they were tossing in his path.  A deafening cheer sounded throughout the audience, the bleachers trembled as they stomped a screamed in a frenzy. 

            Slayer’s next opponent — rather, his next victim — stood near the center of the ring.  He was armed with a simple short sword and a small buckler.  His armor nothing more than a breastplate, pot helm, and leg and forearm greaves.  The breastplate, helmet and forearm guards were made of tin, they were simply for show.  The leg greaves on the other hand were made of heavy iron.  This wasn’t for protection, though; these heavy leggings were present in order to make sure he wasn’t any faster than Slayer.  It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t be any match for Slayer, the fans were here for the gore and there would be plenty of that.

            As they drew near the center of the ring, Slayer got a better look at his opponent.  He was a tall, but thin man, with long stringy hair and a matted beard.  The scouts probably found him under some bridge and promised him a free meal if he would dress up in armor for them.  The would-be warrior was slowly leaning to one side then another, much the same way Dr Arthur had earlier.  The Blood Brothers didn’t take any chances with Slayer’s opponents.  He was drugged out of his mind.  There was no way they were going to underestimate their quarry and lose another Slayer.

            It was an underestimation that caused Raymond Owens to became the present Slayer.  All the flyers and bulletins boasted Slayer’s record of two hundred and twenty-five wins, two hundred and thirteen of them kills.  However, this was the record of all of the Slayers combined.  While the common fan wasn’t aware of it, there had been three Slayers.  When the first one died of a drug overdose three years ago, the Blood Brother’s quietly replaced him with their second best warrior — with all the armor, who could tell the difference.  This Slayer lasted for a year and a half, racking up a eighty-two wins before he met Raymond Owen in the ring.  The scouts found Raymond in a home for the mentally retarded, just outside of Natchez Mississippi.  They suited the big ole boy, handed him a sword, and told him he was putting on a show for his friends at the home and would be given a sack of chocolate afterwards.  That day, Slayer had taken a little too much pain medication and couple pints of whiskey on top of that.  But he still figured he was more than a match for any retard.  When the match began, Slayer drew first blood, a shallow but bloody gash into Raymond’s thigh with the chainsaw.  This was the only blood he would draw.  Raymond became frightened and fought like a cornered animal.  When the dust settled, the handle of his sword was protruding from Slayer’s breastplate.  In the chaos that followed, the Blood Brother’s managed to pass the death off by saying someone had stolen Slayer’s armor and had died in the ring.  Even the other bloodfest warriors were told this tall tale, although it is doubtful they believed it.  The only members of the show who knew for certain were the Blood Brothers themselves, the doctors, the scouts who found Raymond, and Raymond.  The scouts were killed for their part in the screw up, the doctors always kept their mouths shut, and Raymond was made the next Slayer.

            That was almost two years ago.  Slayer would give anything to go back to the home and be Raymond Owens again.

            The Crier held his hands splayed above his head while the crowd cheered.  He didn’t bother to speak, no one would have heard him.  Instead, he brought his hands down to his side and bowed elegantly bowed to the champion before starting toward the main gate with the two girls trailing along behind him.

            The crowd didn’t let up in the least.  The stands shuttered and appeared to be on the verge of collapsing under the strain.

            “I’m sorry,” Slayer said to the main standing across from him.

            “Huh?” the stoned man said, looking utterly confused.

            “You my last one.  I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to.”

            The man leaned forward and squinted in Slayer’s direction.  He was currently seeing three armored men, the outer two circling the one in the center.  “Last what?”  He asked the armored man in the center.

            Make it last, they always told him.  Dance around and make it look like a fight, then start with the arms.  Then the legs.  Then the gut.  Don’t go for the chest or head until the audience has had their fill.

            But not today.

            The chainsaw buzzed loudly as Slayer opened up the throttle.  He lunged forward thrusting his saw ahead of him.

            In an instant of clarity, his victim realized what was really going on.  His eyes grew wide and he screamed, but it was too late to get out of the way.  The saw ripped through his thin breastplate and continued on through his ribs.  Crimson blood sprayed in a steady mist as Slayer bore down, pressing into the poor man as hard as he could. 

            A sound not unlike demonic laughter was emitting from inside his helm, but it wasn’t laughter at all.  Raymond Owens was screaming in horror.

* * *

            There were a few scattered murmurs of displeasure throughout the crowd, but these voices of discontent were drowned out by the cheering.

            Doug and Bobby were certainly pleased with the results.

            “Yes!” Doug cried.  “That has to be a new record!”

            “He killed him in less than a minute, Daddy,” Bobby said, tugging on his father’s sleeve.

            “Sure did,” Paul said with a smile.  He was so glad he’d taken the boys to see the show.  The excited look on Bobby’s face was well worth the price of admission.

            “That was so cool!”

            “Yeah, it was.”

            “Daddy?”

            “Yes, Bobby.”

            “I want to grow up to be just like Slayer.”

            The golden aura of the moment faded in an instant.  Paul’s heart sank.  He wasn’t sure what to say.  It was one thing to enjoy watching such spectacles, but to imagine Bobby in the arena was another story.  Doug’s fascination with the arena had never fazed him — his eldest son had always been that way — but Bobby was another story.

            Not anymore, though.

            “I want to have a chainsaw and . . . bzzt . . . bzzzzt” Bobby continued while wielding an imaginary  chainsaw.

            Paul’s eyes left the face of his son.  He couldn’t bare to look at him any longer.  He turned his face to the arena and for the first time in his life he understood where man had gone wrong.

 

End.