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.

* * *

A man in a fine black tuxedo stepped through the main gate and strode toward the center of the arena. Rivulets of sweat made their way down his face from his smooth shaved scalp; aside from this involuntary reaction to the heat, the Crier gave no other signs that he was the least bit discomforted, despite the fact he wasn’t exactly wearing optimum Summer clothes. A true performer, he walked with his head held high, a smile on his face, and a sharp alertness in his eyes. As the Crier’s black wingtips made their way across the blood-soaked sand of the arena, the roar of the crowd died to an anxious murmur. After reaching the center of the area, he stopped and glanced around at the thousands of faces in the bleachers, but said nothing. The murmur died to a whisper. After spending a few seconds savoring his audience’s anticipation, he suddenly threw his head back and spread his arms wide, the grand gesture causing the sleeves on his tuxedo to wander upward, revealing a fine gold watch and a web of tatoos which, no doubt, continued up his arms and all over his body. Still, he said nothing. The silence was now complete. You could have heard a pin drop.

The Crier maintained this silent posture for about fifteen seconds, then, when the time was absolutely perfect, he spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages!" He called out in a loud, clear voice. "Welcome to the world famous Blood Brothers’ Traveling Combat Show!"

The crowd applauded and cheered enthusiastically.

"Are you enjoying yourself so far!" The Crier called out with newfound volume.

The crowd erupted in a howling roar. Anxious feet began stomping the metal bleachers. Several air horns blared to life.

The Crier lowered his arms and began turning a slow circle so he could take in the whole of his audience. He let them continue howling and stomping for several minutes, then he threw his arms out once again and the crowd slowly returned to their previous stupefied silence. He motioned to the sandy ground around him, drawing attention to several places were the loose sand had turned to a rusty brown slush from the recently spilled blood. "What you have just witnessed is a mere taste of what is to come! It’s all here! The thrills, the drama, the pain, the agony, the gore, everything that has made the Blood Brothers a household name! Yes, we’ve brought it all right here to Plainview, Texas!"

The crowd cheered.

A mock look of confusion appears on the Crier’s face. "Wait a minute! It appears I’ve forgotten something! Whatever could it be!"

A few of the onlookers had seen the show when it was in Abilene last month. Having seen this before, they began calling out the answer.

The mask of confusion gave way, altering itself to a pleased, yet wicked, grin. "Oh, that’s right! I forgot the women!"

The main gate once again swung open and out strolled a troupe of eighteen shapely women, all clad in leather thong bikinis. Catcalls erupted from the crowd as the girls made their way around the edge of the arena, swaying and bouncing as they walked. Occasionally one of the girls pulled her top down for the audience, causing a the catcalls to increase in volume and franticness. Once, one of the girls stopped, slid her bikini bottom to her knees, and mooned the audience. The roar of frenzied audience at this point didn’t even sound human.

The howling catcalls continued for several seconds after the parade of girls completed their circle and exited the arena through the same gate they entered. The Crier let this continue for some time before once again spreading his arms. This time it took a full thirty seconds for the audience to calm down.

"And for our next event I give you The Whirling Blades of Death," the Crier called out, motioning with each arm to the two warriors on opposite ends of the arena.

Distracted by the parade of flesh, the audience had hardly noticed when the two men entered the arena through the smaller side doors. Both men were tanned, well muscled, and clad only in loin cloths. The combatant to the Crier’s left wore his hair in a short red mohawk. The other combatant’s hair was slick and greasy; his body was covered in tatoos. As they made their way toward the center of the arena they pushed their awkward weapon before them, a combat-modified lawnmower.

Motioning to the mohawked man on his left, the Crier called out, "Entering the arena from the East Gate, I bring you Madman Martin."

As usual, the Whirling Blade combatants were newcomers. Aside from a few possible family members or friends traveling with the show, no one had heard of Madman Martin. Nevertheless, the crowd cheered and applauded somewhat enthusiastically.

Motioning to the tattooed man on his right, the Crier called out, "And entering the arena from the West Gate, I bring you his opponent, Razor."

The crowd cheered a little louder for Razor, not that he had any more fans in the audience than Madman Martin, his name just had a better ring to it.

The Whirling Blades of Death was one of the unique attractions at the Blood Brother’s show, and the weapon used was certainly one of the most unique in the business. The simple gas powered push mowers were altered into machines of death by lengthening the blade and removing the safety guards from the sides. The front wheels were then replaced by a long roller, making it easier for the machine to be pushed on top of an object. Spikes were also added to the top of the machine; mostly for looks but also to keep the combatants from jumping on top of their opponent’s machine. The Whirling Blades of Death was also one of the few matches that actually had rules. It was absolutely forbidden for a combatant to lift his machine from the ground. Weights were added to the mowers to help prevent cheating, but should a particularly strong combatant insist in violating the rules, he would be handled by the referee, who was situated in a tower overlooking the arena, armed with a high-powered rifle. Due to the weight of the machines, a match could easily become deadlocked if both combatants wore themselves out. For this reason, a time limit of ten minutes was set. At this point, the audience would be asked to choose the winner by the volume of their cheering. The loser would be taken care of by the referee.

"Behold," the Crier called out as the combatant approached, "two strong, healthy, well-trained warriors, prepared to battle to the death for your viewing pleasure."

When they were within ten feet of the Crier, both combatants reached for their machine’s pull cord and, with a couple swift tugs, the engines chugged to life. The two men then fastened the shackles that locked their hands to the machines.

"Ah, the sound of whirling blades and the smell of death!" the Crier said with a wide smile, then he turned and casually made his way toward the main gate.

Behind him, the two men fixed each other with a hate-filled stare.

When the Crier reached the main gate, it opened before him. However, before entering, he turned and faced the audience once more. Producing a dull black Luger from inside his coat, he aimed the pistol skyward. A shot rang out, then he turned and walked through the gate, which closed behind him.

As soon as they heard the pistol shot, the two men rushed toward each other, their machines colliding with a loud metallic crash. The crowd howled in delight. The combatants backed off and came at each other again, resulting in another loud crash. They did the same a third time, but this time, when Madman Martin tried to back off for another run, Razor followed. Madman Martin rushed by Razor’s machine, then made a run for his opponent’s exposed ankles. Razor saw the danger and leaped into the air, effectively jumping his opponent’s machine just before its blades ripped into his exposed ankles. The close call brought a gasp from the crowd, the graceful jump brought a cheer, then, when Razor followed up by thrust kicking Madman Martin in the back as he passed by, the crowd came to its feet. Razor whirled his machine around and came at his staggered opponent, who was just able to bring his own machine back around for a glancing block. A loud grinding noise and a series of sparks resulted when the whirling blades met each other. Still standing, the crowd cheered once again.

For eight action packed minutes the combatants hurled their machines at each other. Several times one or the other would come close to losing one of his feet to the whirling blades, bringing the crowd to life every time. Madman Martin seemed to tire first, but Razor wasn’t long behind. With the attacks becoming slower, it was beginning to look like the match would be decided by the audience. Then, blood was finally drawn. Sparks flew as the weary combatants passed by each other in another glancing pass, only this time Razor whirled his machine around a little faster than the last, the whirling blade catching Madman Martin on the heal of his foot as he passed by. Madman Martin dropped to his knees. The crowd roared at the sight of blood, and Razor whirled back around and closed for the kill. However, Madman Martin regained his feet and, hoping on one leg, he managed to keep his machine between him and his opponent. Four times he evaded the deadly blades.

Now Razor became frantic. He was no veteran, but he knew the game. He heard the crowd cheer every time he failed to cut down his evasive opponent. The crowd had found their underdog. If it came to a decision, the crowd would choose Madman Martin and Razor would receive a bullet inthe head. Adrenaline surged once again as Razor pushed his machine of death at his opponent. Another miss. Time was almost up, he knew it.

But on his next pass Madman Martin’s luck finally ran out. A nimble one legged jump turned to a stumble and the Madman fell to his knees. The front roller on Razor’s machine climbed over Madman’s legs. Blood arced out from under the machine and onto the sand. The grinding sound of metal meeting bone could barely be heard over Madman Martin’s scream. Razor stopped his machine when it was on top of both of Madman Martin’s legs. With the reinforced iron blade whirling at barely two inches off the ground, Razor knew his victim’s legs were completely mangled from the knee down.

Madman Martin slumped to the sandy ground, toppling his machine as he fell. The crowd went wild.

In the tower, the referee checked his watch. Time was up, but he didn’t call an end to the match. The show was always more important than the game, and he knew what the crowd was here to see.

Unable to free his hands from his machine, Razor jerked his head from side to side, grinning at the crowd. The people were on their feet, several of them giving the thumbs down sign.

The crowd began to chant.

". . . kill, kill, kill, kill . . ."

Madman Martin tried to wretch his hands from his own machine, hoping beyond all hope that he would be able to crawl to the exit, but it was no use.

Razor backed his machine up a couple of steps, then took a running start at his fallen opponent. The machine struck Madman Martin in the chest, knocking him flat before passing over his head.

* * *

Bobby Jones darted up the ramp leading to the bleachers. At the guardrail the sandy-haired twelve-year-old boy stopped and gazed out over the arena. He had arrived just in time to see two men carry what was left of Madman Martin out of the arena. In order to allow the crowd to see the grisly sight, no sheet had been placed over the mangled corpse.

A third man was carrying out Madman Martin’s machine. Bobby turned back around and saw his father, Paul Jones, walking up the ramp behind him. "Daddy, I think we missed the lawnmower fight."

From behind Paul, Bobby’s older brother, Doug, called out, "It’s not the lawnmower fight, stupid. It’s called the Whirling Blades of Death."

Bobby’s father, Paul, reached the top of the ramp, smiled and ruffled his son’s hair. "Don’t worry. There’s plenty of acts to come."

"They never use the big name warriors in the Blades of Death matches anyway," Doug added as he stepped up to the guardrail and took a long look at the arena. Doug’s girlfirend, Nina Landers, stood at his arm, glancing once at the arena, then returning her lovingly stupid gaze to Doug’s face. When Bobby’s mother had decided not to go — for some odd reason, she couldn’t stand bloodfests — Doug talked his father into letting Nina come along.

The Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show was one of the most renowned bloodfest shows in the country; the four tickets had cost Paul an arm and a leg.

Paul checked his ticket stub. Section 9, Block B, Seat 93.

Like any town with a population over two, Plainview had its own arena to support weekly games. Most of these games were older, less violent, and therefore less popular games, like football and soccer, but once a month the arena’s bleachers were filled with howling spectators as the local warriors took to the sandy field in the local bloodfest. The local games, however were nothing like this. This was the first time the town had been the host of a real, professional bloodfest. Normally the arena’s bleachers only held a little over a thousand, but the Blood Brother’s brought their own portable stands, increasing the arena’s meager capacity by almost ten fold.

A large red number 8 was painted on a piece of sheet metal above the stands. The crimson paint had been allowed to run in order to give the appearance of having been written in blood.

"This is Section 8," Paul said, "Our seats are one more section down in Section 9."

Paul started down the walkway before the bleachers, followed by Bobby, Doug, and Nina.

This was Bobby’s first trip to a real bloodfest. He’d only been to a couple of the local games, but never the real McCoy. Three months ago, when he heard the Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show was coming to town, Bobby made it his birthday wish that his father take him to a real bloodfest.

Doug, on the other hand, had been to three professional Bloodfests and never missed failed to miss the monthly local games. In fact, despite the fact he weighed only one-hundred and thirty pounds dripping wet, the majority of the sixteen-year-old’s fantasies currently revolved around his desire to one day become a bloodfest warrior. Dangerous Doug, he called himself.

After maneuvering their way through the lower part of Section 8, the Jones family plus Nina made their way up the steep steps to Block B, then they edged their way across the narrow aisle to their seats.

"Cool!" Bobby said as he glanced at seat number 94, his seat. "There’s a blood stain on my seat."

"Probably fake," Paul explained as he took his seat.

"Nuh-uh," Doug corrected as he expertly investigated the supposed bloodstain. "Not all the action at these big games happens in the arena. I’ll bet it’s real."

"It’s not going to get on my pants is it?" Bobby asked.

"No, stupid," Doug replied with a snort.

Nevertheless, Bobby tested the stain with his finger, then gingerly lowered his rump to the stained metal seat.

Bobby turned his attention to the arena just in time to see the Crier making his way from the center of the ring. "Who’s he? What’d I miss?" Bobby asked excitedly.

Paul turned to answer the question, but Doug, who was seat on the other side of Nina in Seat 96 answered first. "He’s the Crier. He announces the matches."

"Crier?" Bobby asked, sounding confused.

"He doesn’t cry, stupid," Doug snapped. "It’s just what they call him."

"Why?" Bobby asked.

Not knowing the answer, and not wanting to admit there might be a hole in his supposedly limitless knowledge of the sport, Doug simply replied, "You’re such a stupid idiot."

Nina giggled.

"We missed was the opening skirmishes and the death blades," Paul said. "He just announced the final skirmishes."

"What are skirmishes?" Bobby asked.

Once again Paul started to answer, but Doug couldn’t pass the opportunity to impress Nina with his knowledge. "Skirmishes are fights between local warriors. It’s like the rinky dink bloodfests we have here every month, except bigger. Since there’s more people watching, and more prize money, more people sign up."

"I heard Cecil Young signed up for this one," Paul said.

"Nicky’s dad’s a bloodfest warrior!?" Bobby exclaimed.

Paul laughed. "Well, I guess he is today. He has his heart set on winning enough money to buy a fishing boat."

The Young family lived only two houses down from the Jones’. The two families were very close, often having family barbecues in one backyard or the other and occasionally even taking vacation together. Paul and Cecil were best friends, as were Bobby and Nicky.

Bobby felt a pang of jealousy. If Nicky’s dad can be a bloodfest warrior, why can’t his. He turned to his father. "Why didn’t you sign up, Daddy?"

Doug also turned to his father.

Paul continued looking straight ahead. For several seconds he didn’t answer, then he finally turned to Bobby and said, "Then I couldn’t bring you to the match."

"Momma could have taken us," Bobby replied.

"You know she doesn’t like the games," Paul replied, turning back to the arena.

"Doug could’ve taken me," Bobby said. "He’s gone to the games by himself before."

"Your mother would never have allowed it."

"Then Uncle Carl could take . . ."

"Here they come," Paul interrupted, changing the subject.

Bobby and Doug turned their attention to the arena, where a blonde woman dressed only in a top hat and a thong bikini was leading a line of sixteen combatants toward the middle of the arena. Not professionals, the majority of these warriors weren’t built as well as the previous two combatants. Some strutted in, thrusting their boney or fat chests forward before them, while others, wounded from the initial skirmishes, limped along.

The rear was brought up by a man in particularly bad shape. His right forearm was broken in several places, including a nasty compound fracture at his wrist. A deep gash on his left leg, made him stumble along, half dragging his leg behind him. Two woman followed behind him, a topless brunette and a muscular redhead armed with a wicked looking serrated polearm. The man turned about and tried to return to the gate, but the redhead leveled her polearm at his chest, preventing him from proceeding. Turning back toward the center of the ring, the man made it no more than three steps before he collapsed.

Another latecomer was taking her seat behind the Jones’. Seeing the wounded man, the woman swore colorfully. "Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick. If that man won the first skirmish, I’d hate to see the loser."

"Yeah, he was getting his ass kicked and got in a lucky blow," a male voice answered. "Cut an artery in his opponent’s leg, I think."

Doug turned around. "A leg sweep?" he asked.

"Naw, just a lucky hit," the man replied.

"I don’t see his weapon. What’s he using?" Doug asked.

"He was using some sort of scythe, but I don’t see it now."

The brunette reached down and tried to help the man up, but he pushed her away. At first Bobby thought the warrior was nobly refusing assistance, then he realized the man simply didn’t want to stand.

A rumble of discontent stirred in the crowd.

The brunette tried to help the man again, but was shoved away. The other seventeen men were already at the center of the ring, waiting.

The crowd began voicing its displeasure with boos, hisses, and hurled obscenities.

The redhead changed her grip on the polearm, and brought the heavy blade’s flat side down on the prone man’s ass. The crowd boos instantly changed to laughter. She stepped over and gave the man a swift kick in the side, then she stooped down and helped the topless brunette get the man to his feet. Together, the two women, half-carried, half-dragged the man to the center of the ring.

Once the last man joined the combatants, the Crier once again stepped out of the gate and started toward the center of the arena. As before, the crowd grew quiet and anxious as he made his way across the sand.

"What’s he doing?" Bobby asked.

"He’s going to tell us about the upcoming event," Paul answered without taking his eyes from the man in black.

When the Crier was a few feet from the gathered warriors, the injured man who’d put up such a struggle surged forward. Bobby couldn’t hear his first few words, but he plainly heard the man cry out, "Oh, please! I don’t want to die!"

"Coward," Doug snarled.

Nina giggled.

The Crier cooly sidestepped the oncoming man. The blonde in the top hat, who was the closest of the girls, grabbed the errant combatant and restrained him. When the other two girls arrived they lifted the man from the sand and hauled him back to where the others were standing.

"There’s Cecil," Paul said, pointing at the knot of warriors.

Bobby had been so interested in the injured man’s plight, he had forgotten to look for his best friend’s father. There he was, dressed only in a loincloth and a headband, and armed with a pair of long curved knives. Bobby wondered briefly if those were the knives he used to cut the brisket last weekend. No, of course not, these were special knives — these were the weapons of a bloodfest warrior.

After a to build up his audience’s anticipation, the Crier called out, "I present to you the sixteen winners of Round One!"

The crowd cheered.

The Crier let the noise die down somewhat before stretching out his arms for complete silence. The audience complied. "Now The Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show gives you Round Two of the local combats! The last skirmishes before we move on to the special event!" The cryer called out, giving extra emphasis to the word special.

The blonde woman removed her top hat and approached the Crier. She dropped to her knees and dramatically held the hat out to him.

"Ah, I just love to see a woman on her knees!" The cryer called out much to the amusement of the audience. Then his face became stern and he motioned for silence. "Into this hat I will deposit sixteen cards! These cards are paired and numbered one through eight! Each warrior will draw from the hat and find the warrior who has the card that matches his own! This will be his mortal enemy! Combats One through Four will then be fought at the four corners of the arena until the winners have been decided, then Combats Five through Eight will be fought! The eight winners of this round will then move on to The Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show’s special round!"

The cards were deposited into the hat and the blonde woman made her way around the warriors and each drew a card. The injured man refused to draw so he was given the last card. The men whose cards were numbered one through four were then lead over to the separate corners of the arena. Bobby noticed Cecil remained in the middle of the arena — he must have drawn a high number. The redhead and the topless brunette lead the injured man over toward where the Jones’ were sitting.

"Aw, hell," Doug swore. "We’re going to have that pussy in front of us. I was hoping we’d get to see some real fighting."

The redhead tried to give the injured man her polearm, but he let it fall to the ground. He probably couldn’t have held the heavy weapon anyway with only one good arm. His opponent, a tall black man with a wild shock of kinky black hair seemed to be confused by his opponent’s actions. As the two women returned to the center of the ring, the black man began twirling his weapon, a short spear with a point on each end.

"I don’t want to die!" the injured man cried out. "Please, just let me go home!"

At the center of the ring, the Crier removed his pistol, pointed skyward, then called out, "Let the bloodbath begin!" He fired a shot into the air.

In the other three corners the fighting began in earnest, but the injured man made no move for his weapon. He dropped to his knees and pleaded for his life. The black man was hesitant, and the crowd sensed this, they began booing.

"Finish him!" Someone called out from a few seat below.

"Kill the bastard!" The man behind Bobby called out.

"Yeah, put the son of a bitch out of his misery!" Doug screamed.

Nina giggled.

Finally the black man brought his spear up and aimed it at the man’s heart. He turned and faced the crowd, his confused look now changed to a grin. The crowd cheered, and with one quick lunge the black man plunged his spear into the man’s chest.

"Programs! Get your programs!" A woman called out as she walked up the steps. Like most of the women working for The Blood Brother’s Traveling Combat Show she was clad in next to nothing — only a short leather skirt. Her bare breasts were enormous. Both nipples were pierced and a thin silver chain ran from one ring to the other. This chain supported a small pouch that held her programs. She had several tattoos on her body, but the most noticeable was the inscription on her belly. Above her bellybutton, the tatoo read, ask me about my special full service. Then, below her belly button it read, inquire below, with an arrow pointing down.

"Hey, Daddy. Can I get a program?"

"Sure," Paul replied. Taking a five dollar bill from his front pocket, he held it into the air and called out to the large breasted woman. "Over here!"

The woman made her way down the aisle, took the five and handed the program to Paul, who then handed it to Bobby.

Still staring at the woman, Bobby asked, "What does ‘special full service’ mean?"

The woman laughed, as did Paul, and several others who happened to overhear the question. Bobby felt his cheeks growing warm.

"You’re a little on the young side, honey," The woman replied, "I’ll tell you what, when you get those first couple of hairs between your legs, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do."

More laughter. Bobby’s cheeks were on fire. He opened the program and hid his face in it.

When he finally felt no one was staring at him, Bobby raised his head from the program. In the ring two of the other three matches were still going on, but they were across the arena and difficult for Bobby to see. He turned his attention back to the program. The first two items on the program were the Initial Skirmishes and the Whirling Blades of Death, these were the two shows the Jones’ had missed. Next was the Final Skirmishes, which was going on right now. Following this event was an event titled The Juggernaut in bold print with Special Event written in smaller letters underneath. Bobby’s eyes didn’t make it to the next event before Doug snatched the program from him.

"Hey, that’s mine!" Bobby whined.

"Well, it’s mine now," Doug said with a smile.

Nina giggled.

"Daddy, Doug took my program."

"Give it back, Doug," Paul muttered, without taking his eyes from the arena.

Doug pretended he didn’t hear and began reading. Bobby was just about to complain again when the crowd suddenly came to their feet and roared.

"Did you see that!" a man called out from behind them.

"What?" Doug asked, "What’d I miss?"

Bobby had missed it as well, but he imagined it had something to do with the corpse lying at the far end of the arena with it’s head a good ten feet away.

"What happened?" Doug asked again.

"If you’d been watching the match instead of reading my program, you wouldn’t’ve missed it," Bobby said with a smirk.

"Shut up, shithead," Doug snapped.

Now with the first four matches over, the four winners returned to the center of the arena and the remaining eight were ushered to separate corners. Cecil’s match was taking place to the right of the bleachers were the Jones’ were seated. It wasn’t the closest match to them, but it was close enough for them to watch. Cecil’s opponent wasn’t in near as bad of shape as the injured man who’d been skewered by the tall black man, but it was obvious he was seriously wounded. His left arm had been knocked out of socket in the first match and now hung limp at his side. He was also sporting a black eye and deep gash in his scalp which had caused his hair to become caked with dried blood. His weapon was quite strange, a common garden hoe with a sharpened edge. When they reached their designated location, Cecil got into a combat stance — crouched low with his knees bent, one knife pointed outward toward his opponent, the other held over his head. The other man simply stood relaxed, with the butt of his hoe resting in the sand.

"This’ll be a piece of cake," Paul said, "I’ve seen Cecil practice. He’s good."

"It looks like this dude’s going to stand there like that last dork," Doug said

The cryer’s pistol went off and Cecil stalked forward. His first advances were cautious. He moved in guarding with one knife while slashing with the other. Each time, his opponent either dodged the blow or deflected it with his weapon. Then, after a quick feint, Cecil moved forward with rapid combination, first his right blade slashed forward, finding nothing but air, then his left blade, which was deflected, then his right again. This time he managed a shallow slice across his opponent’s injured shoulder. But his opponent struck back slamming the butt of his hoe into Cecil’s side and sending him staggering back. The crowd gasped.

The man seated behind them leaned forward, "That guy’s better than he looks. The man he took out in the first round was one of the best I’ve ever seen."

Cecil came in again, using quick feint-attack-defend combinations. However, his opponent remained on guard and dodged or deflected every blow sent his way. With Cecil’s cautious fighting style and his opponent’s injuries making it difficult for either man to go on the offensive, it wasn’t long before the other three matches were over and all eyes were on these two men.

Bobby wondered if Nicky was somewhere in the audience. He imagined so. Nicky probably wouldn’t shut up for months about his father entering a professional bloodbath.

Feeling the eyes of the entire crowd upon him, Cecil moved in for another offensive. He feinted high with his right blade, then lunged forward arching his left blade low in an attempt disembowel his opponent. The blow was deflected off the wooden staff but a quick stab with his right blade found its mark on the man’s chest. The crowd cheered, thinking the wound was fatal, but this was a weak, glancing blow which was easily turned aside by the man’s ribcage. Blood was drawn, but the blow was a far cry from a mortal wound. As soon as Cecil stepped back, he came on again. He lunged forward, stabbing with both blades, but his opponent was far from helpless; he stabbed the butt of his hoe forward into Cecil’s midsection, then, in an amazing show of one-handed agility, he twirled his weapon around and brought the hoe’s blade down onto Cecil’s right shoulder, breaking his collarbone completely in two and causing blood to pour out of the gaping wound. Cecil went down hard.

The dramatic end brought the crowd to their feet. The man with the hoe, kicked Cecil’s knives away from him, then turned to the crowd.

". . . kill, kill, kill, kill . . ."

Bobby turned and glanced to his right, and was shocked to find that his father had joined in the chanting.

". . . kill, kill, kill, kill . . ."

The hoe came down in a swift arc.

The crowd cheered.

Nina giggled.

With the last of the skirmishes finished, the final eight contestants gathered at the center of the arena. A group of men in white entered, some with stretchers, some with small white handbags. The men with stretchers took care of hauling out the dead. The men with the bags were medics and doctors; they tended to the wounds of the living.

The presence of the medics wasn’t exactly a show of kindness on the part of she Blood Brothers. Their primary interest wasn’t the welfare of the warriors. They were only interested in seeing that the combatants were able to continue on to the next round. For the most part, they only distributed powerful painkillers to those in need, enabling them to forget their wounds. In most cases, bandages weren’t used — they didn’t want to stop the flow because sight of blood was part of the show. In fact, when bandages were used they were generally thin sheets which quickly became saturated and appeared as if the combatant was bleeding through his bandages.

While the men in white were tending to the injured and the dead, six more entertainers entered the arena to occupy the crowd’s attention. These men were dressed comically loud colors. Their faces were painted not unlike clowns, except, instead of bright smiling expressions, they were painted with long evil grimaces.

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

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