When people finally drifted away, he moved all of his gifts to the locker room and made a grand meal for himself at the counter. Someone walked by the open door and said to a friend, “Nemesis is going to kick his ass!” Ink thought nope. Thor was going to kick that stupid prosthetic zombie’s ass and if not, Ink was still going down as the manager of the craziest zombie to ever set foot in the ring.
Wanting to make sure security was nearby, Ink stepped out to look. Two guards were in view and the aisle was fairly empty otherwise. He peeked into the stall, where Thor stared at the lights with no idea of how incredible he was. The whirling! He wouldn’t be able to repeat that stunt with his three competitors in the brawl. Nemesis was built, and built smart. The Greek woman had a good vet, so the zombie wasn’t so overloaded on muscles that it slowed him down. Dionysus was taller and heavier than Thor, also built well, and Volcanus was shorter but had to weigh over two hundred pounds.
“So no more airplane game for you,” Ink said to Thor, and retreated in comfort to the locker room. If Thor pulled through the brawl and lived to fight another day . . . as soon as Ink got home, he was going to pull up a schedule of zombie shows for the next three years and plot out a strategy. That was how he would celebrate this. And forget Vasilov’s fucking champion months down the road! Ink had a champion right there in the stall, and he’d spent four times as much on a lousy movie ticket as he had on Thor.
He wasn’t going to leave his zombie undefended to go up to the stadium. Pulling up the live stream on his phone, he stayed in the stables and watched the elderly costume show and melee. They weren’t dressed up as finely as the children had been. All of them were standing in the ring dressed in golf pants and flowered nightgowns, some with their hands wrapped around walkers and others with canes and ear trumpets. One of the men had been squeezed into a sexy little cocktail dress, and puffs of his white chest hair came over the top. The audience was laughing and shrieking at that. The view changed to show a woman in a wheelchair, a blanket tucked up to her neck. Another was a cat lady, her dowdy sweater and shirt covered in pictures of cats fighting balls of yarn. Stuffed cats were strapped to her arms and trailed behind her on strings. The audience liked that one too, but the man in the cocktail dress was the favorite.
And there was Ink’s old Priapus! The boys that rented him had dressed him up well. Suspenders held his pants up ridiculously high, and STILL SEXY was written on the back pockets. The audience chortled in amusement at that. There was nothing less sexy than Priapus.
The lights were doused, the one that Dog of Tartarus had taken out replaced, and it fell into pandemonium as always. The woman in the wheelchair almost levitated out of it, the blanket falling away to reveal a skintight superhero outfit on her chunky form. People stood up in the stands and cheered for her. Ink watched and laughed in the quiet aisle, Nadia having vanished again to regions unknown. If Cantine’s blonde belonged to Ink, he would know where she was. He would care. And she had to be up there in the clubroom even now, hearing about Thor and his manager, wondering about him like Ink wondered about her. They were going to collide tonight at the post-party, and sparks would fly.
Tomorrow he would get comfortable on the sofa and plan Thor’s future. Ink also had to plan his own. He was going to look up a divorce lawyer, hide his assets, do whatever he could to maintain his stables and get rid of Nadia once and for all. He might be on the brink of a meteoric rise, and dear Zombie Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to pull his feckless wife along with him. Because she would fuck this up for him some way, somehow! She would fuck it up because that was what she did. She was a liability, and Ink had never accepted liabilities on his career. He never wanted her to have the power to embarrass him again, having Vasilov overhear her say that they were going to skip the post-party where connections and friendships and destinies were made.
The elderly melee ended with someone sticking the tube of an ear trumpet up an opponent’s ass, and yet another load of protestors getting pulled off the top of the wall and carted away. Their T-shirts read YOUR MOTHER and YOUR FATHER and THIS COULD BE YOUR GRAMMA AND GRANDPA.
But they weren’t anyone’s parents or grandparents now. They were just creatures with one use. Another T-shirt called out the sponsor, and six more T-shirts asked how the companies advertising the Games could support hate. SHAME ON YOU, SWEET TREATS. DON’T EAT AT DELFINI’S – SANDWICHES MADE WITH A SIDE OF CRUELTY. Ink just rolled his eyes as all of them were hauled away. Nothing could make a dent in his glee, and certainly not inconsequential people with too much money and time.
Priapus had been killed and that was fine. It spared Ink the expense of the knacker. He saluted the body carried out on a stretcher. One of the protestors leaped into the ring to escape the clutches of security. He knelt beside the wounded superhero woman and put out his hand in comfort, but she ignored it to look at the lights. Then stadium organizers got hold of the fellow and dragged him into a funnel after Priapus’ corpse.
Had Sofia watched the elderly melee? Ink didn’t want to lose a friend over this, torpedo a connection on one match alone. Since a guard was still standing in the aisle and the late Ares’ stall was only two rows away, Ink went over there to see if she was around. He’d offer his hand, express his apologies over Ares, tell her that he knew she was going to get an even better zombie. Once Ink was standing on the summit, he’d lean down and help her up to it as well. Then they could sit in the clubroom together, drinking something cold from the bar, and bitch through the children’s melee as they always had. But she had to do it a little more quietly than she did in the stands.
The food and water troughs were empty in Ares’ stall, and all of the hay had been swept out. Ink knocked on the locker door and then opened it to a bare room. A woman across the aisle called, “She left.”
Closing the door, Ink said, “She did? When?”
“Last night. One of her kids is having some health issue and she had to take off. Or maybe it was a grandkid. She was out of here so fast, not even an hour after Ares’ match. Hey, could I get your autograph? My son is watching at home and he called me almost screaming about Thor.”
“Of course!” Ink waited as the woman went into her locker room for a paper and a pen. Sofia had left because of Ares, and Ink was disappointed. Real kids were good for one thing though: he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that there wasn’t an element of truth to the claim. But this was for the better, Sofia being gone. It was too early for him to make peace, far too early. If a reporter asked about the first match, Ink would talk up a storm about how great Ares had been, and how Ink had always been his biggest fan. Hopefully that would be included on a quick blurb on television or in the newspaper, and Sofia would read it. And it was every word the truth. Ares had been great.
But Thor had been greater.
Thor was a damn genius in that zombie form. The woman came out and Ink took the pen and paper. After scribbling his name and putting Thor’s after it, he gave it over and said politely, “Is that stall yours?” There were sheets over it.
“Oh, no, that one is mine.” The woman pointed to the stall on the other side of the locker room, where a zombie female was resting in the hay. “The hidden one belongs to Nemesis. I’ve never seen so much henna in my life! He’s covered in it.”
“I thought those were tattoos,” Ink said.
“No, it’s black henna. I asked. That woman covered every damn inch of him that isn’t covered in prosthetics. I asked how much she paid and she said that she and her family did it all themselves over the last few days. It’s beautiful, but fuck.” She meant the time that it had to have taken, to which Ink agreed. Fuck, he’d never spend hours and hours putting henna on his fighters, or hire people to do it with him. It was good to have a look that distinguished yours from the rest, but within reason.
Ink returned to his aisle and hung out there, feeling good. People said hello as they went through, and paused to admire Thor. Jackie hadn’t found a single ding on him from the second ma
tch. Now there was another woman that Ink didn’t mind riding on his good fortune to the top. She was his team at the stables.
Back on his phone, he watched the women’s brawl. The girl with the Maenad T-shirt was rooting for the right one of the five. Nothing had ever stopped Maenad before, and nothing was stopping her today. She was like the postal service through wind and rain and snow and heat. Except the postal service didn’t deliver on Sundays, and Maenad was delivering this Sunday. One after another, she landed her opponents to the ground. Ink didn’t catch the name of the person being interviewed afterwards, but he stated that due to her injuries received earlier, and some of her clumsier moves in the brawl, the manager going to Hawaii was going to be one who had a man in the ring.
Clumsy or not, Maenad was a freakish force of nature. The Old Guard had lost Poseidon and seen Hades’ defeat, but Maenad was holding strong. When the lights went on, she was the only one left standing. The crowd went wild for her, and the camera showed a shot of Cantine beaming on a chair in the managers’ box. Poseidon’s death had to smart, but Maenad had saved the day. The ring was cleaned of the bodies and blood, and she was led away to thunderous applause.
It was almost time for the men’s brawl. Another dealer oozed up to the stall as Ink was tending Thor. Before she could say a word, Ink said, “Not interested in selling.”
“I was going to ask if you’re interested in buying,” the woman said. “I have a very high profile fighter who has just been released to the market.”
“High profile? What’s his name?”
She didn’t want to say, and he wasn’t going to commit to even being interested until he had it. They danced around the issue until he gleaned the fighter in question could be Son of Zeus. The dealer mentioned that the wife was forcing the manager to offload him, and that jived with what Ink knew of Son of Zeus’ manager and his wife. The wife would have exploded to see her husband cheat. She had all the sense that he didn’t, and dumping Son of Zeus fast was the only way to salvage some of their reputation. People would forget what had happened if they weren’t constantly reminded of the light incident, and the same manager trotting Son of Zeus around to competitions was going to remind them all the time. The best thing to do was sell him, change his name and his look, and take it from there.
Ink wasn’t interested in purchasing Son of Zeus even at a low price. God, Ink wouldn’t have been interested if the zombie had been free to a good home. He took the dealer’s card to be nice, but she knew that she wasn’t going to make a sale. She would do better to approach newer managers to the scene, ones who didn’t know any better and weren’t savvy enough to suspect Son of Zeus could be nearsighted.
As he was walking Thor to the funnel for the men’s brawl, nerves getting the better of him, Nadia caught up with a smile full of gaiety. “Guess what?”
You want a divorce and no alimony, Ink thought hopefully. You’re running away with another man. “What?”
“They’re putting a podium in the clubroom for the post-party! For Scrapper! I ran into the sponsor in the atrium and I asked for one to be placed in there and he said that he’d be happy to-”
Ink had never, ever hit his wife, and that was a point of pride to him. Hitting a woman was a sign of low class and poor breeding, an inability to be the master of one’s temper despite the worst provocation. A real man just walked away when he felt like he was losing control. But this was another moment in which he was richly tempted to hit her. The podiums around the periphery of the clubroom at the post-party were for the champions, the real champions of the event. The survivors of the men’s and women’s brawls in both the 20-35 and the 36-50 age groups stood in those places of honor, as did zombies who did very well in the armed combat competitions. Not a child! Not a geezer! And she had asked the sponsor? Unless a manager was in that clubroom as a permanent member, he or she just shook the sponsor’s hand at any show and said thank you with deep respect. If that sponsor wanted to converse, then the manager conversed. But the sponsor led the conversation, not a lowly manager, and even less his wife.
Oblivious to his rage and embarrassment, Nadia nattered on. “So I’m going to run to the store now to get him a new costume and don’t look at me like that! The only one in driving distance with costumes is a Save Big so it’ll be cheap, but I have to go this instant in order to be back in time-” She was already walking away, the keys jingling in her hand.
They would encircle the room, the heroes of the Games in Maenad, Dionysus, Calliope, Thor, Volcanus, Wrath of Neptune, Athena, Nemesis . . . the muscles on display, the injuries endured, all of them head and shoulders above everyone in the room . . . and Scrapper. Having overheard them, the youthful stadium organizer stationed at the funnel said, “Who’s Scrapper?”
Exactly, kid. Exactly.
They walked Thor down the funnel and Ink left him in the organizer’s hands to report to the managers’ box. The Greek woman, Constanzo, and Volcanus’ manager were already there. The fifth chair for the manager of Cauldron of Fire had been whisked away. Ink stood before the last seat and waved to the crowds as the announcer introduced all of them while their zombies were walked to the marks. Then he sat down beside Adra-something. Even the announcer had stumbled over her ridiculous name.
The brawl was two newbies against two old-timers, which had to be a first for the Games. Up in the clubroom, every seat was taken. The blonde was behind Cantine once more, his withered hand tucked into her smooth one. Then a giant banner unfurled right over the clubroom’s big windows and Ink groaned along with everyone else in the stadium. FREE YOUR ZOMBIES FROM BONDAGE: WE ARE ALL ONE FAMILY. The protestors had gone too far this time! People shouted angrily at the idiots standing on the clubroom roof, spelling out ZR = HR for zombie rights equaled human rights. The one-minute countdown to the brawl halted on the screens at fifty seconds for another passel of fools to be marched away and the banner taken down.
They sat and sweated in the managers’ box under the afternoon sun for half an hour. Volcanus’ manager wrung his hands nervously the whole time. Ink had to remind himself with his phone of the guy’s name, because Volcanus had changed managers several times in his career and never through any fault of his own. Bankruptcies and family chaos just followed wherever that zombie went, leading to silly rumors that he was cursed. So this latest one was Randy Kamen, and he had had Volcanus for six months now. Kamen had managed two zombies of far lesser note before. This was his first true champion, which was probably why he looked so nervous. Ink skimmed the notes on the man. He should know the manager, however briefly he served in the role, of a brawl-qualifying zombie.
Vasilov sent him a text. Put down the phone, my boy. You have been shown on the television in here looking distracted.
The man was the father that Ink had never had. He closed up his phone right away and slid it into his pocket. Even though nothing was happening in the ring, he watched it attentively. As the last clips were removed and the banner rippled down into the waiting hands of security, the clubroom reappearing and everyone inside blinking at the sudden sunlight, he said to Adra-something, “I hope that’s the last of it. They’ve been worse than ever.” The memory of the flying red paint onto his suit and Gore Fest was going to goad him until he was on his deathbed.
“We are all passionate to the point of madness about what we believe in,” said the Greek/not-Greek mannish woman, never once looking away from the ring. She had no accent, so her fancy name was likely an affectation of her own design to make herself seem more exotic. Ink amused himself in guessing her real name, which was no doubt as plain as Jennifer Williams or Hannah Jordan. Emma Smith. Mary Jones. This was how she stood out, a dressed-up name for herself, and tons of black henna and facial prosthetics for her zombie fighter.
But yes, Ink was passionate to the point of madness. He liked how that sounded. He loved this sport with every fiber of his being. What was football to this? What was baseball or basketball or golf? Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. That was play. This w
as real.
The banner was folded up into a heap and lugged out. This had to be the last of the protestors. The event was nearly over. But they would be out there on the sidewalk again when he drove off after the post-party, yawning in the darkness as they chanted, throwing eggs and waving their signs. He was going to keep his windows closed and turn up the music, forget they even existed.
The post-party was going to be brilliant. He could walk in there with his head held high no matter how badly Thor lost in the brawl. Both of them had done well, and far exceeded Ink’s wildest dreams.
The countdown resumed on the jumbo screens. The stadium was almost as full as it had been for the men’s melee. And look at that! As he moved his binoculars around, he came across people waving THOR signs. The signs for Dionysus and Volcanus outnumbered them, yet a small but respectable bunch was rooting for Ink’s zombie. The Greek woman and Nemesis had supporters, too.
“So, what got you into the business?” Ink asked as the countdown hit thirty-seven.
“That zombie,” the Greek woman said, motioning to Nemesis and still not looking over to Ink. “I had had no interest until then.” She didn’t return the question, which was annoying. A new manager should have been pleased that a far more experienced one was showing interest, met him eye to eye and smiled. But not every zombie was cut out for the fighting ring, and not every person was cut out to be a manager. Matthias West was going places and Our Lady of Affectations was not.
Everyone yelled out the last ten digits and the lights turned dark. Then it got interesting.
Nemesis and Thor stayed upon their marks to share one long look, and then they raced away for the others. The announcer said, “Looks like those two are saving each other for last!”
Zombie Tales Box Set [Books 1-5] Page 58