by Will Molinar
But the press of bodies shoved them backwards into the small room. Anders shouted and stabbed with his knives, but the batons of the police and their disciplined use of force knocked aside most of his stabs. He cut a few hands and arms, but the three of them were outnumbered and overwhelmed in short order.
Muldor put his arms up to protect his face, but they changed tactics and knocked his legs out from under him. He went down to the floor to be pummeled and kicked and knocked almost senseless. In moments they had his arms behind his back and were putting irons around his wrists. Blood dripped from face and scalp. It was over. He was caught.
* * * * *
The crowd was ready.
The expectation of Thruck’s return had them in a frenzy. Posters, signs, and talk circulated among the motley crowd. The news spread faster than the riots had. The city of Murder Haven needed something to cheer about. Morale was low, and as far as most citizens were concerned, ogre ripping men limb from limb was better than watching a conquering army return from a successful campaign in war. There was nothing better than pure, unadulterated violence to boost spirits.
The bleachers filled to capacity two hours before the first match. Thruck was an overwhelming favorite. The organizers had anticipated that, but they needed to fix the betting, so the over flow would work well with the other matches for the evening. They needed to off-set the heavy slant in Thruck’s favor, and it also gave Desmond and Derek more time to sell liquor. Something the two partners were very happy to do. They seemed pleased about the entire situation, and there was a pure, genuine energy to the arena that hadn’t been seen in some time.
Jerrod and the toughs worked crowd control, a somewhat demeaning job in his mind, but his crew were the best there was at handling people. They would earn their money that night for certain. The crowd was incensed, shouting, clapping, and whistling the matches that hadn’t even begun.
Zandor had met with him earlier, telling him how it would all play out. “Now, take it easy on people tonight. We need the richer crowd to buy into this new arena thing. Their coin is more important than the slags that come here every night and put down pennies. The environment should reflect that. Understand?”
Jerrod had told him to go fuck himself, but in truth the kernel that things were changing, including his potential behavior, was foremost in his mind.
Later, Jerrod stood with arms crossed, his stance wide, scanning the crowd of pigs with glaring eyes. This position afforded him a good view of the new layout. The arena floor was a stage set up higher than the original floor had been. The bleachers spilled over with people behind him while more spectators lined up in a long line between him and the stage. It was special seating, for which they paid more.
A group of annoying men stood several feet in front of him, merchants by the look of their rich velvet attire with plenty of rings and other gaudy jewelry that made them look like a bunch of sissies. They smoked, drank, and laughed to each other about some stupid shit they found amusing.
The merchants blocked the walkway for anyone trying to pass by to their seats, but they didn’t seem to notice. People had to squeeze by these men, and the merchants wouldn’t move an inch even if asked.
Jerrod sent one of his toughs earlier to speak with the men and tell them to stay out of the way, and they had complied, but there they were at it again. His annoyance grew as the men laughed and spilled their drinks. One of them bumped into another spectator that was trying to pass by. The merchant didn’t apologize even when the other protested, and in fact, kept laughing and spilling the contents of his mug on the floor. Slob.
Jerrod hoped the slighted man would stop and give him some trouble, but the measly looking man chickened out and walked by. Sissy. Jerrod frowned and called over one of the toughs and tugged him closer by the collar.
“Go tell those little fucks they need to move back and get the hell out of the way. They don’t own this place. We do.”
The tough nodded and walked over. After a short exchange, the merchants looked at him askance. They turned away and ignored him as if nothing had happened. The tough continued to speak with them, but they wouldn’t listen. He turned to Jerrod and shrugged.
People were always so damn intimidated by merchants in this town. They owned too much. Jerrod would have to speak to Marko about that particular tough and get him straightened out. He needed to learn not to take no for an answer. In the meantime, Jerrod needed to show these men who was in charge this evening. They sure as hell weren’t.
He shoved his way through the crowd and stepped up to the group. His presence was hard not to notice, and they stepped back and eyed him with disdain.
“Can I help you?” one them said, smoking a large cigar.
Jerrod pointed at him. “You need to move your ass and get the hell outta the way. We’re trying to run a business here.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Oh really? Run it then.”
A few people tried to get by their position, and Jerrod had to step back to let them pass. It irked him to be controlled by someone else’s whim.
“I’m not telling you again, pal. Get outta the way. It’s crowded in here.”
“So what?”
Another one of the merchants frowned and spoke to Jerrod as if he were a child of simple intelligence. “Look here. Let me explain something to you. We paid extra coin to get a closer view of the arena floor. The bleachers are crowded, and we prefer to stand here away from the crowd.”
Jerrod took a deep breath and ground his teeth. “I don’t give a rat’s ass where you prefer to be standing, bub. I’m tellin’ ya to move.”
They looked down their noses at him, and he resisted the urge to shove those proboscises down their throats. They made no indication to do as instructed. The first man who had spoken smiled and batted his eyes at him.
“Why don’t you run along now, hmmm? We are busy discussing what Thruck will be wearing for his first match.”
Jerrod shifted his weight and made a fist as they turned away from him. What Zandor said about going easy on people that night flashed in his thoughts… so much depended on how the people responded to the opening night with Thruck. They needed to turn a profit fast. The toughs needed to be paid, Jerrod needed to stock up for his retirement, and these assholes were part of that plan according to Zandor. Jerrod gritted his teeth and looked around for a spot that might work better. There was one.
“Look, fellas,” he said to the merchants. “You don’t like the bleachers, fine. But we need to keep this area clear. How ‘bout we put you here?”
A few of the toughs cleared away a section of floor off to the side of the raised platform. It was covered with loose boards and other crap the engineers hadn’t finished clearing away.
The merchants looked nonchalant, and once the space was cleared of debris, they looked more impressed.
“See, that way you gentlemen have a clear view of the action and everybody’s happy. How’s that?”
Jerrod couldn’t believe what he was saying, but there it was tumbling out of his mouth like a flood of sycophantic mutterings from a simpleton. It worked, though. The merchants agreed. One of them went so far as to thank Jerrod for his effort, but the large man had already turned away in disgust at himself, for fear that he might’ve changed his mind and beat them all to hell.
The crowd grew. It wasn’t possible so many people could fit in one area. Jerrod felt claustrophobic surrounded by so many idiots. The merchants’ point had become moot, for there was no room for anyone to move since all available space was taken up by spectators. He and the toughs had to form a line all the way around the fighting space. They had to almost link hands to get people back and away.
“We should bring more men, next time, sir,” Marko said next to him, and Jerrod wanted to smack him. “I’ll form up another group of toughs, with your permission of course.”
Within Jerrod’s mind swirled visions of twisting Zandor’s neck until his head popped off. It would’ve been easy. He was
so skinny a girl could wear his pants. This was his fault.
People fussed about behind them, trying to put in closer to the arena stage which was pointless. The toughs were strong men, bar room brawlers and street savvy youngsters that could hold their own in most cases, but the sheer magnitude and physical press of bodies around them was considerable. Jerrod wondered if it were all worth it, considering the situation. There had to be a better way to make money.
There was a potential riot all around them. The past several weeks’ frustration and anger were all strung together with alcohol and a shared mentality between people of like mind and station.
It chilled Jerrod’s blood. Even his murderous nature was taken aback by the sheer hatred and anger brewing around them. He would take the brunt of the pressure from the crowd. Perhaps that was why Zandor picked them.
Jerrod wasn’t so much of a fool to not see he was being used. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have mattered as long as they were being paid, but thus far in this enterprise, there hadn’t been much coin. Zandor kept saying it was coming, but that remained to be seen.
The crowd chanted for Thruck and stomped the ground. Jerrod wondered how well built this lopsided, strange looking structure really was. It might’ve collapsed on them someday, crushing them all under the thousands of boards and nails. That would’ve taught these fools.
As long as he was outside when it happened, to hell with the rest. They could’ve all burned. In fact, Jerrod had his flint on him. This place was ripe for a few sparks.
A man came out of the crowd, shoving people out of the way and came up to Jerrod. He was the head of the normal security force for the arena, named Stirling. He was almost as big as Jerrod but fatter. The slob made a motion with his hand for Jerrod to listen. Jerrod kept his arms crossed and leaned forward.
“We’re all strung out across,” Stirling said. He had to shout over the crowd’s chanting and screaming, and it hurt Jerrod’s ears. “…every man I could. It’s your job to keep them from getting to the stage. Got it?”
“I know my job. You go and do yours.”
Jerrod turned away and Stirling frowned, about to say something else but was wise enough not to push it.
People shoved his back, bumping their elbows and knees with their clumsy movements, spilling ale and stale wine on his shirt. The crowd made bets all the while screaming for Thruck to return.
It was past time to begin. Jerrod thought they might be setting things up to lay off additional betting rules. Maybe the influx of coin was too much to handle. That was a pleasant thought. They had the bean counters in a huff over the huge pile of coin.
The crowd threw things on the arena floor from as far back as the top row of the bleachers, which was the near the ceiling. Security tried to placate them, telling them the matches were set to begin soon, but nobody listened. They shouted and chanted, for the fighter they all wanted to see.
“Thruck! Thruck! Thruck!”
Jerrod grimaced and covered his ears. His head pounded. The night hadn’t even started yet, damn it. At the moment the entire complex seemed about to collapse under the weight of boiling frustration of all those present. Two arena fighters stepped down long ramps from the top of the far wall, each one on a separate ramp from the opposite corner. It was majestic and awe inspiring for anyone not experienced with engineering or architecture.
Most of the crowd that night fit that description, and they roared their approval. Jerrod smirked. Zandor made that little change happen. It fit. It allowed the fighters to arrive in style and stay out of the madness from the floor.
The fighters wore minimal armor, only a shoulder harness made from stacked plates strapped around their chests, shin pads, and gauntlets. They both wore helmets. Their bodies glistened with sweat as if they had practices backstage and held their weapons tight in their hands.
They reached the stage, waving to the crowd and raised their weapons up. One had shield and short sword; the other a huge meat cleaver and a spiked shield. The crowd roared its approval, and even Jerrod had to smile. The fighting pit was back.
The fighter with the meat cleaver was obese, covered in sweat and hair. He should of had two cleavers. It fit his style better. The man showed no concern for defense whatsoever. He charged ahead, his goal to maim and intimidate and destroy. Jerrod respected that.
His opponent was smaller, very conditioned with clean sharp lines on his physique, tan, and muscled like an athlete. He carried his shield high and his short sword out to the side for stabbing and blocking.
Both were very necessary since the meat cleaver chopped over and over at his skull. He dodged and rolled away with scant inches to spare. If his strategy was the push the larger man to fatigue, it was a huge risk. One single cut from the nasty instrument, and that was the end.
The man with the cleaver never stopped striking. Jerrod couldn’t remember his name but knew he knew it. Cleaver tossed his shield at his opponent, but the agile man sprang away and even managed to score a hit on the heavier man’s prodigious mid-section.
The fat man didn’t seem to notice the superficial injury. He chased the other man with blood dripping down his belly. His longer reach almost took the other man’s arm off. The quicker fighter had a slight angle on the fat man and swept a clump of debris the crowd had thrown down earlier and hit the cleaver fighter in the face.
For the first time, the fat man showed signs of slowing and didn’t even try to block the sludge heading his way. He took the full force of it to the chin. The smaller man took advantage of the momentary lull and stabbed two quick strikes at his chest and abdomen, scoring a hit when the cleaver fighter turned away, hitting his shoulder hard.
Fat man bellowed and came on, chopping as if he were attacking a felled tree. The crowd was pleased, stomping their feet again at the intensity of the contest and skill of the opponents. Cleaver man bled from two moderate wounds. His face looked pained; his breathing came in huge gasps, and though he kept attacking, it was slower, more ponderous. The crowd sensed a victory from the faster, more attractive man. He was indeed resplendent in his glistening armor and athletic impressive body.
Jerrod knew the man was popular but also knew The Cleaver wasn’t finished. He looked clumsy at the moment and staggered across the arena floor with tenacity and sure strokes of his mighty cleaver. His chest heaved, but the attacks were no less lethal.
Despite this obvious danger, the smaller man was cocky. He smiled under his helmet, and the crowd responded when he raised his weapon and pumped his arm. Too soon, fella, for The Cleaver was a tough, old bastard.
The muscular man repeated his stab forward, jump out, stab forward, jump out routine again and again, hoping to catch the slower man in a bad position. The Cleaver kept his weapon up and blocked, but it was a sore instrument for that action.
The muscular fighter kept at it and made a common mistake younger fighter did often. The crowd made him think he was invincible.
They cheered so loud when he moved. He made the bigger man look slow and clumsy. Anyone might’ve believed The Cleaver to be a doomed man. The odds were in the more experienced man’s favor, but most of these fools wouldn’t know that. They betted on who they thought would win, and the tale of the tape had the younger, more vigorous man look stronger. On paper.
That was another advantage Zandor had built into the new look of the arena. People who had never been to a fight before didn’t understand who was really good and who wasn’t. The regular attendees would have the advantages in the betting pools for at least a few weeks.
The faster fighter got too close, and The Cleaver smashed his face with a quick head butt. The foolish man shook his head, blood flying from his broken nose. That would teach him caution. From that moment on, he circled around, looking for an opening.
Both men were hurt now, and adrenaline only went so far to battle mounting injuries. The Cleaver was slow to follow. His arms dropped, his chest heaved with effort, trying to get enough air into his strainin
g lungs. The left shoulder looked bad, and while the stomach cut was superficial, it still bled, leeching his strength bit by bit.
The crowd bellowed for broken nose to finish it, but he kept his distance. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as Jerrod thought.
The Cleaver staggered and clutched at his belly where blood slipped through his fingers. His breath became more labored, his steps clumsy. People yelled directions.
“Take him out, Joyce! Give it to him good!”
“C’mon! Do it!”
“Take him down now!”
Broken nosed Joyce was influenced by the crowd, too young and inexperienced to know any better. He responded to their constant jibs to finish the contest that instant. He gave a sharp cry of victory and charged forward.
The Cleaver rolled toward him, a surprising move of agility from a heavy, injured man. Joyce hopped over the rolling man, high enough to get his body over his foe’s opponent, but not high enough to get away from an outstretched arm. The Cleaver latched on to Joyce’s ankle and held tight, arresting his momentum. Then he wrestled the smaller man to the ground where his short sword counted for nothing. The Cleaver abandoned his namesake and drew his opponent closer to his thick, sweaty body.
Joyce could do little to resist. He kicked and scrambled trying to leverage himself out from under, but the sheer mass was too much. The moron wouldn’t let go of his sword, and that was a huge mistake in Jerrod’s mind. There was no way to get the blade underneath Cleaver’s body enough to get a good angle for stabbing, and any minor wound wouldn’t stop him now. He held on with a stubborn refusal and paid for it.
Cleaver laid on his side, pinning that sword arm to the ground and managing to get most of his weight in the right place. With both arms free, Cleaver pounded his fists into Joyce’s face, and with only one hand to defend, the doomed man was in a sore spot. His face and head turned purple and red. Blood gushed from his nose, and cuts opened on his forehead. His cheeks went puffy.