As most of these events turn out, both men tried to kill the other, but of course, one always prevails. Of course, Butch prevailed. Butch prevailed Reinhardt Abe to death, in fact. It was quick, albeit brutal and senseless. Perhaps another crowd might feel somewhat obliged to take matters into their own hands and apprehend such a murderous chap, but this crowd was enthralled and beside themselves with fervor. The savagery erupting around me was a tad bit unnerving.
Yes, this was Bowery Butch Fandango, not quite man, not good enough to be considered beast. I can’t say that I liked or respected this man, but I can certainly say that I feared him. He would give The Strongman a good challenge, but I didn’t see the fight in Butch’s favour.
21
The two behemoths, Bowery Butch and The Strongman, were let into the brawling square by ring attendants, a couple of oafish blokes. One chomped down on a cigar in the corner of his mouth. The other was missing an eye; no eye-patch, fairly free with his missing ocular. They unlocked and unlatched the doors on opposite sides of the square and allowed the men to enter. Two walls of iron work (probably sponsored by IronWorks, no less) and two walls absent, leading straight below to the metro street.
A barker in the back belted out, “Two men have entered, cage is locked, all bets are final!” He stood atop a raised platform above the crowd as he waved them away with fists clenched with coins and betting stubs.
The vaulted ceiling allowed levels of seating all around the cage, but most men crowded around the floor when the fights began. They stood on top of each other, suffocating and cheering all at the same moment. I remember it being simply uncomfortable. It wasn’t the place for someone with a fear of confinement or crowds. Or a fear of heights, for that matter, I do suppose.
I sat back with Em and her group where we observed the action from a private booth. It gave us a grand view of the bout area, as well as a splendid view of the metro sprawled forth. Airshipss sputtered by slowly outside, odd to see even knowing how far up we were. One airship in particular flooded light across the crowd with their high-intensity reflector, a system of lamps and lenses and a large mirror to reflect the light. They could swivel the beam in almost any which direction. The blinding light flashed over the crowd back and forth. It was a Metro Sentry Airship, most likely looking for men of distinct interest among the crowd. Men with warrants. Men on the lam. The airship was a blue deep enough to seem black; it could easily become lost against the night sky.
As the light came upon us, the group, including myself, but excluding Mother Moth, winced at the sheer power it. Mother Moth, she just stared straight ahead into the burning brilliance and warmth. And upon recognition, the light swiveled away from us, went out, and the airship slowly rose upwards and out of sight. With that, the crowd roared and Em took her seat.
“Impressive,” I smiled to her.
She merely smirked back, “And that’s what I can do with just a single look. It’s pathetic to think what these sentry guards are made of. Corruptible like the rest. Greedy like the rest. Power hungry like the rest. Afraid like the rest.”
She was certainly right and there was no arguing with her. Metro Sentry were well known for their criminal antics. For every constable of the law whom does their job proficiently and without deviation from their sworn oath, there are at least two constables of the law acting rather naughty and outside of the law.
The brawlers in the fighting square stretched and readied themselves to be bloodied by the other. The Strongman cracked his knuckles, his elbows, he stretched out his shoulders and relieved the tension in his back. For as big as he was, he was quite the limber fellow. The lad was scarred, not badly, but noticeably. He held a vacant stare, looking off, away from his opponent and ignoring the crowd.
Butch rolled his head from side to side as he paced back and forth. He paced like a distraught animal. The serene, dull nature that lulled across The Strongman’s face stood in stark contrast to the near-hyperventilating mad-man muttering to himself anxiously.
It was an odd bit of performance, I thought, watching people brawl. Aside from the gambling aspect, I understood the draw, these men were athletes in a sense, as well as freakishly large. There were bouts previous in which the men were no larger than your average man. These crowds loved watching two men pummel each other into sacks of bloody mashed messes of flesh filled with broken bones and shattered teeth. And it wasn’t just the men. The women had their equally, if not brutally worse, brawls.
I don’t quite understand the draw of operatic theatrical performances or dancing, either, I do suppose. At least here I could enjoy a nice pipe of seavenly. I’m sure I could enjoy getting away with a lot of things here. It seemed an entirely rowdy and raucous audience. Even those reserved members of the gilded and upper classes seemed to get caught up in the fervor.
The gentleman’s voice boomed from the back as he barked out once again, “Bets are in, bets are final, at the sound of the bell, it’s time for hell!” And the crowd roared and rushed the brawling cage, throwing rubbish and curses upon the fighters. For whatever praise either man received, they were spit on tenfold. The crowd was a garden of grubby mitts raised in the air, clenching their gambling stubs in their fists.
The bell sounded and the men slowly began circling each other. As The Strongman had his back to the absent wall/the open metro, Butch gave a push trying to force him out. The Strongman pushed back and gave Butch a good smack across his face. The Bowery Man turned a shade of red beyond purple and lunged for The Strongman in a fit of rage. The Strongman deflected and blocked as much of the attack as he could before pushing Butch away from him.
“The Strongman was offered a bribe by Huppard to lose,” Em said into my ear.
“And I’m sure he promptly reported this to BureauWorks’ Ministry of Gaming?” I said dryly and rather sarcastically, and she flashed me a smile in return.
“Is it any wonder he’d rather head for The Chasm with you than stay in the metro?” Her smile remained, “Huppard made him an offer; graciously take a fall or be crushed.”
I knew which he had chosen without inquiring any further. The Strongman wasn’t about to take orders from anyone, let alone a slimy, corrupt judge, in the form of threat. As it looked in the brawling square, the fighting was evenly matched. They pushed each other about, dodged each other’s advances, and really spent the majority of their time keeping a safe distance from the other. They seemed to circle each other while conducting a violent staring contest that began to culminate in a level of suspense amongst the crowd that drove them to sheer insanity. I was certain the crowd’s pouncing around and them shaking the bars, the utter tomfoolery, would shake loose the clock tower’s face. Or put it off by a few minutes, at the very least.
As the intensity of the audience seemed to peak, the two behemoths lunged at one another and began exchanging fisticuffs. They seemed to be all over each other with their fists, like hammers pounding stone. They would break away for a moment only to take a breath and steady their vision before going back at it with such violence. I’ve witnessed gentlemanly sparring matches before and this was not to be considered as such. These were caged animals battling over survival.
Just as much as they used their fists, they seemed to use their elbows, knees, feet, and foreheads. I could see the fatigue set in on Bowery Butch, but he was able to buy himself time with a pocket full of sand he used to throw in The Strongman’s face. The Strongman blinded, Butch followed by giving him a good kick, one using all the force he could muster. It was enough to send The Strongman flying backwards into the aether and out of sight as he fell down below.
The crowd gasped.
I stood from the table. Mother Moth seemed unconcerned, “Sit down, Arthur. He’s fine.”
“He was just kicked down-” I couldn’t finish my sentence I was so shocked by what I witnessed.
Bowery Butch stood before the audience, arms raised in victory. He seemed ready to collapse, barely able to keeps his arms aloft. Some people in the cr
owd cheered while others booed and hissed. Bowery Butch waved their criticisms aside and walked to the edge of the floor. He looked over the edge to meet an iron spire flying upward, his head catching the very pointy tip. Butch’s head flung backwards with the force of the spire and blood sprayed through the air, splashing on the already stained brawling square floor. As he fell backwards, the spire’s sharp tip stuck into the wood floor. It seemed the man had certainly had his lights dimmed.
Just as soon as Butch crashed backward, a hefty arm reached up and over the edge, followed by another. The Strongman struggled as he strenuously pulled himself up and over the edge. Upon forcing the cage attendants to unlock the doors, men from Butch’s gang began to storm into the cage. Someone rang the bell to signal the end of the fight. It rang again feverishly as if to signify everyone out of the brawling area in an immediate fashion.
One of the scuttlers looked over their fallen friend.
“He’s dead!” The scuttler shouted. He wasn’t really, but he carried on under assumption as did everyone else. “He killed ‘im!” The thug yelled out as the men, a gang of seven, rushed The Strongman who squinted his bloodshot eyes. These scuttlers were not bruisers or brawlers, just bastards. The men began to beat on him, jump on him, hang from his back. The Strongman frantically fought back, twisting and turning in the middle of the cage as the men pounded on him. As he freed one arm from the entanglement of madmen, The Strongman was able to fight back. It was a brutal attack effectively countered by a man who has fared well in fights with twice as many men.
He thrust his head backwards, smashing the face of the scuttler on his back, knocking him off. Now, free to move about, he beat the other men into the ground. His knuckles covered in the blood of the men, it was now his turn to stand triumphant. His opponents took quite the beating. He stood there, raised his arms in the air to the roar of the crowd. He breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath. He was bloody and sweaty. His white shirt soaked pink on top of a grimy brown.
In another time and in another place, perhaps in a world lost to history, The Strongman would have been King. Here and now, though, he was something bigger. His act of defiance was noted amongst the crowd. So many men bet their wages, others unthinkable amounts of coin, on this match. There were those who thought their fear of Huppard was shared by everyone. There were others who knew this had to have happened. Perhaps not specifically with a spire through the face, but that The Strongman would prevail.
This was a defiant slap to the face of the corrupt. The scuttlers writhing at the feet of The Strongman weren’t likely to all go back to Judge Huppard with the news, then again, news was probably already on its way as soon as the iron pierced Butch’s face.
The Strongman walked from the cage triumphantly, the crowd parted. I wasn’t certain if it was out of respect or the fact that he was covered in the blood of several men. Through the crowd he lumbered, his breathing finally stabilizing. He was handed a large mug of ale which he promptly drank down and discarded on the ground shattering. His victory walk seemed like a walk to the gallows, he would tell me later. He kept half-expecting to hear a shot fired and it all be dimmed in the instant of a moment. The match was decided before it ever began, but as things turn out, not everything goes according to plan. Judge Huppard lost a lot of coin that night and a brawler.
The Strongman, though, said he wouldn’t have cared and that it would have been worth it. No one showed this kind of defiance to Huppard. At least no one who lived.
The crowd became rowdy as bets weren’t being paid out in a quick manner. Losers took personally the gloating of winners and tempers flared. Small patches of fighting broke out within the crowd, like a pot just about ready to boil. A bubble or two here, a bubble or two there.
We, Mother Moth and I, made our way from our seating area to meet The Strongman halfway. We were pushed back and forth, side to side within the crowd.
“This is becoming too much,” Mother Moth led us through the crowd, The Strongman clearing a path for her. She signaled to the burly men in charge of security and they fought their way through the crowd.
I could feel the floor shake and rumble. I do believe I watched an ale mug arch over head, like a dove gliding from perch to branch. In this particular case, an ale mug tossed from a drunkard’s hand through the aether unto some unsuspecting bloke’s head.
Through the crowd, through a back entry way, down a hall, into a makeshift changing room with personal lockers. The Strongman changed out of his soiled clothes into a fresh shirt and trousers. Mother Moth stood guard at the door, whereas, normally, he’d watch over her.
“Stay at the safe-house,” she said from the doorway, “make sure you’re not followed. You’ll be close enough to the station to get out of the metro first thing on the morrow.”
The Strongman pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. The room was dimly lit by a single gas lamp. The tile floor was damp and had a glisten to it. There was the incessant drip of a faucet or a spigot somewhere in the back. He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and put on his bowler hat.
“If I may ask, are you waiting on someone?” I inquired having watched Mother Moth look down the hallway without batting a lash.
“I spotted at least two in the crowd,” she said quietly.
The Strongman spoke up, “I noticed a few of them, too.”
“Whom are we speaking of?” I hadn’t the faintest clue.
“Gasters,” Em whispered.
“Gasters? Here?” I blurted out.
“Shh,” Em took her eyes off the hallway and shot me a look before returning them.
“Gasters,” The Strongman said, “Huppard likes to hire them. Like a ticking time bomb of crazy.”
That was certainly a way to put it, I thought. Gasters referenced one of two groups of people. That being those who worked as GasMen for GasWorks, Gasters. And then there were Gasters: The vile, ghastly, poor unfortunate souls; their minds lost to the intoxicating fumes of the factories their once human counterparts worked. GasWorks was notorious for skimping, as one might say, on necessary equipment. Gas masks were used, reused, patched and mended, ports and tubes reassigned direction and usage. No two Gasters had an exactly similar gas mask. Someone new on a crew might be issued a mask fresh from a dead man, in fact. Due to all of the wear, tear, and modification, these masks were not fit for use in the conditions which Gasters work. Simple as that.
Gas poisoning is an awful, terrible thing. I do suppose any type of lethal poisoning is such, though. Normally, a person exposed to gas without a mask won’t last more than a moment and a breath. Exposed to those conditions without the proper safety equipment, one would lose consciousness rather quickly. You fall hit your head and die, simple and done. Or you fall, continue to breathe the lung-burning, brain-frying, blood-thickening, sickness-causing fumes and die. If this is your predicament, then consider yourself fortunate.
For a Gaster, the worst of their kind, they have suffered. Their modified masks not properly sealed allowed just enough of the fumes to seep through. Most men hang on mentally until the sickness takes them. It isn’t a pleasant life. A life worse than this, one taken a step farther into delirium, are the ones who lose it all. Their minds twist and warp, they become criminally insane. The Gasters are just awful specimens.
There were those whom abused toxic fumes. Their fates were similar. It didn’t matter how they came to be, Gasters found each other. They were mad with the chatters, as it is referred to on the street. The chatters are the rapid contractions of the jaw muscles which cause the teeth to, hence, chatter. A group of Gasters, masked by horrendous apparatus, chattering away. They were all so thin and sinewy. They moved so abruptly and strangely, their nervous systems shot to bloody hell. Still, they were not nearly as bad as GhostWurks, without a doubt or an argument. Ghosts couldn’t be scared away so easily, but Ghouls could.
Em continued to look down the long hallway intensely. She listened; her focus tuned. The Strongman tried to quietly open a padlo
ck with a key. He removed the lock from the latch and opened the door to retrieve a rather large, by my standards, revolver.
The firearm seemed crafted for his size, large. I imagined it didn’t take much aim to hit something with it. The bullets in the chamber were almost the same size as those big-game hunters use. He always said he’d rather punch it out and that the gun was a measure of protection. The firearm was hardly a new invention, my own father carried one on his hip wherever he went. For me, it is not. Though, since he was protecting me and claimed it to be a measure of protection, what did I care?
I stood by Em and listened and looked with her. Down the vast hallway, gas lamps lit the entire way down. There were a few doors between us and the far end, but little else. The muffled noise from several walls over, the grand brawlroom, came through just barely. The floorboards creaked down at the far end and the sound echoed towards us.
A few moments passed and a chatter sounded. It was short, but unmistakable. And if there was any bit of doubt that what was heard was indeed a chattering, that doubt would have been erased upon the chattering from the several Gasters which followed. And the floorboards creaked and rumbled as several Gasters came chattering and sprinting around the corner and down the hall.
“Here they come!” Em shouted to The Strongman who slammed his locker door closed and locked backup. Within a stride he was by her side, revolver in hand.
The Strongman pushed through the doorway and he, with Em on one side and me on the other, made our way forth, straight on towards the Gasters, there was no other way. The Strongman had no problem smashing one of these madmen in the face followed by another and another. Mother Moth was quick, able to disembowel an enemy before they even knew what happened.
I played defense with my umbrella, fending off the more sly attackers. I could hear more of them coming. Their footsteps could be heard from around the corner. They were coming quickly. We were becoming overtaken by those we already had at hand, more of them would only mean certain defeat. I was terribly relieved when, around the corner did appear, several ale men ready to join in the fight. Soon enough, the Gasters were under control only for more of them to indeed show up.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 21