by Thomas Melo
As Jim waltzed around the tree with his company, he could see something in the distance on the opposite bank of the pond. He could see two British Royal Guards–you know the ones, they wear the furry tall black hats–with their weapons crossing each other’s, displaying the universal message: KEEP OUT. The distance was nearly 100 yards to the opposite bank, but he could still make out who the British Royal Guards were keeping out: It was Lilith. He could see her jet-black hair and red fiery eyes…the red scorching eyes that screamed hatred and that showed themselves only when the occasion was right.
Jim was laughing at the absurdity of the dream and the randomness of the British Royal Guards who made a cameo. He was glad to see that the absurdity of the dream and the benign characters in it superseded the malevolent presence of Lilith. He thought little else of the dream...meaning or otherwise. And back to sleep Jim went.
* * *
April 15th was not only tax day, hundreds of thousands–possibly millions–of people’s birthdays, etc., but April 15th 2029 was also the grand opening and first combat bout in the Super Chasm.
The oligarchy of the Chasm selected two sets of fighters for the bout; two fighters for the undercard fight and two fighters for the main event. Gone were the days of hours of undercard fights leading up to the battle between the titans that everyone really came to watch. The board had decided through a series of polls and surveys taken (overseen by Jayson’s logistics department) during the Chasm’s construction what the spectators would prefer to see. To everyone on the board’s surprise and delight, the consensus was to have one undercard fight and one main event. The board was surprised because they had assumed that people would agree that the more fights the better, but that was not so. On the millions of polling cards distributed, most of the spaces reserved for comments were filled out. The most popular reason, amongst the less popular reasons such as “being able to get home to relieve the babysitter earlier,” was so people would be able to go out and enjoy the rest of the evening afterwards if there were only a couple of fights. Jayson urged his team of board members that less was more and by steering clear of greed, the subconscious appreciation felt by their fans would translate financially. He guaranteed it.
Obviously, the board was concurrently pleased about less fights to cover, despite their mild reservations on the matter, because this meant that there would be fewer fighters to pay out. You may be thinking that with such a lucrative business, such as the potential-death business, you would be able to sneeze at the amount the fighters were paid to compete. You must remember, however, that when the fighter’s lives might be on the line because winner takes all, and second place is first loser who goes home not a cent richer than when they entered the Chasm, the purse for the bout has to be more than substantial…say twenty million dollars substantial. The undercard received up to five million. The Super Chasm would prove to bring in up to 25 million dollars per event, which was nothing anyone could sneeze at. Of course, they recouped the 25 million plus a few million extra, give or take, per event as well, what with pay-television deals.
The first bouts ever to be held in the Super Chasm were Iden “Piston” Karson vs. Rayce “The Stock-boy” Stockton, who made up the undercard, and “Krag” Tyrone Washington vs. Gunnar “The Widow-Maker” DeStefano for the main event.
Fighters from around the world and an array of hand-to-hand combat disciplines and fighting arenas in the mixed martial arts world applied for their shot at fortune and fame beyond what they could or would ever make in other mixed martial arts competitions. Obviously, the stakes were significantly higher…potentially.
Based on the sample size that Jayson and his logistics team interviewed, there were no other conclusions to be drawn other than there must be a mental disconnect to have the desire to get hit in the face for a living. Going even further, the Chasm added both an additional incentive to train hard and another work related hazard: that being the added potential consequence of death. That made the fighters who applied to compete extra crazy, true reservoir dogs, most notably one of the fighters in the Chasm’s first main event: Gunnar “The Widow-Maker” DeStefano.
Before coming to Las Vegas to meet with Jayson and the interview panel, Gunnar DeStefano finished a two and a half-year stint in Riverhead Jail in Suffolk County, Long Island for battery.
On New Year’s Eve, 2021, Gunnar was on his way to a party with his girlfriend Ameliana when they stopped for gas and cigarettes. Ameliana decided she needed to step out of the car for some fresh air, some pre-celebration “celebrating” being the cause for such a need. While Gunnar was pumping twenty dollars worth of premium into his Dodge Challenger, Ameliana sneezed. Immediately following the sneeze, an unfortunate bystander, filling his own tank, called to Ameliana, “God bless you.” In Gunnar’s mind, he should have been given at least a few seconds to tell his girlfriend “God bless you” first. Also in Gunnar’s less than reasonable mind, he instantly got the idea plaguing his dense head that Ameliana knew this man from elsewhere, perhaps in an intimate encounter, and ended up mashing the unfortunate man’s nose and offering him a hairline fracture of his right orbital bone for his kind words, which he had no choice but to accept. Happy New Year to him.
There was also the fighter simply named Krag, like Adele, Cher, Prince, or Madonna, but simultaneously nothing like them.
Krag, a recent emeritus of Pelican Bay State Prison (California), and known by the state as Tyrone Curtis Washington (his birth name), had just finished his stint in prison only a few months prior to his interview with Jayson and his recruiting team.
He ran with a gang when he had his freedom, and what finally landed him in prison was the murder of a rival gang member. He was given the order to perform the execution by a superior in the gang and did so in a most gruesome way. Krag and two of his gang brothers (including his superior) kidnapped the rival gang member, whose name is of no importance for multiple reasons, and brought him to a remote location where they had waiting a 55-gallon drum with the mouth of a garden hose welded to the lid of said drum. Despite the modifications, the drum still remained water tight, not that it needed to be for its purpose anyway. After Krag and his gang brethren issued a three on one beating to the rival gang member, although not too severe, as they wanted their doomed friend to be completely conscious and in possession of his faculties when they ended their fun with him, Krag gave his “friend” a choice of how they would conclude their business. He said that either they would gladly drown him in the 55-gallon drum, ecstatically stab him to death, or joyfully shoot him several times. After careful consideration, he came to terms with his fate and accepted that there was simply no way out of this, he allowed himself to be tied up. The prisoner elected to be placed in the 55-gallon drum with the lid clamped shut. The water was then turned on so that the displacement of water that was sure to take place once the prisoner was placed into the drum would once again fill up, leaving no room for him to breathe and thus, drown him. A hole about the size of a marble was also cut into the bottom so that pressure could escape the drum and prevent the lid from blowing off. At least one of them paid attention in science class.
This method of execution would be a private hell for a claustrophobic person, but claustrophobic this gang member was not. He had also heard of the supposed euphoric sensation that accompanies drowning, and figured even in death, why not one more high?
In the end, the prisoner was placed in the drum, sealed inside, and the water turned on to eliminate the three inches of breathing room that was available after some water displaced from the barrel. As soon as the lid was fastened, Krag didn’t give his victim a chance to drown. He took a large knife from a blanket on the ground where a gun was also placed as part of the smorgasbord of weapons for the prisoner to choose his method of death, and began stabbing the sides of the barrel. The knife–your garden variety chef’s knife, and knife made disreputable by theatrical serial-killer Michael Meyers–easily pierced the blue plastic of the drum as well as the flesh of t
he prisoner inside the barrel. He stabbed at the barrel ignoring the sickening gristly tearing of flesh and scraping of bone until the screams ceased and the water, now crimson with gore had all spilled out to the lowest slit in the durable plastic, staining the desert hardpan.
A great deal of awful things transpire in the desert, but out of sight, out of mind. Before the prisoner’s mangled corpse was taken from the barrel and transferred to a different barrel filled with acid for disposal, Krag’s superior emptied the handgun, the only “tool” left unused on the blanket, into the rival gang member for certainty, as if being dissolved in acid down to a sludge–composed of your basic elemental building blocks–left any question marks.
In the end, Krag took the rap and the wrath of the law with the other underling who only watched the murder, but took part in the kidnapping, and protected their superior from a lengthy jail sentence. Due to the impulsiveness of the crime, and therefore lack of planning, evidence of the heinous act still existed. Krag lived by the motto that snitches got stitches…although they got worse than stitches; they got much, much, worse. He spent the next 21 years in prison (his fellow underling, fifteen years) and was released from Pelican Bay the year the Chasm was opened for business, a hardened 38 year-old man. Hardened, because he was not much of a reader, and he chose to spend his time in prison exercising and lifting weights.
These were merely two of the potential contenders among thousands for whom the Super Chasm was built and the masses would come to see in the forthcoming years.
Chapter 17
After the ribbon cutting ceremonies, after the public ostracism of the Super Chasm, after the public exhilaration for the Super Chasm, after the public debates and spurious and coherent comments injected into the public psyche by local politicians about the Super Chasm, it was finally the maiden fight night.
This was the very first time in approximately 2,000 years that combatants would battle each other for sport and potentially to the death without legal ramifications…and the masses were ready...no, the masses were aching for it, and they showed up in raving hordes.
Five stories (the other five stories were reserved for behind the scenes operations) containing 15,000 seats were all filled with fans who were not just there to be part of history, they were primarily there to satisfy that primal blood-lust that humans are all born with. The ticket prices ranged from $100 to $500 per ticket, unless you reserved one of ten suites, (you would need a credit reference for that), for two fights and potentially a very brief night of entertainment depending on the capability of the contenders! But people paid it just as Jayson’s surveys had said they would. Not only did the Chasm sell out in under two minutes when tickets were made available, but there was a line that stretched two blocks down Las Vegas Boulevard made up of fans who had very little hope (if any) of getting in, but wanted to be a part of the mayhem just the same. Some of those in line did make it into the Chasm after paying a scalper an absurdly inflated $1,000 for a ticket on the 2nd level of the arena no less, not even the 1st level. You would need to offer up your first born to secure that ticket.
The 4th level of the structure was equipped with the $100 seats, the 3rd level $200 to $250 per seat, the 2nd level $300 to $400, and the 1st level, still at least 25 feet from any action, but the best that money could buy in the Chasm, held the $500 seats. Expensive by any standards, but the board knew the heat that this controversial arena had already brought and they were also aware that they would have no trouble selling tickets at that price. There was no need to test the waters with modest prices until the Chasm got some legs beneath it. They were at the epicenter of opportunity before the doors even opened.
The Chasm provided mild entertainment whilst the 15,000 person strong crowd eagerly awaited the undercard match to start the night off. It was Lilith’s idea to have scantily clad dancers do a routine in the middle of the fighting pit dressed in a mockery of ancient Roman gladiator armor. It wasindeed armor, please do not misunderstand, but the area on the women that it covered would have made them easy targets in battle, giving the most clumsy archer or swordsman the confidence of a high school football captain courting an average looking volleyball captain–whether or not she would be interested is a different story altogether. Tasteless comment? Perhaps, however we are permitted to have a little sophomoric fun as well, believe it or not. No malice intent, I assure you.
The dancers grinded out their provocative routines, showing off their cleavage and backsides to the fervent audience. Lilith knew that this sort of entertainment would not keep the attention of the men for very long, who predominantly made up the Chasm’s audience. That was her intention: get them as impatient as possible so that when the fights began, not only would the contenders demand blood, but the audience demanded it as well…perhaps more.
The dancer’s routine lasted thirty minutes, no more, no less; the perfect length of time to get the crowd over-zealous, but not impatient. There is a difference between the two, but not much…perhaps a minute or two.
When the dancer’s routine concluded, they left the arena floor to uproarious applause, not for the appreciation of the dancing routine they performed, but because they were leaving and what was left but the main attraction, the two epic battles between four contenders? The dancers resigned themselves to the fact that applause was applause and most of them knew exactly how a visiting team’s baseball player felt in a home team stadium. They just pretended the applause was for them.
The lights dimmed once the applause and cheers began to die down and the sound in the Super Chasm reached deafening levels. “So loud that the rafters shook” was one of the biggest clichés imaginable to describe the noise level in the arena, but if you were part of that crowd, you understand that cliché it may be, but it epitomized what was happening. The rafters of the levels of the Chasm were alive as the strobe lights and other laser and LED lights briefly lit faces in the crowd before moving on. Many in the crowd thought to themselves, “this is what pandemonium sounds like.”
A man named Rocky Vada was the announcer that the oligarchy of the Chasm chose to hire as their leader of ceremonies.
Rocky did not look as you would expect. Rocky had blonde hair and looked like a retired airline pilot, and by extension, Air Force or Navy pilot. You could almost see his perfect teeth sparkle in the bedazzling light that circulated the arena, like a cartoon game-show host. No, he did not look the part of a Rocky Vada, but his voice stripped away all doubt…this was Rocky Vada.
“Ladies and Gentleman!” the voice of the archetypal orator boomed like a deity. The audience didn’t wait for any more. They exploded into a hysterical state once again. People would come to realize that this alone was worth the price of admission…being a part of something this electric. “Ladies and Gentleman, I want to welcome you to the grand opening of what will be the most notorious, popular, and successful fighting arena in the world: the Super Chasm!” His tone matched the surge in excitement of the audience as he reached the climax: “the Super Chasm,” which brought out the veins in his neck and spittle onto the head of the microphone.
The audience needed time to recharge for the next surge of maniacal energy and allowed Rocky to go on a bit before they offered another mayhem-break.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we have two clashes that will make the battle of the Apocalypse look like a school yard scuffle! Tonight, coming up in just a few minutes, we will have our undercard match! The maiden battle of this modern-day Colosseum: Idennnnn “Pistonnnnn” Kaaaaaaarson! Versus! Rayce “The Stock-Booooooy” Stooooocktoooooon!” Rocky dragged out in a grandiose crescendo that would have made Bruce Buffer envious. “After the winner of that match is decided and you enjoy another brief sensuous and exotic dance routine by the resident Caligula’s Crew, you will witness the main event! The mêlée you’ve come to see for yourself after hearing all of the rumors! The trailblazing Chasm main event! Stylin’! Gunnar! DeeeeStefanoooooo! Versus! “Krag” Tyrone! Washhhhingtoooooon!”
&
nbsp; There is no doubt that at least half the spectators went home with raw throats as if they were cheering at their favorite concert when they were eighteen years old. The other half? Hard of hearing.
“Before we bring out our first fighters, on behalf of the board of directors of the Super Chasm, everyone involved would like to thank you for making this arena possible. Without your support, this vision would never have come to fruition with all of the opposing forces that exist against this arena existing. Sincerely, thank you very much!” the ingratiated host half bowed to the owner’s suite halfway up the arena.
A polite but genuine applause followed the gratitude.
“But now! The time has come!”
The audience’s energy returned through the roof once again, as a bone crunching heavy metal anthem spit through the Chasm’s doomsday PA system.
“Here comes our first challenger! Iden “Piston” Karrrrrrrrssooooon!” He came barreling towards the decagon-shaped ring and shadowboxed to the beat of his face-melting anthem as he greeted the audience, pumping his fists and yelling.
The next fighter, Rayce “The Stock-Boy” Stockton was announced to his own adrenaline pumping walk-on music and reacted in the same way his opponent did. The spectators, not familiar with either challenger, embraced them both.
The ceremonial festivities continued as the fighters pumped their fists and pointed at the audience until they reached the decagon. Why a decagon? If you asked the board, they would simply say that other fighting competitions are synonymous with the octagon.