The Magnificent Crecca and his pet stickie once again entered the ring. “I trust you all enjoyed our first act?” he asked the seated mob.
Bullard ville applauded and whistled enthusiastically.
“Well, the second act of our show is even better. Without further ado, I give you the ever popular, always satisfying, Deathlands Last Man Standing! You all know the rules. No closed fists. No bared claws. And biting is optional.”
Over the years, Ryan and J.B. had seen versions of this particular entertainment many times before. Troupes of professional hand-to-hand fighters toured the larger gaudies along the main trade routes, giving exhibition bouts and offering paying spectators the chance to bet on the outcomes.
What made this particular bout different were the gene pools of the combatants who faced off. It wasn’t norm against norm, as was usually the case in the gaudies. In Wolfram’s carny, it was norm against mutie.
The first bout featured a giant of a man with a shaved head and spiraling, concentric brandings over his shoulders and upper back, the raised welts like an angry red shawl. His mutie opponent was a head shorter, but as powerfully built. He was completely hairless. Cascading down the back of his skull and along the ridge of his spine were thousands upon thousands of pale, six-inch-long, tentacle-like growths. This mane of flesh had erectile function, the individual, dermal villi moving in response to stimuli, rippling like a field of strange wheat.
Crecca gestured for the fighters to come together in the middle of the ring and shake hands. When they touched bare knuckles, the mutie’s mane flared instantly upright, like a spiky sail.
Which made the crowd ooh and ahh.
The contest consisted of three rounds, the standard for Deathlands Last Man Standing fights. The first three minute round was “contact optional,” which meant that the fighters could move, feint and land open-handed blows whenever the opportunity presented itself. The second round was “contact mandatory.” Which meant that each fighter could move at will, but had to match the other blow for blow or be disqualified. The last round was toe-to-toe, with no moving whatsoever. If one of the combatants shifted his feet as he struck, or was staggered as he and his opponent traded full power, forehand and backhand bitch slaps, the contest was over.
The final round was always bloody, always ugly and always a big crowd pleaser.
This case was no different.
A minute and a half into the third round, both fighters’ faces were drenched in gore from numerous shallow cuts on foreheads and cheekbones, their eyes swollen to slits. The bigger man seemed to have the upper hand, and was in fact grinning a wide, bloody-toothed grin as he smacked the mutie on the side of the head and made the creature’s mixed spittle and gore erupt in a pink mist. The mutie’s mane sagged lifelessly; his eyes were dull and vacant. It looked as if he was going down. The giant cocked back his arm for the finishing blow.
When the tables turned, they turned in an eye blink.
As the hand shot forward, the mutie’s mane sprang fully erect. When the hand reached the target, the target had moved. Juking his head, the mutie caught the giant by the wrist and gave a perfectly timed pull, using the bigger man’s weight and momentum against him. The norm lost his balance and stumbled forward.
Contest over.
Well, not quite.
As Crecca rushed up to declare the winner, the giant let out a furious growl and scrambled up from his knees. From his expression it was clear the rules were off the table. But before he could rise to his full height, the maned mutie landed a wicked, cracking elbow shot to the middle of his face, which sent the giant to the ground, hard on his butt. He sat there for an instant, fists clenched at his sides, face contorted, trying to keep from passing out. Trying and failing. He slumped to his back, his arms and legs spread wide, his mouth drooping open and drooling blood.
The two other matches that followed were cut from the same melodramatic cloth.
Powerful fighters.