#12 flapped his spindly arms in front of him, trying to protect him from the barrage of Franklin’s blows. Franklin had no fighting technique at all and this was, in all actuality, the first actual physical fight Franklin had had in his adult life. He simply rained blow after blow upon the prostrate opponent under him. His fists thumped up and down furiously – like a chimpanzee beating on the ground. Very few of the blows connected directly with his target but, when they did, they had an effect – smacking #12’s head back into the concrete.
The skinny addict’s legs were kicking out furiously as well, trying to twist and wrench himself out from under Franklin’s bulk – but it was all to no avail.
Franklin continued to pound away and the crowd’s cheers started to reach a crescendo. Franklin was crying, tears running down his face and mixing with the blood and saliva that he was subconsciously spraying everywhere.
There was a guttural, primordial howl coming out of Franklin – almost like one long scream of victory as he took control of his fists, slowing the punching and pounding but becoming more accurate. #12 flapping arms became less effective, slowing, useless. Even from his vantage point above the sick scene, Derek could hear the slapping sound of fist on face, the cracking sound of skull hitting concrete.
Blood seeped out from under #12’s head and his legs went still. His hands dropped to his side and Franklin landed one last punch – blood from #12 and blood from Franklin’s now split knuckles sprayed out around them.
Franklin sat on top of the man, his head in his hands. Derek could see Franklin’s shoulders shrugging up and down in sobs. Zoran moved in and checked #12’s pulse to see if he was dead.
“He is not dead! You must finish him!”
The crowd chanted: “FIN-NISH! FIN-NISH! FIN-NISH!” and Franklin looked around. He seemed incredulous that he was being asked to finish the job. He knew the rules – he had to finish the job.
In a half-hearted attempt, he slammed a few punches into #12’s head again but they were nowhere near the intensity he showed when he thought he was going to die.
The crowd booed and Zoran stepped in again: “NO! You must finish him properly.”
Zoran bent over and Derek saw him whisper something in Franklin’s ear. Then Franklin stood up and he put his bare foot on #12’s neck. He leaned forward and put all his weight on the man’s neck. #12’s body arched up slightly with the shift of weight and Franklin stood there for about thirty seconds whilst the life was drained out of his opponent.
Money exchanged hands, the crowd cheered with excitement and Zoran signalled that the Death Match was over.
Franklin raised his bloodied fists into the air in triumphant victory. But there was no referee to award a belt, no crowd to cheer him and enjoy the spoils of war with him. He said to Zoran: “That’s it! I won! I’m free – I’m outta here!”
Why or how he got the idea into his head that he was free was beyond everyone. It was never even hinted at. Zoran had seen this before with some people. The look of deflation afterwards was priceless.
“No, no-one goes anywhere,” Zoran replied simply.
“But…I won!!!” Franklin was incredulous.
“And your prize is survival. But you go nowhere.” He took a small step toward Franklin. “Now SIT!”
And that was the Death Match. It usually ended the same way – one dead and one crying. It usually meant sedation for the remainder of the Roulette players – resigned to their fate, beaten.
No-one expected what followed.
On the Verge
For the first time that Stephen can remember, Franklin was quiet. One of the guards dragged him, roughly, from the prostrate corpse of the other combatant, his blood soaked hands and clothing now containing more bodily fluids Stephen could think of. He was deathly quiet, even though the orgy around them was still roaring with excitement, baying for blood. Franklin looked at his hands, crimson and battered. Some of the skin was split and Franklin should have been worried about getting those wounds infected with the dead drug addict’s blood.
But he wasn’t.
And Stephen knew why – Franklin was finally resolved to the fact that he was going to die. He had it worked up in his mind that winning the fight would lead to his freedom, even though that was never discussed. Stephen wasn’t sure what had quietened Franklin down more – the realization that he was, for all intents and purposes, well and truly fucked? Or was it the shock at having killed another human being with his own bare hands?
The #12’s face was a battered pulp, broken skin and bone camouflaged under a claret veil. He was still alive when Franklin choked him to finish him off, but he wouldn’t have been for long. He would certainly have been badly brain damaged with the pounding his skull took to the concrete. It was actually more humane to kill him as Franklin did than to try and keep him alive via a hospital, life support machines and so on. It was relatively quick and merciful in the end.
“Franklin,” Stephen started. He felt that he should make some sort of amends/restitution – at the very least an apology for what he had said before.
“Fuck off!” Franklin snapped. “Just fuck off you crippled gimp!”
Stephen saw the pain, the resignation, the futility all rolled up into one expression.
“You’re all bunch of sick arseholes!” Franklin ranted to everyone in the room. “That big Euro nutcase, all you weirdo voyeurs fucking each other’s brains out and betting on the outcome of this game – you’re all sick! You’ll all be damned to hell!”
He turned to Stephen.
“You must have done something really bad to be here, you spastic. I don’t give a shit about your legs – I wouldn’t have cared a day ago in the outside world and I sure as hell don’t care now. At least when your head is blown off its useless body, they’ll not have to drag the body away – the pricks could simply just wheel it!”
A few people started to laugh.
Oh YES! You bee-yootee!!! He’s got you’re number sunshine!
Don’t take his side
Well, I sure as hell won’t be taking yours will I? He’s right – that fat, messy bastard! You’re doing them a favour in this wheeled cell of yours.
It’s bad enough copping it from the demon, thought Stephen, without Franklin starting on as well.
Franklin continued: “You have an in-built wheelie bin!”
Stephen watched as Franklin regained some level of self-control and dignity through attacking him. Some in the crowd had wandered back into the orgy room to continue their festivities, their fornication. But some stayed to watch Franklin’s tirade.
Franklin’s acceptance of his fate was voiced in his outburst. He now knew that his time was numbered in this room, in this life, and his didn’t care anymore. Even if he wanted to stop berating the crowd that watched him he couldn’t. He now provided even more amusement and excitement for them – by regaining some dignity and verbally attacking everyone, he was again providing entertainment for a crowd of onlookers that fed upon this; like a circus animal turning on its trainer. The crowd simply lapped it up and Franklin continued at Stephen.
“I don’t care if you’re here voluntarily, or have been tricked like I was. I don’t care what your story is, I don’t care what that little blond slut’s story is too – the one you can’t stop salivating over. I don’t care what that old moll’s story is over there, or any of these other cunts either! You’re all fucked and you all deserve to go straight back into hell with that sack of shit I just pummelled! None of you,” he waved his arms around in front of himself to indicate not only the Roulette players, but everyone within earshot, “are worth the steam off my piss! I wouldn’t give you the wreak off my shit!”
Yes! Yes! YES!! Keep going. He’s nailing them Stephen – let’s see what happens here
He’s going to get his head kicked in
Oh I bloody hope so. I LOVE this place now – it’s final, violent and inevitable.
He now specifically pointed at the orgy room: “All
of you lot are gutless turds as well – voyeurs getting off on our misery. None of you has the guts to do what we do, you’re all weak as piss!”
With that goading taunt one of the audience members lashed out at #4 – a washed out looking woman who was also badly affected by years of drug and alcohol abuse. She received a savage blow to the side of her head with a “king hit” from a naked middle aged woman from the audience. The slapping sound of fist on face was quickly followed by a loud deathly shriek by the attacker who started to follow up on the assault with wild erratic punching.
Her arms stayed straight and she flung them like windmills towards her intended victim as the skinny, pale wraith-like contestant #4 tried to stagger to her feet. As she went to stand up, the barrage of wheeling blows started to pound into her.
The assailant wailed like a Banshee, losing control entirely. Urine ran down her naked legs. She wore no clothes except for a bra. Stephen watched from his seated position, level with her hairy mound as the belly above it wobbled with every punch she threw. He could see her eyes white and wide, the pupils black with destruction and orgiastic fury.
Her intended victim was now cowering down in a ball, protecting her head and body as best she could from the blows. No-one moved in to stop it, some actually tried to place bets thinking this was a second “Death Match”. Then, from nowhere, Zoran appeared.
He bounded across the room in only a couple of steps and wrapped those enormous mitts around the throat of the would-be killer. Very quickly the lack of oxygen turned her head a horrible purple colour. He held her body upright as he squeezed the life out of her.
His face was tight, his lips taut and turning purple. His eyes were devoid of emotion, like a lion at the kill.