Werewolf Gimmick

 

“Werewolf Gimmick”

His snarling countenance is bestial even without the headdress.  Bronco isn’t seen near the Pits without his ceremonial garb.  He wears a wolf’s skull like a crown, the lower half of its jaw long since severed. 

This week the wolf’s fur is gray.  Next week’s it might be brown or black.  The torchlight that encircles the sunken fighting pit casts a multitude of dark shadows on the brute’s face. 

The crowd murmurs as his challenger climbs over the clay half-wall that separates the beasts from the spectators.  They can’t remember the last time Bronco lost a match—had to have been when he was but a young pup, hounding his way into the Pits to earn a pittance of coppers to take home to whatever family he had in Redland Gulch.

The challenger is far from imposing.  Compared to the broad and sinewy brawn of Bronco, he looks like an antelope stranded in the feeding grounds.  

Lithe of movement and slim of frame, the challenger—purportedly an acrobat or dancer or monk from Penestelle—doesn’t seem like he has much of a chance. 

The crowd doesn’t place wagers about who will win, but how fast Bronco will be in cutting the kid down to size.

The crowd settles on odds about whether the kid will be killed, knocked unconscious, or will submit and forfeit after receiving the first two relentless blows.  They wonder how many bones will be broken and which ones they’ll be.  The highest rollers make ridiculous claims about how visible the fractures will be and whether the bone will pop out the skin or not.

Rest assured that the proceeds will go to a good cause.

The challenger—given the moniker of Antelope by the excited low-lives who have congregated in the Pits—kicks up red dust in the fighting ring as he bounces on the balls of his feet.  Bronco sits on the opposite of the arena with his feet planted shoulder-length apart, his arms resting calmly at his sides.

Antelope springs forward, turning on one heel as the other orbits through the air to strike Bronco’s temple. The stalwart defender raises an arm to catch the blow.  He doesn’t budge.  Antelope uses his remaining momentum to take to the skies, his foot thrusting downward at Bronco’s coveted headdress.  Bronco catches the foot by the heel, grips the Antelope’s shin with his free hand, then pivots as he sends the challenger flying back to his starting position.

The crowd hoots and hollers in titillation.  Glasses are drained and shattered.  Cheers and shouts resound against the cramped adobe walls.

Just as quickly as Antelope strikes the red dirt does he somersault back to his feet.  In two quick strides is he back in the fray, sending jabs and hooks in with a repeated velocity that surprises the audience as well as Bronco.

The wolf watches and weaves past the blows that he doesn’t block.  Quick though he may be, a jab catches him in the chin.

The onlookers gasp and shout at this turn of events.

His head is forced to the side and the fighter’s bulk is rocked.  Antelope’s hail of fists continues, the lithe fighter using all his energy to turn the tides of fate in his favor further.  The fists continue to pummel Bronco until he regains his composure.

Bronco leans to the side and catches Antelope by the forearm as the blow misses.  His prey caught in his maw, Bronco unleashes his own set of pummels against Antelope.  The blows are slow, methodical, and brutal.

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.

Each impact sends blood from the nose, air from the lungs, bruise to the skin.  

Thud.  Thud.  Thud.

Gamblers begin to smugly egg their patrons to fork over the dosh as others despair and curse.

Suddenly, they no longer hear the rhythmic thud of flesh pounding flesh.  Antelope is still in Bronco’s clutch, but he skirts the incoming blows with a calculated fluidity and unpredictability. 

Though Bronco is known for keeping his cool, the audience can practically see steam snorting forth from the nostrils of the wolf’s snout that protrudes atop his forehead.  His plan of pounding Antelope into submission not yielding the desired results, Bronco changes his strategy.

His clenched fist releases as he goes to grab Antelope by the bicep.  With both hands clenching Antelope’s arm in two places, those who took risky odds to see bone jutting out of flesh rise out of their seat and holler.  They know their moment of reckoning has come.

Bronco goes for the break, but before he can smash Antelope’s elbow against his knee, the acrobat has both legs pressed against Bronco’s chest.  His unrestrained arm smashes like a meteor below the wolf’s snout, sending a torrent of blood onto the red earth below.

The fighter flinches and Antelope kicks against his chest with both legs, soaring gracefully from Bronco’s grasp and landing soundly.  The roar from the crowd is thunderous and deafening. 

Even as Bronco recoils from the audacious blow, Antelope has closed the gap once more.  He reiterates his starting gambit, sending his heel in a circular orbit until it connects with the back of Bronco’s neck.

The hulking physique hunches forward under the impact of the attack.  Bronco pivots and launches a fist at Antelope, but by then the battle is over.

Bronco has lunged forward a bit too far.  Antelope ducks beneath the intimidating fist.  He places one foot on the outside of Bronco’s forward leg then drives the heel of his open hand into the oaken trunk that is Bronco’s chest.  The giant is toppled, the wolf has been tripped.  He splays out on the red earth, chest rising and falling, head spinning.

A confused silence falls over the crowd. They gaze at the spectacle slack jawed.

His vision dims. 

A foot is clamped over his throat. It presses mercilessly and drives his flesh against the dust.

He knows he should be snatching the foot’s leg in both hands and snapping it in two, but his arms don’t heed his command.

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of glass breaking overhead.  His lungs draw a deep gasp.  He shakes uncontrollably as he places his knuckles into the dirt and rises to his feet.

Antelope is stretched out on the ground before him, blood rushing from his forehead.  Glass shards litter the earth around him.  Bronco grits his teeth and turns his gaze to the crowd, looking for the one who interfered with the fight. 

None meet his gaze.  They turn their eyes away. They murmur quietly about their disappointment.  They curse their luck and hypothesize about why Bronco would throw the fight.

Fearing what the angry crowd might do if left alone with the limp body of Antelope, he picks his adversary up from the earth and throws the dead weight across his shoulders.  He climbs out of the arena and the crowd parts out of his path.

He hears faint breathing in his ear.

He’ll take Antelope back to his cave, but not to feast.  He’ll have to come up with a more fitting moniker for this cunning beast.