the Wilkinson blades.
“I am gratified to find you are a man of honor, Senhor.”
“Honor, my pecker, I’m just here for the satisfaction of thrashin’ the ass of a perverted little foreign maff lover.”
“Whatever the anatomical peculiarities of the lady, Senhor, she was an excellent dancer, and I will be happy to defend her character by leaving you expiring in the dirt from which you arose.”
After this exchange of front-porch pleasantries we both stripped down on the sidelines, while the ref fetched the Bloodhound.
Diaz had a midriff that coulda been carved outa chocolate-colored granite. Despite his bein’ three-quarters my size, his upper-body musculature nearly matched mine. I prayed my longer reach would count for somethin’.
We peeled down to just our Kevlar crotchguards. I made Benzene Bill—who had moved up to the front row to gloat—hold on to my clothes and boots. Not that I was gonna survive to wear ’em. My balls felt ’bout as big as a Hamster’s.
The ref brought the Bloodhound round. It came up to me first, licked some of my sweat, then nipped the flesh between my thumb and forefinger to draw blood.
“Nuffin,” growled the augie-doggie, after rolling the juices around on its palate. Then it did the same for Diaz, who came up clean too.
“Okay, gents, you’re both operating under correct physionorms, without enhancements. Let’s get this show on the road.”
We entered the ring, and the crowd cut loose with a barbaric roar that musta resembled what the spectators at the Colliseum sounded like.
The ref spoke into her lapel mike. “Okay, citizens and otherwise, we have a grudge match here. On my left is a visitor to Greater Dallas, Senhor Flaviano Diaz from south-of-the-border way.”
Diaz got a big round of applause, which was only natural considerin’ the ties here to his region.
“And on my right is a homeboy, originally from Robert Lee, Texas—Mister Lew Shooter.”
My applause matched Diaz’s—more or less. I scanned the audience and thought I spotted Geraldine and some other gips. Then I yanked my concentration back to the cockpit.
“All right, roosters, you both know the rules—there are none. Except of course that the winner gets to decide if the loser receives medical treatment or not. Go to it, and may the best cock win.”
The ref backed out in a hurry.
When her foot left the ring, Diaz moved.
He tried a gaiopante first, a blow of the hand to my ear to knock my balance out. I deflected it so that it glanced off my temple with stingin’ force. Then I drove two stiffened fingers into his sternum. It was like pokin’ a plank. But I’ve pierced a few plys of steelwood before, and I knew he felt it, though he barely showed it.
The crowd was screamin’ for blood. As if to oblige, Diaz launched a bencao , a forward kick. I watched as his foot seemed to travel in slow-mo, its slice of sharpened steel headin’ straight for my throat. At what seemed like the last possible moment, I dropped below the blow. Restin’ on one hand, I kicked his single supportin’ foot out from under him.
But instead of hittin’ the sand, Diaz converted his motion into an au s, or cartwheel, finishin’ up on his feet across the ring.
I closed with him, figurin’ to soften him up with a few punches. We traded blows to the torso and head for a few dizzy seconds, and I won’t say who took the worse punishment. We clinched, then pushed apart.
Somehow Diaz had ended up with his back to me. This was it, I thought, your first and last mistake, you little bastard. I got lined up to slice him open when he turned.
But he didn’t turn. Instead, arching his back, he flew into a macao , or monkey, shootin’ halfway across the ring.
Now I had my back to him.
I spun around.
Too late.
Before I knew it, I felt two slices across my upper thighs.
The fucker had opened up both my femoral arteries.
I wavered, then collapsed onto my stomach, feelin’ strength drain out with my
“I am gratified to find you are a man of honor, Senhor.”
“Honor, my pecker, I’m just here for the satisfaction of thrashin’ the ass of a perverted little foreign maff lover.”
“Whatever the anatomical peculiarities of the lady, Senhor, she was an excellent dancer, and I will be happy to defend her character by leaving you expiring in the dirt from which you arose.”
After this exchange of front-porch pleasantries we both stripped down on the sidelines, while the ref fetched the Bloodhound.
Diaz had a midriff that coulda been carved outa chocolate-colored granite. Despite his bein’ three-quarters my size, his upper-body musculature nearly matched mine. I prayed my longer reach would count for somethin’.
We peeled down to just our Kevlar crotchguards. I made Benzene Bill—who had moved up to the front row to gloat—hold on to my clothes and boots. Not that I was gonna survive to wear ’em. My balls felt ’bout as big as a Hamster’s.
The ref brought the Bloodhound round. It came up to me first, licked some of my sweat, then nipped the flesh between my thumb and forefinger to draw blood.
“Nuffin,” growled the augie-doggie, after rolling the juices around on its palate. Then it did the same for Diaz, who came up clean too.
“Okay, gents, you’re both operating under correct physionorms, without enhancements. Let’s get this show on the road.”
We entered the ring, and the crowd cut loose with a barbaric roar that musta resembled what the spectators at the Colliseum sounded like.
The ref spoke into her lapel mike. “Okay, citizens and otherwise, we have a grudge match here. On my left is a visitor to Greater Dallas, Senhor Flaviano Diaz from south-of-the-border way.”
Diaz got a big round of applause, which was only natural considerin’ the ties here to his region.
“And on my right is a homeboy, originally from Robert Lee, Texas—Mister Lew Shooter.”
My applause matched Diaz’s—more or less. I scanned the audience and thought I spotted Geraldine and some other gips. Then I yanked my concentration back to the cockpit.
“All right, roosters, you both know the rules—there are none. Except of course that the winner gets to decide if the loser receives medical treatment or not. Go to it, and may the best cock win.”
The ref backed out in a hurry.
When her foot left the ring, Diaz moved.
He tried a gaiopante first, a blow of the hand to my ear to knock my balance out. I deflected it so that it glanced off my temple with stingin’ force. Then I drove two stiffened fingers into his sternum. It was like pokin’ a plank. But I’ve pierced a few plys of steelwood before, and I knew he felt it, though he barely showed it.
The crowd was screamin’ for blood. As if to oblige, Diaz launched a bencao , a forward kick. I watched as his foot seemed to travel in slow-mo, its slice of sharpened steel headin’ straight for my throat. At what seemed like the last possible moment, I dropped below the blow. Restin’ on one hand, I kicked his single supportin’ foot out from under him.
But instead of hittin’ the sand, Diaz converted his motion into an au s, or cartwheel, finishin’ up on his feet across the ring.
I closed with him, figurin’ to soften him up with a few punches. We traded blows to the torso and head for a few dizzy seconds, and I won’t say who took the worse punishment. We clinched, then pushed apart.
Somehow Diaz had ended up with his back to me. This was it, I thought, your first and last mistake, you little bastard. I got lined up to slice him open when he turned.
But he didn’t turn. Instead, arching his back, he flew into a macao , or monkey, shootin’ halfway across the ring.
Now I had my back to him.
I spun around.
Too late.
Before I knew it, I felt two slices across my upper thighs.
The fucker had opened up both my femoral arteries.
I wavered, then collapsed onto my stomach, feelin’ strength drain out with my
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