helped to make a lot of people’s lives better.”
On hearing this, she hugged him so hard he could feel the breath being forced out of him.
Walking home, he thought about the last thing he had said to Mrs Rogers. He wasn’t lying when he said her husband had made people’s lives better. What he didn’t tell her was that those people were the owners and shareholders of the ClearSkies corporation. As far as he could remember, nothing him or his boys had ever done had helped the people who needed it most.
When he got home he sat on the couch in his tiny apartment with a bottle of whisky in one hand and the television control in the other. He had tried to resist at first but he kept returning to the channel. After half an hour of free porn he punched his code into the remote to authorise payment of the Prison Matches.
Set in a maximum-security prison, the arena for the bloody spectacle was a concrete pit sunk six-feet into the floor. Three levels of prison cells encircled the pit making the building design not too dissimilar to an old-fashion football stadium. A perfect view of the action was guaranteed for the men who pushed against the bars of their cells, screaming obscenities at the camera as it panned along each floor. This wasn’t necessary to the action, but it made good television and helped create the appropriate atmosphere for the fans that watched from the safety of their homes. Taylor wondered if the television crews had to whip the prisoners up into a frenzy to get the desired effect or if they acted that way on a permanent basis.
When the event kicked into life, he grew angry with the fighters and yelled at the television in an attempt to school them.
‘Use your legs, keep him at range,’ or to the two men who were scrambling on the floor ‘come on, pass the guard for fuck’s sake.’
Unlike the contests he was used to fighting in, these men were sloppy amateurs, throwing wild desperate punches and getting hit at will. The main difference with this and his fights though, was that in the prison match-ups there were no rules and neither of the two competitors, (or more if it was group match), wore gloves or mouth-guards. This was as primitive and brutal as it came.
As he got more and more drunk it occurred to him why the prison matches had taken over as the main form of entertainment in the cities, knocking his sport of its pedestal forever. It certainly wasn’t because they were better fighters. There were only one or two guys in the prisons who would have had any chance of making it in the cage. Watching two first-timers beat each other to a stand-still, he realised it was the fear and desperation they fought with that made it such a spectacle. They may not have been skilful, but these men, who knew defeat could very well result in their own deaths, fought with every morsel of energy they had left in their bodies. It was gladiatorial stuff and people loved it.
When the novices had finally finished (the larger of the two winning by smashing his opponent’s head repeatedly into the concrete floor until a yellowish liquid pooled around his skull), it was time for the main event. The long reigning prison champion, Warchild, was pitted against a new up-and-coming fighter known simply as The Beast. The aggressive challenger had destroyed his last three opponents; killing two and putting the other in a coma.
It wasn’t unusual for fighters to take names that made them sound like super-villains or wrestling stars. Some of the troopers in the security forces had even started doing it too. Taylor remembered the time when Lennox had come to work insisting the others were to address him as Fight Machine from that day on. The ridiculous new moniker didn’t last, not after Spike spent the rest of the day calling him Fart Machine.
Taylor had seen Warchild fighting before and in his opinion he was by far the best of these warriors. He was a big guy, but
On hearing this, she hugged him so hard he could feel the breath being forced out of him.
Walking home, he thought about the last thing he had said to Mrs Rogers. He wasn’t lying when he said her husband had made people’s lives better. What he didn’t tell her was that those people were the owners and shareholders of the ClearSkies corporation. As far as he could remember, nothing him or his boys had ever done had helped the people who needed it most.
When he got home he sat on the couch in his tiny apartment with a bottle of whisky in one hand and the television control in the other. He had tried to resist at first but he kept returning to the channel. After half an hour of free porn he punched his code into the remote to authorise payment of the Prison Matches.
Set in a maximum-security prison, the arena for the bloody spectacle was a concrete pit sunk six-feet into the floor. Three levels of prison cells encircled the pit making the building design not too dissimilar to an old-fashion football stadium. A perfect view of the action was guaranteed for the men who pushed against the bars of their cells, screaming obscenities at the camera as it panned along each floor. This wasn’t necessary to the action, but it made good television and helped create the appropriate atmosphere for the fans that watched from the safety of their homes. Taylor wondered if the television crews had to whip the prisoners up into a frenzy to get the desired effect or if they acted that way on a permanent basis.
When the event kicked into life, he grew angry with the fighters and yelled at the television in an attempt to school them.
‘Use your legs, keep him at range,’ or to the two men who were scrambling on the floor ‘come on, pass the guard for fuck’s sake.’
Unlike the contests he was used to fighting in, these men were sloppy amateurs, throwing wild desperate punches and getting hit at will. The main difference with this and his fights though, was that in the prison match-ups there were no rules and neither of the two competitors, (or more if it was group match), wore gloves or mouth-guards. This was as primitive and brutal as it came.
As he got more and more drunk it occurred to him why the prison matches had taken over as the main form of entertainment in the cities, knocking his sport of its pedestal forever. It certainly wasn’t because they were better fighters. There were only one or two guys in the prisons who would have had any chance of making it in the cage. Watching two first-timers beat each other to a stand-still, he realised it was the fear and desperation they fought with that made it such a spectacle. They may not have been skilful, but these men, who knew defeat could very well result in their own deaths, fought with every morsel of energy they had left in their bodies. It was gladiatorial stuff and people loved it.
When the novices had finally finished (the larger of the two winning by smashing his opponent’s head repeatedly into the concrete floor until a yellowish liquid pooled around his skull), it was time for the main event. The long reigning prison champion, Warchild, was pitted against a new up-and-coming fighter known simply as The Beast. The aggressive challenger had destroyed his last three opponents; killing two and putting the other in a coma.
It wasn’t unusual for fighters to take names that made them sound like super-villains or wrestling stars. Some of the troopers in the security forces had even started doing it too. Taylor remembered the time when Lennox had come to work insisting the others were to address him as Fight Machine from that day on. The ridiculous new moniker didn’t last, not after Spike spent the rest of the day calling him Fart Machine.
Taylor had seen Warchild fighting before and in his opinion he was by far the best of these warriors. He was a big guy, but
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