FIGHTS: Multimedia excerpt from 'Pit Fighters: Double Cross'

by Bowie Ibarra

The following multimedia passages are from the upcoming ZombieBloodFights.com title, 'Pit Fighters: Double Cross'.  Click on the active links to see fighting maneuvers or music from the story.

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PROLOGUE

            Red leather-clad fists waltzed with the grace of lead slugs blasting forth from shotgun shells, expelled violently from the black barrel of a pump-action shotgun. Their furious crimson collisions against hot flesh sent sour sweat into the air, spinning and twisting like raindrops tossed about in the west wind of a summer rain in south Texas.  The pellets of perspiration pelted the blue canvas like Napalm, splashing down to the mat after their freefall from the human bombers they once tried to cool down.

            The symphony of pain the padded punishers partied to in their time-honored ritual combat were the songs, chants, and calls of the spectators.  Their varied tempos and ranges were tempered by the yelling of their corners, bridging at the commands of an old bald man with a bow tie and blue shirt over black pleated pants and polished black shoes.  The shaman of the ancient ritual watched the dancers intently, providing safety through judgment from the honed eyes of a man who has led many through the combat rite.

            But two men sipping whiskey and watching the fight in a bar far away from the combat sporting event were not impressed.

            “They’re alrecht, dornt ye hink, Angus?”

            “I’ve seen better, Billy,” said Angus, taking a sip from his fifth glass of Chivas Regal whiskey.  “I’ve seen much better.”

The MGM Grand had never been filled to this capacity for a heavyweight boxing title fight.  The crowd in attendance was a raucous combination of high-rolling Americans and loud, rich, and proud hooligans from Great Britain.  Both global factions were cheering loudly for their respective heavyweight boxing heroes.  Fighting out of the red corner was the American boxing Heavyweight Champion, Claudell ‘Dollars’ Jenkins.  Out to claim Claudell’s title was the undefeated U.K. sensation, ‘The Pub Brawler’ Stewart Lethbridge.

“Dae ye min’ when Lethbridge first started, Billy?”

“Ah dae.  Ah kent he’d be guid when ah first saw heem.”

            “Nae, ye didne,” said Angus, chuckling and drawing smoke from his pipe.

Las Vegas was dubbed ‘New London’ by ESPN’s Sportscenter, as the fight weekend found Brits throughout the streets of Vegas.  The fun-loving, yet unruly boxing fans and a smattering of ‘chavs’ indulged in everything Sin City had to offer.  They even dominated the weigh-ins, singing their joyous anthem for Stewart Lethbridge, “Brawler Wonderland”.  The fans sang more with drunken enthusiasm and verve than learned vocal prowess, much to the chagrin of the locals.

            The American crowds supported their boxing star with the less-than-dulcet and mostly monotonous tones of ‘U-S-A, U-S-A’.  It was more of a chant than an actual song. 

The American crowds sounded more like Neanderthals chanting at a campfire, than like the more sophisticated songs of the Brits. The two nations, brought up on their own styles of football with two different sporting traditions and spectator etiquette, were clearly in a clash of civilizations incarnated with the warriors utilizing their knowledge of the sweet science within the ropes of the squared circle.

            “Lethbridge really is the symbol of U.K. toughness,” said the bartender, looking up at the TV screen after passing William and Angus another round of whiskey.  “They say he was raised in Leeds by his hard-drinking father.”

“Alistair Lethbridge,” said Angus.  “He’s a dobber.”

“The lead-up show said Stewart was raised on fighting,” said the bartender.  “Nurtured in drunken aggression’ they said.  Built by the ‘mean streets’ of Leeds.”

“Th’ city whaur every doorstep is a bathroom,” chuckled William. 

“They said Stewart quickly gained a reputation as a feared brawler who fought his first money fight when he was fourteen, beating a man… well, a drunk man, ten years his senior.”

“Speed, tooghness, an’ hate,” said Angus.  “It’s a guid combination fur a fighter.”

            “And sobriety,” said the bartender.  William shot the bartender a look and drank the rest of his drink.

            “He was a rich cheil by seventeen,” said Angus.  “He was fightin’ fer bunsens in back alleys, causey corners, an’ within th’ pubs ay Leeds.”

“Gart heem a rich cheil,” said William.  “Richest in his neighborhood.”

“Yeah,” said the bartender.  “That’s when his dad pointed him to a boxing gym, and, well, here we are watching him fight one of the best in the world.  Maybe best ever in the sport.”

“He’s alrecht,” said William, shaking his head.

            “It was a similar road his adversary had taken,” said the bartender, serving up drinks for the other patrons.  “Claudell Jenkins was the second child in a family of four brothers and three sisters living in the inner city of Chicago near Humbolt Park.  Only two of his siblings knew their real father.  Claudell wasn’t that lucky.”

            “Puir dobber,” said Angus.

“Claudell’s brother fell into the drug and gang scene of Humbolt Park.  Claudell stayed as far away from that and tried desperately to keep his grades up.”

William sighed, wishing the bartender would be quiet so he could watch the fight.

“LaDell, that’s his brother, was initiated into the gang when he was just a seventh grader, and he was breaking into cars and homes by the eighth grade.  He had been in several fights and one gunfight before his ninth grade year.”

“That’s America fur ye,” said William.

            “But get this.  Claudell would escape by spending time alone in his room with his modest hamster farm.  The animals kept him motivated, focused, and away from the dangers outside of his apartment complex.  His mother working two jobs and was never home, it was also the only place he felt any true love and affection.”

“If Ah gie ye a dollar, will ye haud her weesht?” asked Angus as the first round ended on the TV screen.

 The bartender shook his head, not quite understanding what Angus had said.  But he played it off like he had heard it and chuckled.  He continued, “Anyway, the show said he loved the animals, the comfort they provided, and stuff.  And just kind of wished he had that kind of environment to live in.”

“Uh, huh,” grunted William.

“He just wanted that kind of world for himself.  A safe place, so they say.  That’s why when his brother came into his room one night, flying on goofballs, on a rampage, Claudell played ‘Papa Bear’.”

            “Papa bear?” asked Angus.

“Yeah.  LaDell went into his brother’s room and attacked him, tackling him to the bed and pounding him with fists.  Being beat up by his brother was nothing new, but this time was the most vicious beating he ever had.  It was, like, a short flurry, but violent and effective enough to have broken his nose and cut him over the eye. 

“Sae much fur th’ innocent ten-year auld, huh?” said William, taking a drink from his whiskey.

“Especially when his brother made a move on his hamster cage.”

“Not good,” said Angus, watching the next round start.

            “Yeah,” said the bartender, serving up another two whiskey shots for the Scotsmen, who were somehow drinking a little faster.  “He threw the cage against the wall and when the hamsters fell out, he started stomping on them.”

“Oh,” groaned the Scotsmen.  The bartender thought it was a response to the story.  But actually it was a combination that Claudell had unleashed on Lethbridge on the telly.  The bartender turned and looked.  Lethbridge looked hurt before the bell rang, ending the round.

            “Sae, whit happened next?” asked William.

            “Claudell whipped his brother’s ass, that’s what,” said the bartender.  The two Scotsmen laughed and took another swig of whiskey.

            “It’s grottie tae gang efter a man’s pets,” said Angus.

            “No shit,” said the bartender.  “Claudell snapped like a fucking rubber band and just went to town on his brother, they say.  And that’s the moment he turned a corner.  Made him the fighter he is today.  Or at least helped sculpt that part.”

            “Th’ troaps a pure techt sonovabitch, Ah can teel ye ‘at,” said Angus.

“I’ve seen meaner,” said William.

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            Standing to the right of the aged referee, Claudell held up one taped fist for the gaggle of camera people.  The gold and jewel-encrusted green belt of the American Boxing Federation Heavyweight Champion hung buckled on his shoulder as the ref held up his left hand in victory.

            Respectfully, Stewart Lethbridge approached Claudell and shook his hand.

            “You’re one tough blighter, you are,” said the Englishman.  His fat lip made his thick accent that much harder to understand.

            Claudell responded with as much grace and respect as he could muster.  “It’s cool, man.  I’m just the best fighter in the world right now.”

            As the once exclusive ring became cluttered with teammates, management, and photographers, Harry Ledbetter, legendary boxing commentator, entered the ring.  The ancient and opinionated old man was clad in a red blazer with the MGM patch on the pocket.  He approached Claudell for a television interview.

            “I’m standing here next to the ABF Heavyweight Champion Claudell Jenkins.”  He took a deep breath, as if making the last statement took the wind out of him.  “Claudell, you seemed to start slow in the first two rounds.  What was your reasoning for that?”

            The eloquent Claudell answered. 

            “You know, Stewart’s a good boxer.  Strong boxer.  He likes to bring it early, you know.  I was hoping to let him blow his load a little in the first round, you know.  Make him tired.  Make him tired.”

            “Did you consider him stronger than any of your previous opponents?”

            “Yeah.  You know, he’s a tough fighter.  Guys from England are always tough.  I know his fans were giving him power, you know.  He’s got great fans.  But I’m the best in the world right now.  Pound for pound best.  No one can beat me right now.”

            “What’s next for Claudell Jenkins?”

            “I’ll fight whoever they put in front of me.  No one can beat me right now anyway, you know.”

            “Well, you’re very confident right now,” said Captain Obvious.

            But before Ledbetter could finish, Claudell had one more thing to add.

            “And I want to say something right now, Henry.”  Harry thought Claudell was talking to someone else, but then realized the boxer just forgot his name.  “There’s these new fighters out there.  These no-holds-barred fighters who talk a lot of sh…”  Claudell censored himself.  “…a lot of trash about boxing.  How boxing is dead.  That boxing sucks.  Well, if you think you’re so great, come put the gloves on and step in the ring with me.  You think you’re the best?  Well, come and beat the best.”  Claudell was getting worked up, throwing etiquette out the window.  “Shit, you people want to fight me, you martial arts people?  I’ll step in … I’ll go to your backyard and play.  You got me?  I’m the best fighter in the world right now, you know?  Ya’ll can’t beat me.  No one can beat me.  Not in this ring.  Not in that cage.  I’m the best in the world.  No one works harder than me.  No one fights better than me.  I’m just the best.  Those no-holds-barred motherfuckers ain’t got shit on me.  You got me?”

            Ledbetter tried to take control of the situation.  A smile grew across his face, beaming with pride at the champion in spite of the brash rudeness.  Ledbetter took the moment to make a snide remark.  “It will be a cold day in Hell when one of those so-called no-holds-barred fighters finds the courage to step into a fight with you, Claudell.”

            Back in that distant bar in San Uvalde, Texas, a pair of men standing near the television at the exclusive watering hole, Lunker’s Saloon, had a very different opinion.  Dressed in the San Uvalde International red ringer and a red tartan kilt that complimented the shirt, William Campbell and Angus MacDougal took yet another shot of Chivas Regal.  It was a victory toast, in a way, as the challenge thrown down by Claudell ‘Dollars’ Jenkins provided an enormous opportunity for the no-holds-barred heavyweight champion.

            “What do ya’ll think of that?” asked the bartender.

            “A true ‘boxer versus a no-holds-barred fighter’ would draw millions, ya’ ken?” commented Angus in a thick Scottish accent.

            “That’s God’s truth,” said William, taking another drag off of his Rothman cigarette.

            “Ya’ hink ye can drap th’ bampot?”

            “’at bessie has nae chance, he diz.”

            The two men chuckled.

            “Ya’ hae ya’ title defense next week.  Let’s hae ye accept th’ challenge efter th’ barnie, ‘en gab tae Hess abit getting’ tha details.”

            “Indeed.  Boxing versus no-holds-barred.”

            William smiled at the prospect.

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            TALK RADIO FM 1400 – SAN UVALDE SPORTSLINE – MONDAY MORNING

RADIO SPOT – It’s 11a.m.  When the time is right, come to Melton’s for a great selection of diamond and gold jewelry.  When it matters, make it Melton.

Intro to Sportsline – (low intense voice playing over the opening riffs of Cinderella’s

‘Save Me’)  You’re listening to San Uvalde’s home for sports talk radio.  FM 1400 Sportsline with Mac Grey.  (Music slowly fades out as Mac begins talking)

Mac Grey – I gotta tell ya’, I can hear that song every day and it never gets old.  Makes me want to throw on some shoulder pads and hit the football field with the San Uvalde Marauders.  Don’t you think so, Volz?

Larry Volz – I think I like it behind the mic here, Mac.

Mac Grey – No kidding, I guess, considering how the Eagle Pass Toros roughed up the
Marauders Friday night at the Honey Bowl.

Larry Volz – It was a physical game.

(Car wreck sound effect is heard.)

Mac Grey – 21-14, Marauders.  But they were punished at every turn by the Toros’

defense.

Larry Volz – Eagle Pass has always been a physical and punishing team.

Mac Grey – And speaking of punishing, Claudell ‘Dollars’ Jenkins… punished British

Invader Stewart Lethbridge at the MGM Grand Saturday night.

Larry Volz – I had my money on ‘The Pub Brawler’ and was surprised at the outcome.

Mac Grey – You picked Lethbridge to win?

(Laugh sound effect)

Larry Volz – I picked Lethbridge to win.  Thought it would end early.  I was clearly

wrong.

Mac Grey – (Teasing)  What kind of broadcast partner do I have over here now? 

(Chuckles)  Clearly, indeed.  (Laugh track).  Claudell ‘Dollars’ Jenkins gets the decisive KO late in the fifth.  And it looks like ‘Dollars’, as arrogant as he is, is unstoppable.

Larry Volz – I couldn’t pick anyone in the current heavyweight division, even super

heavyweight division, who can match the skills and speed of Claudell Jenkins.

Mac Grey – Which is why he must have chosen to call out the mixed… what is that sport
again?  The human cockfight?

Larry Volz – Mixed martial arts.  He called out…

Mac Grey – (interrupting) Yeah, the mixed martial arts people.  You know, these guys…

(shuffles papers) these guys, they get in a cage and they fight like animals.  Is this like bear baiting?

Larry Volz – Mac, it’s nothing like that.  It’s actually an interesting sport and…

Mac Grey – You call it a sport?  Really?

Larry Volz – Mac, there are rules.  It’s still a … it’s a controlled environment.  They

don’t use weapons or anything.

Mac Grey – But it’s in a cage?  What kind of sport is in a cage?

Larry Volz – It was just a convention used in its inception, you could use anything now. 

A ring.  A flat surface.

Mac Grey – Well, it will never be as big as boxing.

Larry Volz – It’s growing in popularity, though, Mac.  You might be surprised.

Mac Grey – Well.  Time will tell.  Wade has… what?  (indistinct voice in background) 

Oh, O.K.  We have Lewis from the San Uvalde Voice on the line.  Go ahead, Lewis.

Lewis – Hey, Mac.  Mixed martial arts is the future, good sir.

Mac Grey – What do you mean, Lewis?  Lewis,… by the way for those listening for the

first time,… Lewis is the editor for…

Lewis – (Interrupting) …for the San Uvalde Voice, Mac.  You said it before I came on. 

(chuckles)

Mac Grey – Oh, yeah.  Well, not a bad thing, right?

Lewis – Duh!

Mac Grey – Alright, that’s enough out of you.  (Laugh track).  I get enough abuse here

with Larry.  Right, Larry?

Larry Volz – Yeah, that’s me.  Mr. Abuse.

Mac Grey – Alright, Lewis.  Tell us why human cockfighting is the wave of the future.

Lewis – Listen, I don’t … first of all, let me state that I am a big fan of boxing.  Huge. 

Duran.  Spinx.  Holmes.  Tyson.  Cooney.  I was there…um..Leonard…

Mac Grey – Cooney?  Seriously?

Lewis – Cooney’s left hook was the stuff of legend, Mac.  C’mon, now?  Listen, my

point is that I am a fan of boxing.  Mixed martial arts is just another combat sport,
like boxing, with extra elements added.

Mac Grey – Eye gouging?  Finger breaking?

Lewis – Mac, there’s no eye gouging or finger breaking.

Larry Volz – Maybe in a street fight, but not in the cage.

Lewis – Thanks, Larry.  Anyway, it’s one part boxing, one part Thai kickboxing, one part

wrestling, one part jiu-jitsu… just a lot of fighting styles combined, O.K.?  And that’s what makes it exciting.  The elements, all the elements…  You could see a great… you could see some great hand techniques combined with kicks.  You could see a great high throw combined with a joint lock or leg lock.  It’s just a larger fight game.

Mac Grey – Well, what do you say… what do you think of ‘Dollars’ calling out these

kinds of fighters?  A comparable sized mixed fighter to take on Jenkins in the ring.

Lewis – I think its, personally, quite exciting.  The prospect of it….  I think any promoter

who’s smart and has deep pockets, naturally would be smart to book this fight.  It would settle a lot of the controversy over which style of fighting is better.  I’ll put it to you like this, if Jenkins goes to the ground, he’s in trouble because his major weapon, his hands, would be nullified.  Is this in a … what? … a boxing ring?

Mac Grey – Yeah.

Lewis – So, boxing rules, or what?

Mac Grey – I’m pretty sure that’s correct.

Lewis – (Inhales with mouth open and teeth together)  Man, that’s a tough one.  Which,

to me, clearly distinguishes the sports… the two sports.  If a boxer is boxing a mixed martial artist under boxing rules, then its advantage boxer.  But if it’s a boxer in the cage, he’s got a puncher’s chance in the very, very early going if he can stay on his feet, like I said.

(Cinderella’s ‘Save Me’ starts up again)

Mac Grey – Which is all a good boxer like Jenkins needs, Lewis.  Lewis, from the San

Uvalde Voice.  Thanks Lewis.  We’ll be right back with the coach of the San Uvalde Marauders and a new training exercise for your young future Marauder.  We’ll be right back.

Voice Over – You’re listening to Sportsline with Mac Grey on FM 1400 KUOV, San

Uvalde’s home for sports talk and country music.

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Chapter 1

The “Mark”

 
            “Do you give up?”

            “NO!”
            El Aire, El Rey del Cielo, was stuck in a vicious arm-trap crossface by Krayger, who was one half of the psychotic tag team The Asylum.  Krayger cranked the neck of the masked Mexican lucha libre superstar and San Uvalde International member.  The move was a double threat on El Aire’s health, as the trapped arm was also skillfully cranked at the shoulder and hyper-extending the elbow.  The move was debilitating and taking the fight out of the Mexican lucha libre hero.

            Krayger’s long brown and sweaty hair hung across his face.  Strings of hair fell into his mouth.  A goatee wrapped around his lips in a stylish villain look.  Coupled with his black leather biker pants, black singlet, and matching boots, he was quite imposing.  A black skull tattoo sat on one arm, set on the skin as if it were silently judging every person who gazed upon it.  And there were many people in the crowd this evening at the Honeycomb Saloon, ready to watch the gladiators fight it out in a ring positioned on the dance floor.

            “Don’t hold back, Krayger!  Break his arm!” yelled Krayger’s tag team partner from outside the ring.  Slightly larger than Krayger, Sage was the power man of The Asylum.  Long fiery red hair and a thick red beard hung over his black Asylum shirt.  He wore faded and worn Wrangler blue jeans and snakeskin boots. A rodeo championship belt buckle was latched to his belt.  He slapped the mat in an effort to cheer on his partner who was moments away from claiming victory.

            The crank was putting tremendous pressure on El Aire’s neck, and the trapped arm was moving closer and closer to snapping.  The move found El Aire lying flat on his stomach with Krayger lying across the masked man’s back, forming a kind of t-shape.  Aire’s arm was pulled backward and locked between Krayger’s legs.  Krayger’s fingers were locked just below El Aire’s nose, providing even more discomfort.  His upper body was under total control by Krayger.

            “Do you give up?” asked the referee again.

            El Aire could not vocalize his answer.  So instead, Aire shook the index finger on his free hand in the negative.

            With the crowd cheering for El Aire, he maneuvered his lower body toward the nearest rope.  His leg was inches away from hooking the bottom rope, but he still needed to maneuver a few steps closer.  Digging deep, El Aire threw his left leg over the bottom rope, allowing a break to the hold by the referee.

            But the referee’s back was turned away from the leg.  Sage took full advantage on the outside of the ring and threw the leg off the rope.  He chuckled with sadistic glee in front of the rabid and angry crowd, yelling, “Crank it, Krayger!”

            The referee, however, did notice the movement of the bottom rope and turned to see Sage on the outside.  He suspected Aire had initiated a break, but had no evidence to make the call.  So he repositioned himself to watch Aire’s legs and Sage.

            Closer to the ropes, Aire once again threw his leg on the rope.  This time, the referee saw it.  He called for Krayger to break the hold.

            Instead, Krayger held on to the hold and cranked just a little bit longer.  The evil heel knew he had a five count by the referee before he was disqualified.  Krayger took the quick count by the referee to four before breaking the hold.

            “C’mon, Krayger,” chided the ref.  “Let go of the hold when I tell you!”

            Krayger pulled the referee in a position that turned the official’s back to El Aire, who had crawled to the second rope to catch his breath.  He dangled on the second rope, rubbing his injured neck and cradling his strained elbow.

            Sensing yet another opportunity at skullduggery as Krayger argued with the ref, Sage moved to the crowd.  Reaching over into the audience, he threw a young child out of his seat and grabbed the metal chair the boy was sitting on.  Folding it flat and grabbing it by the legs, he lifted it up and swung the chair against the masked superstar’s head.  The crack of steel against skull made the crowd groan in unison.  El Aire melted back into the ring, flat on his back, like a wax candle in the summer sun.

            Krayger smiled with delight, shoving the ref to one side and quickly going for the cover.  He hooked a leg as the ref slid to the mat to start the three count.  Krayger began to chuckle, a huge smile on his face as the ref slapped the two count on the mat. 

            “Yes,” said Krayger, eyes closed with a wellspring of evil joy filling his heart with delight.

            But the three count never came.  El Aire had put his leg on the rope again, breaking the count and freeing him from the pin attempt.

            In anger, Krayger rose to his knees and got in the referee’s face.  The ref held up two fingers and yelled, “Two!”  Krayger responded by slapping his hands, yelling, “One, two, three, godammit!”

            Frustrated, Krayger lifted the still dazed El Aire to his feet and pushed him against the rope.  He then stomped the mat three times to signal to the fans he was about to unleash his Krayger Kick, a variation of the legendary Super Kick made famous by “Gentleman” Chris Adams (7:40 mark).

            “Adios, amigo!” yelled Krayger, bouncing El Aire off the rope to the other side of the ring.  Aire hit the ropes on the other side, bouncing back toward Krayger at a high rate of speed.  Krayger fired off his kick, bounding forward to meet El Aire with the knockout kick to the chin, only to have the luchador forward-roll under the vaunted Krayger finisher.  Flying back to his feet, El Aire bounced off the rope and took to the air.  Turning around in confusion, Krayger was hit with an immaculate “Mexican Hammer”, a flying forearm smash made famous by TitoSantana.  El Aire’s forearm smacked against Krayger’s head, knocking him on his back as El Aire landed on the mat.  The luchador quickly hooked a leg and went for the cover, but was unsuccessful in the pin attempt as Krayger got a shoulder up moments before three.

            With the momentum shifting clearly to his side, El Aire planned to utilize another air assault, a flying headbutt in the tradition of Mil Mascaras.  El Aire lifted Krayger to his feet and pushed him to the ropes, bouncing him off the tightly-bound barriers and sent him flying to the opposite set of ropes.

            As Krayger passed the center of the ring, twisting to meet the opposite ropes, El Aire dashed to the opposite set of ropes.  As he bounced forward, he stumbled.  One of his legs had been grabbed by Sage from the outside.  El Aire turned to face the adversary on the outside and yelled at him.

            “Mira que hijo de la chingada!”

            “Speak English, you wetback sonovabitch!”

            “You better run, culo!  You’re next!”

            The brief moment had allowed Krayger to grab the opposite ropes, stopping his anticipated rebound cold.  Seeing El Aire with his back turned, he repositioned himself to gain the proper range.

            As El Aire turned around, Krayger pulled the trigger for the Krayger kick, landing flush with El Aire’s chin.  The pinpoint strike sent El Aire flat on his back on the mat, knocking him out cold. 

            Krayger’s pin was academic, and as the opening chords of Metallica’s ‘Welcome Home (Sanitarium)’ began, Sage joined his partner in triumph in the ring.

 

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            When El Aire awoke, he could see the arena lights above the ring.  At first, he thought they were angels, then feared he was on an operating table.  When referee Abel Zamora’s face appeared in his vision, he knew he was not in Heaven or the operating room.  Abel was neither an angel nor a doctor, and had qualifications for neither.  Abel got his degree at a tech college.  He would do no surgery tonight, though the lights above the ring did seem to give him a halo.

            El Aire rose to his rear to see The Asylum still congratulating each other with the giddiness of two high school troublemakers who had just dropped a cherry bomb in a toilet in the teacher’s workroom.  His jaw hurt like hell, but his neck felt worse.  The pain in both those areas were so bad that he ignored the pain in his hyper extended arm.

            The kick did him no favors in recovering from his mixed martial arts fight.  The boxer from Mexico,  ‘El Rey de Chingasos’ Pedro Medrano, that he had fought in the first round of the FPG tournament and the savate fighter from France had worked him over good.  El Aire hadn’t given himself time to heal properly.

            As the dastardly duo made their way through the curtain, El Aire rose to his feet.  With assistance from referee Zamora, the masked luchador stepped out of the ring.

            It was a frustrating loss.  He had let his anger get the best of him.  He knew full well Sage would be ringside and anticipated plenty of dirty tactics from the redneck devil.  The momentum was clearly on his side, and he let the anger get the best of him.  The Asylum had been a thorn in his side since their debut at the Joe and Harry Freeman Coliseum in San Antonio.  It was clear The Asylum had El Aire’s number, as the luchador had not notched one win against either of them.

            The fans at the Honeycomb Saloon were thankful and appreciative of El Aire’s efforts.  They held out their hands to touch the lucha legend, and he kindly held his uninjured arm to them.

            Amid the kind comments and respectful salutations, a voice spoke up.  The owner of the voice was clearly setting himself apart from the other fans, considering the peculiar offer he was making.

            “Let me manage you, Mr. Aire, sir.  Please.  I can do it, I swear.  You’re my biggest hero and inspiration.  Please give me a chance.”

            Continuing to move forward, El Aire turned to look at the fan.  He was a young Hispanic man, perhaps in his early to mid-twenties.  He wore glasses and a Lord Trevor Mims shirt, a British heel in one of the biggest East Coast pro-wrestling leagues.  A red flannel stood open.  Wranglers and ultra-lites bottomed out his peculiar wardrobe as he continued moving through the crowd in a most impolite manner.

            El Aire held out his hand to the fan to slap it in friendship, not considering that the guy might grab it, which he did.

            “Please, sir.  Teach me.  Let me be your student.  Let me learn from you,” the young man begged.

            El Aire jerked his hand away.  Ignoring the pleas, he headed through the curtain to the dressing room.  Behind him, the annoying fan continued to beg.

            “Please, El Aire.  Teach me!”

 

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            El Aire cooled down in a corner of the storage room that served as his dressing space.  He wiped himself down with a small towel.  The suit he had arrived in was hanging in its protective bag.  With no place to shower, it was time for him to head to his home at Cenizo Bluffs on the north side of San Uvalde.

            As he stood up, the promoter for the indy outfit, Tommy Luna, entered.  He held a stuffed white envelope with El Aire’s name written in Sharpie along the flat side.

            “Thank you, El Aire.  I’m sorry things did not work out so good for you tonight.”

            “It’s alright, Tommy,” El Aire responded.  “I’ll get them some day.”

            They both chuckled.

            As Tommy was walking to the door, El Aire remembered something.  “Hey Tommy.  I have some young talent back at the San U facility I’ve been training.  I think a couple of them are ready.  Can you book a couple of them to curtain-jerk in about a month or two?”

            “Anything for you, Aire,” said Tommy with a smile.  They shook hands as Tommy walked out.

            El Aire trusted Tommy, but still checked the envelope.  Three hundred and fifty dollars cash, lined up in twenties and tens, filled the envelope.

            Fifty extra dollars on top of the agreed upon amount, thought El Aire.  Concessions must have been good tonight.

            El Aire sat back, leaning against the wall.  He reached for a plastic bag filled with ice water that sat beside him.  The condensation from the bag was soaking the bench in water.  He lifted up the bag and placed it on his neck.

            Working professional wrestling and mixed martial arts was quite a challenge.  Participating in both sports endeavors was a bit of an anomaly in the U.S.  But it was a common practice of his Japanese counterparts.  But it was hard for El Aire to figure out what was worse.  Was the almost daily pounding in a pro-wrestling ring bad?  Or were the rigors of training that culminated in a battle where there are no rope breaks or refs to scold fighters for close fists worse? 

            MMA is a physical challenge, but so is professional wrestling.  There is most certainly an entertainment aspect to pro-wrestling, and America does not take the sport as serious as the Japanese.  The Japanese would never disrespect the sport by calling it fake or phony like American fans.

            But the physicality is most certainly real.  Ask John Stossel what happened when he asked Dr. David Shultz if pro-wrestling was fake.  Ask any person who says its fake to sit in Krayger’s Arm Trap Crossface, or to take the same chair shot from Sage he had taken earlier that night.  It takes a very special athlete to be a pro-wrestler, just like it takes a very special breed of human to be a mixed martial arts star.  Both deserve respect for the entertainment they provide.

            El Aire placed the ice water bag back on the bench, then reached for his San Uvalde International shirt, throwing it on over his clammy torso.  He didn’t have a female friend joining him on this evening, so he didn’t need to freshen up.  The Elena debacle made him cool down on the dating scene.  Women were trouble, and despite enjoying their company in more ways than one, it was better to keep them at a distance.

            At least for tonight.

            Aire reached for the ice bag before taking his secured suit off the hook.  He walked outside to his vehicle.

$   $   $   $

PIT FIGHTERS: DOUBLE CROSS is now available via Kindle and paperback at Amazon.com.

BOWIE IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press and Simon and Shuster.  Network with Bowie at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.com.

ZOMBIES: Excerpt from 'The Cruel Fate of Dr. Brewster McGill'

by Bowie Ibarra

The following passages are from the ZombieBloodFights.com story, 'The Cruel Fate of Dr. Brewster McGill' that will be available soon on Amazon.com in Kindle and paperback.

1.  THE EYE OF MICTLANTECUTLI

      In the year of our Lord, 1855

Eagle Pass, a trading post on the border of the New Republic of Texas

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I, The Great Valdar, will wield power from beyond our world to perform my greatest feat.  It’s a piece of sorcery that will forever curse my soul to eternal damnation by our dear Christian God, forbidding my soul from ever setting foot in the Land of Milk and Honey.  Leave now, my friends, if you don’t want to be a part of this bittersweet piece of cruel blasphemy.  For I, The Great Valdar, am about to raise the dead!”

The captivated crowd gasped in awe as the mustachioed magician made a flourish with his purple-lined cape, walking back to his box that sat on a stool at the center right side of the stage.  The members of the audience had all paid a nickel to see the diabolical magic he promised to wield that had been promoted on sandwich boards around town.  The large bar was roomy.  A cool breeze whipped up every so often from the mouth of the cantina, providing relief from the warm south Texas air.

The Eagle Pass crowd immediately became agitated as they watched The Great Valdar prepare his dark sorcery.  The Eagle Pass crowd immediately became agitated at the sight of The Great Valdar preparing his dark sorcery.  Agitated voices began to dance around the wooden walls of El Gallo Loco Cantina #3, located just a short stroll away from the Rio Grande.  Perturbed whispers of distress and fear sang a song of paranoia in English and Spanish.  Whores gripped the arms of their johns.  Small children held themselves close to their mothers.  One man took a sip from his beer, snorting skeptically.

Suspicion laced the words of two men seated in the back of the dusty cantina.  They sat at a wooden round table, dirty from a full day of use without cleaning.  Two glasses laced with the remnants of L’Amour Whiskey stood beside the bottle of the fine Austin beverage.

“Is this guy playin’ aroun’, Jesus?” asked one man with a strong Texas accent.  When he pronounced Jesus’ name in Spanish, the only way he’d ever heard it said, it sounded more like ‘Hay-zeus’.

“Yo no sé, Señor Johnson,” came the reply from under the flat-rimmed black hat.  Tiny orbs of fabric dangled fashionably around the rim.  “Creo que no.”

“I don’t think so, either, Jesus,” said Johnson, blowing a puff of smoke out of his mouth he had inhaled out of a thick cigar.  “But ah reckon we’ll see wut this cabron kin do.  He ain’t shown too much jist yet.”

The Great Valdar returned to the downstage center position.  He held aloft a shrouded object with an aloof air.  He raised an eyebrow theatrically under his red turban, flashing a crooked smile between the whiskers of his well-kept goatee.

“In my hand is the most dangerous, most powerful, and most un-Christian thing you will ever see in your life, ladies and gentlemen.  It is the very thing that is going to raise the dead before your very eyes tonight.”

A general rush of whispers and light chatter filled the room yet again in Spanish and English.  Then a collective gasp took a massive amount of air out of the room temporarily as The Great Valdar unveiled the hidden object in his hand.

      Throwing off the red silk cover, The Great Valdar held a large multi-colored and finely crafted jewel aloft.  He slowly displayed it to the audience, who gazed at it with hypnotic fascination.

      Mr. Johnson turned to Jesus.  He raised his eyebrows, nodding.

      “This, ladies and gentlemen, is The Eye of Mictlantecuhtli.  I found this pagan relic while exploring a still-hidden ancient Aztec temple in the sweltering jungles of the Yucatan.  With it was a mysterious Aztec codex, the Mictlantecuhtli Codex I call it, that held the secrets of raising the dead.”

      “Is that right?” whispered Mr. Johnson, drawn in.  He inhaled the tobacco smoke from the cigar again, letting the smoke waft out of his nose.  Jesus took another shot of whiskey.

      The Great Valdar took on a melodramatic pose, holding the jewel by his face and running his hand by the jewel.  His fingers seemed to dance across the jewel as they passed.  Light passed through the beautiful prize and painted his face with the puzzlingly unnatural colors of the magical object.  He continued with his dramatic flare and inflection.

            “I found an old shaman in the mountains of Monterrey, Mexico, who was a descendent of the Aztecs who could decipher the codex.  He didn’t want to help, scared of the curse that might be unleashed on the world.  But I know the Mexican weakness for gold and silver, and it took only a few pieces of eight to convince him to help.”

Jesus turned to Mr. Johnson and grinned.

Valdar then said, “The shaman translated the pictograph into the native language of the Aztecs.  I wrote down what he said, verbatim.  He then added an additional spell in Spanish that would supplement the Aztec spell.  He told me yet again it was dangerous to learn the spell and use it.  But I simply passed him some silver.  He taught me.”

The audience chuckled.  An audience member shouted “¡Mira que cabron este!”

Then, The Great Valdar said, “I then showed the man The Eye.  All he said was, ‘El Ojo.  El Ojo.’  Then he ran away.  I never saw him again.  And now, I will show you its power.  The very same power from the past that the Aztec clerics used.  The same power that made a descendent of the Aztecs run away in fear. 

Valdar’s voice rose to a crescendo.  “Tonight, you will see the power of The Eye of Mictlantecuhtli.  Señorita Brenda,” he shouted, “Bring in the dead man that will rise today!”

The crowd fell into yet another round of jibber-jabber.  ‘A dead man?’ they whispered.  Mr. Johnson turned to Jesus.  Jesus just shrugged.

The Great Valdar’s assistant, the lovely Mexican woman, who was dubbed Señorita Brenda, wheeled out a  pine-box coffin that appeared to have been recently dug up.  Little chunks of dirt and grass tumbled onto the stage as she propped the closed coffin up at an angle.  The stench of the contents quickly proved to everyone there was truly a dead body in the box.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is a coffin from a grave on the edge of town.  Inside is a body just a few months old.  Señorita Brenda,” he said with a flourish, “open the coffin.”

Señorita Brenda took out a crowbar.  She jammed the iron under the lid and started to jimmy the coffin open.  The muscles under her tanned-brown skin and fishnet-laced legs rippled as she jimmied the sections of the lid loose.  When she had maneuvered the cover loose, she stepped away.  Her red heels clicked across the wooden stage as she raised her hands in a manner to present the rotted contents of the coffin.  She flashed a smile that was a bizarre contrast to the upcoming gruesome revelation.

“And now,” said Valdar with yet another flourish, “welcome our deceased friend back from the grave.”

The Great Valdar flung open the coffin.  The crowd gasped as the corpse on the inside was revealed.  Its arms were folded across its chest.  Its skin was rotted and gray.  Its stiff legs seemed ready to buckle under the weight of its remains.  People began speculating on the identity of the dead person as The Great Valdar spoke.

Mr. Johnson poured himself another shot of L’Amour Whiskey, then took the shot.  He was excited at the prospect of seeing an event of supernatural proportions.

“Tonight, for a brief moment, I will bring life back to this poor soul before returning it to the dark world of death.  You will be witnesses.”

Señorita Brenda placed a stool in front of the coffin.  On the stool stood a small carved pedestal.  Valdar placed The Eye on the custom pedestal and stepped away.

“I need silence from the room,” he said melodramatically.  “Señora Brenda,  bring me the Mictlanteuhtli Codex!”

Señorita Brenda walked up to him with a book, her heels clicking with every step.  It was large, but not thick with pages.  It was elaborately bound with leather and gilded trim.  “This is the book containing the ancient spell,” he said, holding it aloft.  “It is the written translation of the words the shaman gave me, the words of the Mictlanteuhtli Codex.  It is supplemented with a spell from an alleged Mexican Book of the Dead.”

The crowd gasped and whispered again, ‘Book of the Dead?’ they muttered.

The Great Valdar raised an eyebrow, then said, “I will once again need silence to cast the spell with precision…”  He then paused dramatically.  “… or else he will be doomed to walk this earth forever.”

The crowd once again fell into a series of frightened murmurs followed by a series of ‘shushes’ before Valdar shouted “Silence!”  The audience responded, gazing at Valdar, waiting with bated breath to see if his claim were true.

Valdar bowed his head.  He took a deep breath in, then slowly exhaled.  A small child in the front row did the same, mesmerized by the act.

He then began to chant in the long-lost language.  The words were completely indecipherable to the locals.  Most of them had a general grasp of their native languages.  Their own writing skills were adequate at best.  Their faith and knowledge of the Bible was first and foremost on their minds.  They all knew they were watching something completely forbidden by their faith.  They stayed anyway, in spite of the earful they would get if their family pastor or priest found out about their misadventure.

But now, The Great Valdar was their priest, a shaman, channeling an ancient Aztec cleric whose words had not burst through the air for centuries, falling on the ears of the descendants whose relatives might have had a hand in their final annihilation.  They were the same descendants who had paid a nickel to be a part of the pagan congregation, the ritual.

Valdar repeated the chant.  Louder.  With deeper meaning.

All eyes were on the cadaver.  The dust of the dead lingered on its clothes, unlikely parts of the spectacle.

Mr. Johnson looked at Jesus.  Jesus just shook his head.

Then, The Great Valdar added the supplemental Spanish spell.  His fervor drew beads of sweat around his forehead just under his turban.

Every eye was still focused on the dead body.  Even the lovely Señorita Brenda was watching with curious fascination, as if she had never watched Valdar cast the spell before.  They were both all show business.

Then it happened.

It started with a twitch of the left hand.  The left index finger, to be exact.  The movement brought a gasp from the crowd, followed by ‘shushes’.  They focused in again.  Valdar was chanting both spells now.  The Eye began to shimmer, subtly at first, then very distinctly.

The corpse’s legs twitched, bringing dust to life with a puff.  Then again, bringing another gasp from the crowd.

Then with a sharp inhale, the corpse opened its eyes.  Its mouth opened, drawing in a strained breath.  It coughed.  Dust flew from its mouth.  The breathing was troubled, as if there was issue with its lungs.

But one thing was for sure:  the dead corpse had risen.

The crowd broke into cries of terror and shouts for Christian mercy in English and Spanish.  Bedlam fell on El Gallo Loco #3.  Even Mr. Johnson and Jesus were stunned.

“Ay, carancho!” shouted Jesus.

“I’ll be goddamed,” whispered Mr. Johnson.  “It’s moving.”

“Eets alive, Señor,” said Jesus.  “¡Santa Maria!” he exclaimed, making the sign of the cross.

“Silence!” shouted Valdar.  “Silence, now, or this ungodly abomination will be stuck in our world forever.”

The crowd shushed itself back into silence, watching the cadaver try to focus on the crowd with hampered vision.  The sad way it was trying to figure out where it was sent shivers down the spines of the audience.

“Is this real?” asked Mr. Johnson in disbelief.

“Sí, Señor,” said Jesus, flabbergasted.

“I will now command the ghoul to bend to my will before I send it back to the spirit world where it arrived from.  I need silence,” commanded Valdar.

The crowd obeyed and watched.

“Foul devil spawn,” shouted Valdar, holding his hands up in the air, ever the wild-west sorcerer.  “ You are under the spell of The Eye of Mictlanteuhtli, and under my command.  Speak now if you can hear me.”

The awakened ghoul moved its head before making a gurgling vocalization that brought another cry of terror from the audience.

“Silence,” shouted Valdar, turning back to the ghoul.  He gave the audience a moment to recover before delivering another command.  “Lift your right arm up in the air.”

It was a simple command.  One that Valdar seemed assured it would perform.  The act would be so simple, yet so effective in illustrating the revived ghoul’s new life.  The living dead creature accepting and performing the command would be enough to show the power of The Eye.

The ghoul looked down at its right arm, as if taking a moment to recall the fact it could actually perform the feat.

Then, to the amazement of the crowd, the ghoul raised the arm.

The audience applauded in shocked appreciation.

“Ya’ know what we could do to our business with somethin’ like that?” asked Mr. Johnson.

Jesus just nodded.

“We could do some thangs with that there Eye.”

Jesus just nodded.

Mr. Johnson poured out two more shots, one for Jesus and himself.  “Here’s to tha Eye of Mictaint-whatever tha hell,” he said, raising his glass.  “Tonight, that lil’ piece of magic will be mine.”

 

[] [] []

 

            “We made a dollar and fifteen cents tonight,” said The Great Valdar with excitement.  He sat before a table lined with silver coins and silver certificates in their tent near the Rio Grande.  The river continued to flow below as it had for centuries, carving itself into the walls of earth. 

Valdar smiled as Brenda walked up behind him.  She placed her hands on his shoulders.  “We’re going to make it, Brenda,” he whispered as her soft hands touched his skin.  “This will bring us to just over seventy dollars.

“I knew this time would come,” she said in a heavy Mexican accent.  “We can finally build a home and start our family.”

The Great Valdar rose from his seat.  He took Brenda in a warm embrace.  “I love you, Brenda,” he said, kissing her lips.  Brenda returned the kiss with equal affection.  The fire of their love was lit, and was about to burn hot under the cool light of the moon.

It wasn’t hard to find the campsite of The Great Valdar on the outskirts of Eagle Pass.  He had cordoned off an area for his carriage, horses, and tent.  The carriage was clearly marked with an artistic sign that read, “The Great Valdar, with The Lovely Señorita Brenda”.  The arrogance of his celebrity left him completely vulnerable.  It was a fact that was not lost on Mr. Johnson and Jesus.  They crept up to the tent.  The sound of vigorous rutting danced in their ears.

            “This is gonna be so easy,” whispered Jesus.  They infiltrated the tent.

            “I hope ya’ll ‘ill forgive us fer walkin’ in on ya’ll mid-poke,” said Mr. Johnson, guns drawn along with Jesus, who held both of his.  “But ya have somethin’ that yer gonna give ta’ me tonight.”

            Jesus held the cold iron of his two pistols directly on the warm flesh of The Great Valdar’s back.  He was flat on top of The Lovely Señorita Brenda, in full missionary mode, when Mr. Johnson and Jesus walked in on them.

            “What in God’s name is this?” protested The Great Valdar, meekly.

            “Cayete lo sico, cabron,” growled Jesus, telling them very rudely to be quiet.

            “Forgive mah Mexican friend here fer bein’ short with ya’ll.  We’re just here on business.”

            “Let me up and I’ll help you,” offered Valdar.

            “No te mueves, cabron,” snarled Jesus, jamming the guns into Valdar’s back, pushing him back down on Señorita Brenda.  Valdar groaned in pain, lacing the vocalization with fear like a small dog that had been kicked by a cruel owner.

            “Okay, okay,” groaned Valdar.  “Just… please don’t hurt us.”

            “All in good time, Valdar.  All in good time,” said Johnson, replacing his guns in their holsters.  “Now, I know yer name’s ain’t Valdar.  Whut is it?”

            “Billy Bob.  Billy Bob Hickman.”

            “Nice to meet you, Billy Bob.  My name’s Zibeon Johnson.  This here is my friend Jesus,” he said, indicating the cruel gunman scowling at the couple.  Zibeon removed his hat and placed it over his heart.  “We really enjoyed yer show tonight, Mr. Hickman,” said Zibeon with sincerity.  “We ‘preciate ‘cha bringin’ such fine innertainment to our border community.”

Billy Bob shivered.  “Thank you.”

Zibeon replaced his hat on his head.  “So, where ya’ from, Billy Bob Hickman?  Doesn’t sound like yer from these parts.”

            “Austin.  We’re from Austin.”

            “Austin, huh?” he said, leaning down near Valdar and Señorita Brenda’s faces.  “Weird folk up ‘ere in Austin, I reckon.  Well, if ya ever wanna git back ta good ol’ Austin, swim in that big ol’ Colorada River, you do what I say, ah’right?”

            “Alright,” Billy Bob groaned.  Señorita Brenda was already whimpering in fear.

            Billy Bob looked at Brenda, putting his finger to his lips.  “Shhh.”

            Zibeon frowned.  “Ya might wanna tell yer friend ta stop her belly-achin’.  Jesus here, he don’t like no belly-achin’.”

            Billy Bob looked Brenda in the eyes.  He could smell her fear.  He wiped away her tears with his thumbs, gently kissing her on the head.  “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to calm her.  “We’ll be fine.”

            Brenda looked into Billy Bob’s eyes.  She had known him long enough and well enough to know when he was lying.

“Now, tell me where that Eye is,” demanded Zibeon.

            Billy Bob hesitated.  Jesus pulled the hammers back on the large pistols he held steady on the magician’s back.

            “¡Díganos!” shouted Brenda, scared.

            “¡Sí!  Dígalo gringo baboso,” growled Jesus.

            “Okay, okay,” said Billy Bob, folding to the pressure to reveal the location.  “It’s in that box over there,” he said, indicating a box clearly marked, ‘The Eye of Mictlantecuhtli.’

            Zibeon walked to the box.  He reached down for it, then stopped.  It was too easy.

            He turned back to Billy Bob, skinning one of his lightning sticks.

            “Now, Billy boy,” he said, pointing his piece at Billy Bob, “I wan‘cha ta tell me where The Eye really is.”

            Billy Bob hesitated again.  So Zibeon discharged his weapon, sending a bullet just above Billy Bob’s head.  Billy Bob and Señorita Brenda screamed in terror.

            “Now, Billy Bob.  I’m gonna ask ya’ again.  An’ I wan’cha to tell me tha truth, or I’m gonna plug the hussy.  Compren-day?”

            “Under the cot,” said Billy Bob quickly.  “It’s under the cot.”

            Keeping the gun trained on Billy Bob, Zibeon leaned down to lift the blanket that was concealing not only the location of The Eye, but the naked magician and his assistant.  Zibeon glanced at Señorita Brenda’s naked body still smushed up against Billy Bob and poked her warm breast with the cold barrel of the pistol.  It was arousing, but he was more excited by the power he was soon going to wield with The Eye.

            Then, he saw it.  A black velvet bag was nestled up to the custom pedestal from the show.  The book with the spells stood under the items.

            Zibeon reholstered his sidearm and reached for the bag.  He lifted the bag upside down, dumping the large jewel into his hand.  It’s irregular colors caught minimal light from the lantern in the tent, sending small rays of color to his face.

            “It’s beautiful,” whispered Zibeon.  The rays of color emanating from the jewel were hypnotizing.

            “One of a kind,” said Billy Bob.

A necklace fell out of the bag.  Zibeon picked it up, asking, “What’s this?”

“The Heart of Mictlantecuhtli,” said Billy Bob.  “It controls the power of The Eye.  You need them both for its magic to work.”

“Handy,” said Zibeon, putting both items back in the bag.

            “But you won’t get away with this,” claimed Billy Bob, impotently.  “You won’t.”

            Zibeon picked up the spell book that was also nearby, then stood up.  “Considerin’ tha circumstance, I think we will.”

            “What do you mean?” asked Billy Bob.  “You mean to kill us?”

            “I ain’t gonna kill ya’, Billy boy,” said Zibeon, indicating his partner.  “Jesus, on tha other hand, is goin’ to,” he said, crouching down beside the two.  “See, Jesus here, he don’t like no gringos.  Especially ones that try ‘ta trick him.”

            “No.  No,” pleaded Billy Bob.

            “And he ‘specially don’t like no gringos who say they’re gonna report this… business deal… to the sheriff.  Compren-day?”

            “Please,” pleaded Billy Bob as Miss Brenda began to whimper again.  “You can’t do this.”

            Zibeon tipped his straw hat.  “Much obliged, Valdar.”

Turning around, Zibeon saw the table covered with silver and silver certificates.  “Hello,” he said before smiling.  “Well, then,” he said, refilling the leather bag by the table that the money had been placed in, taking it with him and saying, “I promise we’ll put this ta good use fer ya.”  Zibeon then walked out of the tent, leaving them at the mercy of Jesus.

            “Por el infierno, cabrones,” growled Jesus as he pulled the trigger to both of the large pistols.

            The two bullets were slapped to life, flying down the long black barrel of their iron death dealer.  Hot flame licked Billy Bob’s back before busting the flesh open with cruel efficiency.  The two rounds raced right through his body, punching through his heart and a lung, popping out his chest and forcing their way through Señorita Brenda’s chest.  The thick mass of her breasts were ripped open as the bullets drove directly through her heart and a lung, passing through her back.  The bullets ripped a hole through the canvas cot.  They found a home in the dark brown and grassy ground, where the warm blood cooled the hot lead.

            The right bullet won the race.  Its reward was the stream of blood that flowed out of Billy Bob onto Señorita Brenda.  One of his exit wounds fell directly over Señorita Brenda’s.  Billy Bob’s blood poured out of his body and into hers, falling all the way through to the ground.  A stream of blood poured from that particular wound onto the ground below, even more so than the other exit wound.

            Jesus walked out of the tent, leaving Billy Bob lying on top of Señorita Brenda, a picture of death that would make the devil smile.

 

[]  []  []

2.  THE CHARLATAN AND THE FOOL

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the one and only cure-all elixir you and your family will ever need.”

The confident pronouncement from the old British dandy held the settlers of El Encino in the palm of his hand.  His educated air, sophisticated Victorian dress sentence, and seemingly sincere pronouncements held them on every word.  Even the smiling Mexican assistant in farmer’s white pants, long sleeved white shirt, and brown sandals held the audience’s attention.  The colorful zarape he held across his shoulder might have been one of the reasons their eyes were always drawn to him.

The crowd stood below his cart.  A sign was displayed across the front, near the wheels.  It read, ‘The Wonderful Dr. McGill’s Medicine Wagon.’

“Today is the only day you will have a chance to purchase this fine product,” continued Dr. McGill, planting the seeds of a sale in the minds of the crowd.

“What’s it made of?” shouted someone from the audience.

“I’m so glad you asked that question, my good man,” said Dr. McGill, talking to no one in particular.  He moved to a stack of picture boards on a wooden stand.  He reached for a wooden pointer and removed the first picture board.  It revealed a large map with the known world.  Dr. McGill gripped the slender pointer and began his promotional piece.

“My friend here… I say, sir, what is your name?”  He pointed at the man he thought made the comment with his wooden pointer.  That man pointed at the person who actually asked the question.

“Jed,” the man replied.  Jed was short.  His pants were held up by brown suspenders.

“My friend, Jed, asked me what the elixir is made of.  Well, I’ll tell you, Jed.”

Dr. McGill paused for impact with the skill of a theatre artist.  The crowd stared with intense curiosity.  Just what could this elixir have that the town apothecary didn’t have?

“Snake oil!” he pronounced, holding up a finger in a metaphorical exclamation point.  “The active ingredient in Dr. McGill’s Life Elixir is snake oil.  Now, its not made from just any Texas rattlesnake.  No.  We are talking the giant, deadly, man-eating python of the jungles of Siam.”  He pointed on the map to Siam.

The crowd of locals just nodded their head, fascinated that there was a world so far away.

“I have an exclusive contract with the Maharajah Pankot Singh for the skins of these fearsome creatures.  These skins have had healing properties for centuries.  In my journey to the savage land to procure the contract, I discovered the secret and bring it here to you now.”

The crowd broke into murmurs of curiosity and interest as Dr. McGill continued.

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for you to have your very own bottle of Life Elixir for…”

“What does it cure?” came another voice.

Perturbed, but not discouraged, the doctor continued smiling.  He turned to his assistant, saying, “Good heavens, Isidro.  We have quite the enthusiastic crowd today.  I predict nothing but greatness from this fledgling township.”

The doctor then turned back to the crowd.  Using the wooden pointer, he indicated the man who asked the question.  “What is your name, good sir?”

“Jubel.”  A mop of blonde hair flared out from under a dirty derby hat.

“Well, Jubel, old chap, you will not believe the things it cures,” he said with a smile as he fell into a short list.  “Why, Dr. McGill’s Life Elixir is an effective remedy against gout, baldness, diarrhea, lady’s monthlies, cold, cough, sneezing, joint pain, rheumatism, bad breath, snake bite, consumption, TB, plague, leprosy, fever, mumps, measles, among other things.  And gentlemen,” he said, winking, “it is even good for those special moments that you get to share with your wife.”

“Whuda ‘bout pimples?” came a young voice.

“Yes,” came the reply.

“Sun burn?”

“Yes.”

“Boogers?”

The doctor grinned.  As much as the ignorance of the redneck yokels annoyed him, he never showed it.  “While it won’t eradicate… boogers… from your nose, it will relieve a runny nose if that’s what you mean.”

The crowd broke into a smattering of chatter as the doctor continued.

“My dear assistant Isidro here can attest to the efficacy of the Life Elixir.  Isidro, old bean, tell them of your experience with my Life Elixir.”

Isidro humbly stepped forward, taking center stage with rehearsed confidence.  He spoke with a very heavy Mexican accent.

“De e-Life Elixir ees very good.  Eet help my yoint pain, and helped me smart.  When I learn English, it help.”

Then Isidro recited the same bit of information with eloquence in Spanish for the Mexicans and Tejanos in the crowd.

“¿Cuánto cuesta?” came a voice.

Isidro smiled at Dr. McGill.

“Yeah,” came another voice.  “How much for a bottle?”

Dr. McGill didn’t know a lot of Spanish.  But like the savvy businessman he was, he knew enough to know when someone was asking how much his product cost.

“This bottle goes for 25 cents, American, in India.  30 pence in my home country.  But in honor of this fine new Republic of Texas that you brilliant lot have put together with the grit of your hearts, the sweat of your brow, and the wisdom of this land, you can get this bottle for yourselves and family for only 10 cents.”

The crowd immediately ‘oooh-ed’, and began shuffling in their purses and pockets for change.

“Buy one at the regular price, get another of the same size for five cents more,” shouted Dr. McGill over the cacophony of eager customers.

For the next twenty minutes, Brewster and Isidro sold bottles and bottles of the elixir to the smiling and eager crowd.  As the crowd became smaller, a man in black approached.  His white collar clearly identified him as a man of the cloth.

“Dr. McGill, may I speak with you?” asked the priest.

“I can give you a discount and let you have two bottles for five cents a piece.  How many would you like, vicar?”

The priest smiled benevolently.  His thin lips spread across his deep brown face under his black hair.  “My concern is outside of business, doctor.”

McGill turned to Isidro to make sure he could handle the remaining customer’s orders.  When it was clear he could, the doctor stepped off the cart to speak with the kind priest.

“Doctor, my name is Father Ugalde.  I welcome you to the Republic of Texas.”

“It’s an honor, vicar,” replied Dr. McGill.  He glanced at Father Ugalde, catching his eye.  A twinge of guilt smacked McGill’s heart as he casually looked away.  He gulped.  He couldn’t figure out what the holy man was after.  And he certainly didn’t want him to spoil his business.

They walked a short distance away from the crowd when the priest stopped.  Then, Father Ugalde spoke with angelic gentleness.

“I’m concerned that you might be fooling my flock, doctor.”

McGill scoffed.  “Whatever do you mean?” replied McGill with the precision of  a master salesman.

“In my travels sharing the work of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I have become familiar with those who… share information about health products they have to offer.  Those people were of an unscrupulous nature.  You wouldn’t be of unscrupulous nature, would you, Dr. McGill?”

“Vicar,” said Dr. McGill with pride, finding the proper direction to redirect the conversation.  “My work is to help my fellow man with all my heart.  And though your Pope might have issue with my most holy Church of England, rest assured my work and the work of my dear Isidro is done for the Glory of God on high.”

“Hallelujah, doctor,” said Father Ugalde.

“God be praised always, father,” said the doctor, handing the priest a silver piece.  “Use it as needed, father,” he said with a wink.

Walking back to the cart, the doctor helped Isidro finish the sales.

Father Ugalde sighed, watching the doctor walk back.  “God save this man,” he whispered before walking back to his church.

 

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'The Cruel Fate of Brewster McGill' is now available in Kindle and Paperback from ZombieBloodFights.com.  Connect with ZombieBloodFights.com at the Official ZBF.com Facebook group or follow the author on his Twitter account @wingback20 for exclusive news and videos on the story's release.

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BOWIE IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press and Simon and Shuster.  His books themes revolve around zombies, action/adventure, the supernatural, and combat sports.  Check them out at ZombieBloodFights.com.