Sloughing Off the Rot (12 page)

“Ah, what is this vonny cal?” said Chelloveck to John. Chelloveck smacked an open hand to his forehead and grimaced. “Such a kick to the yarbles – three more of my sons tossed at the dung heap like nothing more than soiled holy undergarments. Three more sons that I have to replace.”

In the pit of the arena the jizz-critters tore each other down until there was almost nothing but carnage. Several victorious creatures still lived but suffered mortal wounds. A new crew of Chellovecks entered the arena and whacked with sledges at the heads of still-alive but dying critters, dispatching them wholly and completely. And the crew tossed the carcasses onto a wagon and dragged them from the arena, leaving a muddy, bloody sludge on the ground. During the cleanup-intermission, Chelloveck called for more food and drink for his guests. And the crowd of Chellovecks roared in approval. John gladly accepted and gorged himself on scruff goat and hard cider. When he started to tell Santiago how nice it was to have a full feast, John saw that his crazy-eyed, shaggy friend was gone. The ebony pipe, still smoking, sat on the table as a marker, holding Santiago’s place. John picked up the pipe and drew heavily on the fuming bezoar.

And the feasting continued. Chellovecks chugged cider and gnawed on meat until their bellies grew taut and their thoughts muddied. Although the hunger for food was sated, a desire to witness more carnage possessed the Chelloveck spectators. In their drunken revelry, the Chellovecks screamed for more entertainment. Down in the arena, Chelloveck guards forced prisoners to engage in mortal battle with one another merely for the amusement of the Chellovecks. Men, tied back to back, fended off jizz-critter attacks with their bare hands. Weapons were set in the middle of the arena and the men scrambled to claim their implements of destruction, smashing each other’s bones with maces and clubs and bricks, slashing at each other with knives and swords, poking with pitchforks, striking out with sticks. The bloodier the ground became, the more the Chellovecks whipped themselves into a frothy mania.

Just when it seemed that the slaughter had reached a climax, three more Chellovecks in colorful ephods strode to the center of the pit, stepping over bodies and body parts on the way, and started blowing more steaming licks from convoluted blow horns. In answer to the creaching, chaotic horn racket, a platoon of unarmed Chellovecks marched into the arena in two columns. And the soldier-Chellovecks, twelve in all, wore tunics and heavy monstrous boots soaked in bullock’s blood. The toes of the boots, having been baked near a fire, were hard and black like flints. And the soldier-Chellovecks stood straight and still, waiting for the buglers to wind down.

But the horn section kept on rocking, going round and round. While the scorching giggle-jazz filled the air, a hunched-over man, dressed in a leather kilt plated with bronze, stepped through the door to the pit. The man did not slump because he was weak, old, or infirm. He doubled over because his enormity did not allow him to merely walk through the large door like a normal-sized man. When his leather sandals stomped into the pit and he cleared the door, the man stood straight. And a collective gasp escaped the Chelloveck spectators. At his full height of six cubits and a span, the man towered above the little-big Chellovecks. His chest was thick like a rain barrel. His neck like that of a bull. His biceps firm and as big around as a grown man’s thigh. A mess of kinky black hair helmeted his head and thick sideboards padded his jawline down to the edge of his determined chin. A thickened and widened nose sat in the shade of the man’s bulging, bony brow. His piercing eyes peered out from under the rocky outcropping of forehead, the gaze going straight through the soldiers in front of him and weakening the Chellovecks’ resolve, making them question the wisdom of coming to battle the afro-capped giant.

Chelloveck accepted the peace pipe from John and pulled on it as if he were drawing his last breath. He exhaled several breaths of thick smoke before his lungs cleared. “That,” said Chelloveck, “is Joad of the Po’kinhorns of Gath. He is a great warrior and he led the attempt to waylay my sons yesterday. Most of my boys that were lost in the ambush were felled in the effort to capture that bolshy bastard.”

The lumbering giant lowered his hips and stomped deliberately around the edges of the arena, each step sounding like a board smacking the ground. He scanned for an area of the wall to scale. Joad was more than tall enough to grab the top of the tall wall and pull himself over. But, the Chelloveck guards, armed with spontoons and stationed around the top of the arena wall, stood ready to poke at Joad with their razor sharp tridents should he try to escape. As Joad ambled around the pit, the trumpet-Chellovecks halted their playing and dashed for the open arena door, closing and barring it behind themselves.

Chelloveck handed John the pipe and rose from the table at the edge of the pit. He momentarily felt dizzy from the cider and bezoar smoke. He wobbled briefly and then steadied himself. His raised hand signaled to the Chellovecks for silence, and the crowd hushed. Chelloveck spoke, loudly enough for all to hear, saying: “The man before you in the arena is Joad of the vonny Po’kinhorns of Gath. That brute killed my sons, your brothers, yesterday. Thatwise, I will grant a fortnight in the blumpkin chambers to the man who can lay Joad level with the ground and return him to the filthy muck from whence he came.” Chelloveck raised his glass to the soldier-Chellovecks and then downed its contents. The soldier-Chellovecks snapped their heels and banged their right fists on their chests in salute to their father.

The faces of the soldier-Chellovecks beamed with excitement, for the granting of even a night in the blumpkin chambers meant that Chelloveck would be stepping down as head of the village and handing over leadership to a younger Chelloveck. Much whispering hissed around the stands and some spectator-Chellovecks who had high ambitions became angered by the possibility of one of the common soldier-Chellovecks ascending to power. But, mostly, the crowd crackled with excitement at the prospect of seeing the powerful mountain of a man do battle with their brothers.

Chelloveck sat and motioned to a server-Chelloveck for more drink. The server topped off Chelloveck’s and John’s cups with the strongest of ciders. John passed the pipe back to Chelloveck. The old man sucked nervously at the pipe, firing the bezoar to a blazing lump of donkey muck in the bowl.

“What,” asked John, “is a blumpkin?”

But Chelloveck did not have his horn to his ear and could not hear John. Instead, Chelloveck put his finger to his own lips and pointed toward his men and Joad. Chelloveck did not speak any further as the activities in the arena were of great concern to him.

Joad continued to circle the edges of the pit, backing off when guard-Chellovecks leaned over the edge of the wall and poked their spontoons in his direction. And then the leader of the soldier-Chellovecks whistled three sharp, short tweets, and his men scattered and regrouped in a circle around the giant, making Joad as the nucleus in a ring of soldier-Chellovecks. The smaller men darted in and out of the circle, punching at Joad and kicking at his shins with their hardened boots. The giant swatted at the Chellovecks as if waving away flittering gnats, his massive fists occasionally connecting with the attackers and knocking them to the ground.

Then the leader of the soldier-Chellovecks rushed at Joad, trying to grab around the elephantine legs and trip the giant to the ground. Joad peeled the man from his legs, grabbed him by the arms, and whanged him around in a circle. Chellovecks rushed Joad in an attempt to free their brother from the swirling goliath but were knocked back as the spinning-Chelloveck’s boots thumped them in the heads and arms. Mid-swing, Joad let go of the Chelloveck’s hands and released him, flinging the man in the air and smashing him into several of his brothers.

Unsteady and off balance from the spinning-dizzies, Joad stumbled before his attackers and tried to regain his balance. Sensing an opening, one soldier-Chelloveck leapt at Joad and tried to trip him to the ground so that the other Chellovecks could set upon him. But Joad had already recovered. With one hand he grasped the clinging Chelloveck by the head, his enormous hand covering the face and his fingers wrapping around the man’s skull like a normal hand grasping a grapefruit. Joad balled up his other hand into a fist and slammed it into the Chelloveck’s stomach. And the blow battered the man with such force that his liver popped out of his asshole, took a quick breath of fresh air, and then retracted into the relative safety the abdominal cavity. Joad’s victim-Chelloveck crumpled from the blow and he did not move after being flung to the ground like a piece of refuse.

“Get him!” shouted one of the soldier-Chellovecks, and the entire group charged Joad. They grabbed and punched and kicked and bit at the giant. And the crush of flailing Chellovecks overwhelmed Joad, chopping his legs out from under him and knocking him to the ground. There was much hugging and clutching, much weeping and gnashing of teeth. Joad rolled about and punched and kicked at the flailing mass of arms and legs that battered him. He squeezed balls to a mushy pulp with his strong hands and crushed tracheas with powerful throat chops. But the number of men attacking him still overwhelmed Joad. He rolled about, still punching and squeezing and biting and found himself face to face with his own ass. In the twisting chaos, Joad saw a swollen pair of testicles dangling before his face, offering themselves up for a good squeezing. He grabbed the nutsack and squashed as hard as he could, not realizing that he was twisted in such an awkward position that the balls in his face were his own.

And the pain in Joad’s groin spread like fire through his gut. A roar of fury blasted from his mouth. He felt like taking a shit. He felt like crying. He felt like dropping. But more than anything, he was livid, and he felt like killing. With the strength born of pure rage, Joad stood. Chellovecks clung to his body like leeches to a host. Joad grabbed one Chelloveck and snapped his back over one knee as if he were breaking a stick. The crack of the man’s spine echoed throughout the arena and it sickened the spectators, quieting them for the first time. And then Joad fought without making a single sound. He did not grunt. He did not yell. He did not cry out. He picked Chellovecks off of him like ticks. He snapped necks and stomped the life out of his attackers. Two Chellovecks clutched at Joad’s afro and scratched and poked at his eyes. Joad reached up, grabbed the men’s throats in each hand, and brought the heads together with such force as to try to make them both occupy the same space at the same time. Joad brought the men’s faces together for a blood-smattered, bone-crunching kiss. He held the limp bodies out in front of himself and dropped them to the ground. He plucked another Chelloveck from his back and tossed the little man into the arena wall, and the crunch of the man’s bones once again sickened the spectators. The sight of the silently fighting giant struck the Chelloveck crowd dumb with fear. This was a man who would not be defeated by twelve of them. Joad: a massive and unconquerable killing machine. And not one of the soldier-Chellovecks was left standing when he was done.

At the end of the battle, Joad stood silently in the center of smashed, squashed, and splattered Chellovecks. He surveyed the crushed and lifeless bodies strewn about around him and then looked toward Chelloveck and John. Joad crossed his arms in defiance and waited.

Chelloveck locked eyes with Joad and said nothing for minutes. The two men stared, unblinking, unspeaking. And then Chelloveck broke the stare and shouted to his men, “Take out the giant and lock him up. He will do battle with your brothers once again on the morrow. And I am confident that the results will be different. Now get this abomination from my sight.”

The arena door opened and spat two rows of soldier-Chellovecks into the pit. The soldiers surrounded Joad. They ducked behind shields and poked spontoons in the giant’s direction. Recognizing the futility of unarmed battle with a phalanx of angry, armed Chellovecks, Joad dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his back. The Chellovecks pushed Joad to the ground, face-first, and bound his arms behind his back with thick leather straps. They shackled his ankles with heavy chains and forced him to stand. And then the soldier Chellovecks jabbed at Joad with their spears to direct him out of the arena.

The absence of Joad from Chelloveck’s presence. The sight of spent Chellovecks piled on top of each other in a death wagon. The cider and bezoar intoxication. They all mingled in Chelloveck’s thoughts. He threw his hands to his face and wept, looking more like a frail ancient than John had yet seen. “Damn that beast. He single-handedly decimated my ranks.” And he wept inconsolably, his thin body convulsing with the pain of loss, only pausing now and again to chug more cider or toke on the peace pipe.