For my uncle, Jack Edwards
With creative contributions from Renee Edwards
It wasn’t a fight to the death, but that’s what it felt like. Every second was a chance to spill blood, every step back, a chance to rush the opposite fighter. Bloodsport: modern gladiator games had captured the hearts and minds of men all over the world, but it became most popular in America, where blood had become the wine of choice since the revival of the gladiator blood sport of ancient Rome.
The few rules in Bloodsport were created for no other reason than to provide the spectators the illusion that American Gladiators were somehow more civilized than their ancient predecessors. Gladiators knew better. In terms of the fights, many things were the same.
Jason Price was a man of little means or motivation, his day-to-day life filled with little more than copy machines, mail carts, and cocky lawyers, but at night he became a warrior, a feared opponent, a champion. He’d trained for two years and now it was time for his first official Bloodsport match. The gladiator narrowly dodged his opponent’s blade, rolling in the dirt to bring his shield overhead and block another heavy blow. The smell of blood and sweat filled the air as the fight climaxed when Jason thrust his shield into his opponent’s face, dazing him, then brought his sword down on the man’s shoulder. He tried to hold his blow back so that he didn’t kill his opponent, but as soon as the man fell to the blood-stained sand of the ring, wound gushing scarlet life, EMTs surrounded him. Jason’s coach Glen pulled the bloody sword from Jason’s grip, handing it off to the armory as they abandoned the ring in favor of the barracks below. They methodically stripped Jason’s armor, sending it to be cleaned and polished, and Jason closed his eyes when Glen shoved him into the shower, letting the steaming water wash away the blood and grime. Above them, the crowd cheered a new favorite, seeming to forget the bloody bout that nearly ended in death.
Jason sincerely hoped that his brother would one day appreciate everything that had been sacrificed for him, that his father would look upon his achievements with pride. As for Jason, the ring was an escape, a relief from his frighteningly dull existence. “Drink this,” Jason chugged the water bottle Glen gave him in a matter of seconds prompting Glen to hand him another. Once he stopped shaking from exertion, Jason dressed so that he could join the crowd for the remaining bouts. They settled into their own booth next to the ring as the next bout began, but Jason found it hard to concentrate on the fight. Directly across from him was one of the most beautiful women Jason had ever seen. Few women venture into the brutal world of Bloodsport, but those who did were called “Spartan” following the idea that something about them is stronger than average. As Jason eyed this Spartan beauty, he wondered who she’d come to watch. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, and her eyes glittered pale golden brown setting the olive skin of her face alight in the dim fluorescents of the Ring.
Stillness came over the Ring. There was a pause, a beat of complete silence, a beat in which the winning blow was struck, and the Spartan stood to leave her box. Time resumed and Jason leapt from his seat dropping his empty water bottle into a trash bin as he made his way from Glen’s box. He heard Glen call after him, but didn’t stop as he made his way through the curved halls hoping to catch this Spartan before she could leave the arena.
Having abandoned his armor with Glen, Jason realized he was wearing only his wife-beater and a pair of cut-offs. He stopped, considering going back to at least get a pair of shoes, but then he saw her, her ethereal beauty shining over the between-fights crowd of hungry fans shopping the various food and souvenir kiosks littering the space outside the main arena.
Then, she disappeared into a sea of nearly identical mid-sized cars. Jason cursed to himself, glancing up at the massive roman-numeral clock that hung above the arena gates. He had a fight in 45 minutes and it would take him half that to get all his armor on. He felt Glen’s hand on his shoulder and turned to follow him to the slave barracks to get ready.
It took Jason barely ten minutes to defeat his opponent, to Glen’s disapproval. They both knew that the longer a fight lasts, the more bets are made, the more money, more points. Short fights are good for no one, but Jason didn’t seem to care. He was too wrapped up in his mystery Spartan. Though Jason stayed in the arena until well after the final fight his Spartan didn’t return, and he fell to his tempurpedic mattress, disappointed and depressed.
Just the thought of sitting at an office all day staring at a computer screen made his head hurt, but armor doesn’t buy itself. So, Jason woke up a little after six in the morning to the steady whine of his alarm. Laughable as it is to imagine a trained gladiator sitting in a tiny cubicle tapping away at an obsolete version of a desktop, imagine a gladiator delivering the mail to those who do the tapping.
Dressed in slacks, a button-down shirt and a clip-on tie, Jason made his rounds, dropping envelopes onto desks silently as he wheeled his tiered cart passed them. It was monotonous and boring and the pay sucked, but in the current economy, Jason knew better than anyone he was lucky to have his job. His brother Blayne was not so lucky. When Blayne refused to join Jason in The Ring, their father disowned him. But Jason refused to give up on his only brother and paid for everything Blayne needed, including drugs.
Days filled with mind-numbing boredom, nights overrun with training, it was nearly a month before Jason was back in the arena, and it was only to watch a fight, which is incredibly lame. His consolation was that his Spartan also came to the arena that night, but his excitement was short-lived when he noticed that she was not alone.
The man who accompanied her Jason recognized as his boyhood rival Chris Noe. Chris had entered The Ring a full year before Jason and had since earned himself the name “Friction” for his close-contact fighting style. The fight in front of him was fairly entertaining, well-matched, but Jason barely took the time to notice. His mind was on the Spartan… and Friction.
Glen was concerned about Jason’s infatuation with this strange Spartan. While he worried about Friction’s interest in that Friday’s fight, Jason worried about Friction’s interest in this Spartan. This was dangerous for everyone, especially Jason.
“Do you even know who she is?” Glen asked Jason from outside of the practice ring the next week. Jason ducked a low blow, bringing his shield over his head, “Nope,” he shoved his opponent back, hard into the dirt, “Why?” Jason didn’t see Glen shrug as he spun away from the point of his opponent’s blade. “Just trying to figure if she’s worth it,” Jason punched his opposition with the metal center of his shield and brought the hilt of his sword down across the man’s neck knocking him unconscious and ending the match.
Jason walked over to Glen, grabbing a large water bottle on his way, “Worth what?” He asked after a long gulp of icy refreshment, breathless from his fight. “Worth losing your focus. You’ve got to rack up some points if you wanna make it to National Bouts in December.”
Anger flashed through Jason’s eyes, “You think I don’t know that?” He spat angrily, “Just get me some fights, I’ll worry about winning the points.” Glen was no longer surprised by Jason’s fiery temper. His father was the same, and it served him well in the ring. It could work for Jason as well, if he’d just channel it the right way. Glen sighed and shook his head at his gladiator’s back as he left the practice arena to take his armor off. After a few minutes, Glen followed, sitting on the locker-room-style bench that ran the length of the armory, “What about Friction? Why do you think he’s watching Friday Bouts?” Jason shrugged, slipping into a newly bleached white-T.
“Who was fighting?” Glen gaped, anger seeping into his eyes at Jason’s total lack of focus, but answered as if it didn’t matter, though he was mor
e than a little curt, “Gabe and Mickey.”
“One of them must be moving rank…”
“Gabe probably…”
“Probably,” Jason agreed hanging his armor on its rack at the far side of the armory. By the time Jason made it home, it was after 1:00am, and he had to work at 7:00 the next morning. He sighed, falling into his uber-bed without even bothering to shower, though he knew that meant he’d smell like sweaty leather when he got to work, he was just too damn worn out to care.
Shields collided with swords repeatedly, ringing out over the practice ring, echoing hollowly off the concrete walls. Jason let the roar of the crowd, his fellow gladiators, fuel his anger as he struck out at his opponent, their swords ringing together again. Glen had arranged the exhibition in hopes to gain sponsors, recognition, but Jason seemed too distracted and was loosing their attention very quickly.
Jason saw the tension, almost a fear, in his coach’s face, and exhaled, remembering his job, and decided to make a show of it. He spun around, the metal edge of his leather skirt nicking his opponent’s