Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
He divided the portion in two lines using his little finger, and then dove straight in, relieved when fire shot up his nostril and all the way to the back of his head. It was a cathartic moment, even though the drug wasn’t working its magic yet.
Once he’d consumed the second line, the pressing need evaporated somewhat, and he looked up at a young woman, who seemed out of place in the waiting room. With her hands tightly clutched in her lap and worry painted all over her innocent features, she was dressed the part, with heavy makeup and killer heels, but it was more of a disguise than an outfit. He offered her a smile, but her eyes widened, and she shot to her feet. She covered her face when double doors opened, letting in the noise made by the audience.
Two men entered, carrying a lump of flesh that might have been a man twenty minutes ago. Blood dripped to the floor, as if the body was full of holes, but the woman still hurried to the man’s side and grabbed his limp hand. Pyro averted his eyes when a long wail left her throat. It sounded as if she were the one dying, and maybe she was. On the inside, just like Pyro did every day without news of Boar.
Pyro’s brain sharpened by the second, as if invisible hands progressively unwound tangles from his brain, leaving him to wonder whether anyone would miss him after the argument at Hake’s place. The men he called his friends, even Clover, were getting fed up with his shit. They’d all be relieved if he was gone. Maybe they’d even stop the search for Boar, consider him a lost cause, since it was hard to say how invested they were. He took a shuddery breath and glanced at Boar’s brass knuckles, which he rarely took off since finding them in the abandoned facility on the night of Boar’s disappearance. They were the only friends he had left.
“Breaker? The arena’s ready for you,” said the lady who seemed to run the place. Clad in leather pants and a matching jacket, she looked like Morticia Adams’s reckless sister, and her voice, thick from years of smoking, brought Pyro to his feet.
He walked past the lamenting woman and her corpse-boyfriend, their tragedy only a blip in the life of violence Pyro had chosen. If he was to fall, then it should happen in the fire of brutality, his bones broken, head crushed, teeth scattered over the ring. He was fine with that.
Morticia acknowledged him with a nod and led the way through a corridor with no lights, her silhouette like a dark spider on the background of the open doors ahead. The roar of the crowd gathered to witness the upcoming battle drummed on the insides of Pyro’s ears, and the moment coke hit with its full potential, he could discern every single voice. The rush to his head was obvious by the time he entered the well-lit hall with huge halogen lights mounted on the ceiling.
Bleachers were full of bloodthirsty animals just like him, their fury expressed in cries and jumping rather than putting their fists to use. He was their proxy, and he would kill or die trying.
The size of the venue was an unexpected sight, but he soon took in the details—tall windows that had been covered with foil, a tower that reached almost all the way to the ceiling, with even more people perched on its staircase to watch the spectacle. The original purpose of this place became clear when Pyro followed Morticia to the edge of an empty pool.
He was on the shallow side, so instead of awkwardly using the rusty ladder, Pyro jumped in, landing beside a smear of fresh blood left behind by a body that must have been dragged over the tiles. Heat glowed at him from lamps mounted in each corner of the pool, and he had to blink several times to adjust to the brightness.
More details emerged from the white flood as that happened, and he noticed a plush throne on a podium which had to be a smaller diving tower. A man sat there, with two massive dogs at his sides, like a king about to give his subjects an offering of gladiators and blood. The light was too intense to allow Pyro a better look at the ‘king’, so he raised his hands, then pounded his chest, already getting sweaty.
“Let’s do this!” he yelled so loudly his throat ached, and he saw his own spittle shine in the bright light. “Who do I kill?”
The king laughed, and the raspy sound was carried through speakers mounted above. He wore a dark purple suit, and when he shook his head in amusement, long gray dreadlocks fell to the sides of his face. “Breaker, a newcomer who insisted he can take on the best of the best. Hope your teeth are as sharp as your tongue, because you’re up against our champion.”